I don’t get the opportunity to visit West Yorkshire like I once did. Grandparents and cousins lived in nearby Rochdale and Littleborough. Early memories of long drives up the A1, breakfasts in Little Chefs, smoking pepper-pot chimneys and slag heaps (now landscaped with grass), the Markham Moor garage with swooping concrete roof, the roundabout (now gone) at Blyth Services. Looking down form the M62 to Hollingsworth Lake and spotting my grandmother’s house on Lake Bank, past the farm locked between the North and South bound carriageways that John Shuttleworth sings about, late night driving across the Saddleworth Moor section with its then distinct orange motorway lights. The tops with actual snow on them.