Shops and Public Houses
Swarcliffe Parade once had two rows of shops, but the north row was demolished in the 1980s. As of 2011, the remaining parade consists of a Chinese takeaway, a newsagent and off-licence, a minimarket, a bakery, and a betting shop. As of 2011, Stanks Parade has a newsagent, a fish-and-chip shop and a unisex hairdresser. A parade of shops and a post office on Langbar Gardens was closed after 2004.
The Squinting Cat public house, once known as the John Smeaton after the 18th-century civil engineer from nearby Austhorpe, is boarded up and may be demolished. The Whinmoor public house was closed in December 2010, and its lease is for sale. Swarcliffe Working Men's Club, a members only club, was built in the 1960s, in 2011 it had 1,700 members. St. Gregory’s Social Club is next to St. Gregory's Roman Catholic Church. The Staging Post public house is on Swarcliffe Avenue/Whinmoor Way.
The Whinmoor pub has re-opened its doors after been shut for nearly four years; it reopened on 13 October 2012.
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Famous quotes containing the words shops and, shops, public and/or houses:
“I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust,... confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance, to say nothing of the moral insensibility, of my neighbors who confine themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, aye, and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are of,—sitting there now at three o’clock in the afternoon, as if it were three o’clock in the morning.”
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)
“Some men love only to talk where they are masters. They like to go to school-girls, or to boys, or into the shops where the sauntering people gladly lend an ear.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)
“Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books.”
—W.H. (Wystan Hugh)
“The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the townlets wither a time and die.”
—John Steinbeck (1902–1968)