I had an accomplice (Charlotte), see we're in the same predicament, so we're perfect companions in such wild-spirited adventures. When I say predicament I mean: we're fish-out-of water, at a massive, important juncture in our lives that calls for sensible decisions. But we ran to the hills to look for answers instead of spending the daylight hours googling and ogling jobs; hunting for new places to spread our roots. The more time we spend together the easier it becomes to stay away from reality, yet the conversation ever-increasingly seems to slip back to our worries for the future and how we should go about making that first step back into sensibility (or the rat race).
I'm not saying this idle time was unproductive. In fact I think it gave me a certain perspective, opening my mind to new ideas whilst also reintroducing myself to actual horizons. By this I mean the place the sea meets the sky. You don't get horizons in the Chamonix Valley. You are in the Cham bubble, subtly and lovingly caged in by mountains. You don't notice whilst you're there. But when you're standing on a deserted pebble beach, (all be it a dirty, flotsam-strewn beach), and you can actually see a line in front of you, an endless line: that's when you realise it's liberating to be back. In the UK, surrounded by gentle hills, the smell of summer, a dry and reassuring heat on your back - I'm home and I love it.
Friendliness is another British trait that I have been newly-treasuring, that I am ever-so glad to be enveloped by on my return. Last week Charlotte and I escaped the idyl and travelled up to Todmorden to see my sister. I'm ashamed to say that in all my worldly travel, I have somehow managed to neglect my home country and before last week, Nottingham was the furthest north I'd ventured. Todmorden is a welcoming town set deep in a valley surrounded by moors and forbidding hills. I think the landscape could certainly be isolating and oppressive in the winter, but at this time of year there is enough colour and life to make it as pleasant as any flat-lying land. A micro brewery just a stroll away from my sister's front door provided fresh ales and cider as well as a ten-piece band that were abstractly poised in the mid-section of the bar... a cosy affair which proved a little impractical when we left. I have to admit to knocking a small piece of band equipment onto the floor as we passed by to leave - not because I was drunk (I'd only had a pint of 5% cider) but because the band had expanded into the walkway to the exit and their excess baggage had spilled a little further afield.
Later we found a Thai restaurant that seemed to have an atmosphere more attuned to a low-key, arty London bar than a small-town Asian eatery, which are generally serene and dated places. The owners had successfully fused traditional Thai hospitality with good lighting, comfortable seating, crowd-pleasing music and excellent food bursting with flavour - no small wonder it was a bustling hub on an otherwise dreary Sunday evening.
A brisk canal walk the next day took us to Hebden Bridge, an extremely quaint yet metropolitan town with an impressive selection of eco conscious/vegan/vegetarian friendly establishments... including a handmade soap shop with a penchant for shaping suds into fantastical gateaux and stupendous desserts. Talk about too good to eat! I was pleasantly surprised by the freshness of the town: although the architecture still points towards an industrial past, (cue the stock 'Coronation Street' set facade, complete with sagging washing lines strung on every yard) the local attitudes and ethically-minded community spirit seems to have catapulted Hebden into a future yet to be discovered in more metro-central parts of the country.
Next, a day out in Manchester. Sadly, the weather and a poor choice of footwear tampered my spirits somewhat, but the promise of a vintage clothes markets soon perked me up. A menagerie of fashion items ranging from the 40s to present day retro-rip offs greeted us all around the walkway of a modern mall. I was so overwhelmed that I actually couldn't buy anything. There was too much beauty, and as we stumbled across this mecca at the end of a high-octane walking tour of the city, I was again too preoccupied with my aching feet to make any sensible decisions.
Liverpool. A city of many faces. The skyline viewed from the ferry on the Mersey is a triumph of diversity: old and new jostling for your attention, but not in an ugly way. I loved the slick black visage of the new Maritime Museum, and strolling along the Albert Dock in the afternoon sunshine reminded me of being in Barcelona, minus the palm trees. Liverpool is a fun city; youthful in it's outlook and yet still bound by historical glory.
The two wildly differing Cathedrals are a pleasure to behold, especially when you get an idea of what the original plans were for the Metropolitan. We were (accidentally) lucky enough to be given much more than the regular tourist tour of the Met's crypt by a burly yet jolly security guard who, unaware of our presence down there was about to lock us in for the night. Instead of bustling us out so he could get an early finish, the guard showed us deep inside the crypt's many halls and prayer rooms, which are used for modern practises such as beer festivals and choir recitals. The crypt's size gives you a better idea of the scope of the original project, but the actual ground level build is less spectacular after you've viewed pictures of the original scale model. Unfortunately, the war and lack of funds broke the project's ambitions and the cathedral now, though grand in an ultra-modern way, is less spectacular in size than the space below, which was completed before the money ran out.
People like to talk in Liverpool. As a tourist this is very endearing. As a writer this is also very endearing. The heart of the city is as lively as I imagine it was in the swinging 60s, and the Beetles heyday. One night on the town, intoxicated by inexpensive cocktails and the warm night air, I was struck by the fashion sense/hair styles and attitudes of the young people around me in the hip and fizzy bars... it all harks back to that golden hour. I was in a time warp, and it was authentic, not a hint of tacky/embarrassing fakery in sight. Sigh.
Even in London strangers are sometimes friendly and talkative. After a liquid-heavy last night in Liverpool I found myself descending into a hot hell on the tube. Rush hour. Stress hour. I had to be patient, no point in joining the riot. I had time enough before my bus back to Somerset not to have to go into a blind panic... which is what I usually feel myself straying towards when in such situations. As I ascend the stairs, I notice an official Underground worker walking parallel with me, he wears a look of sympathy and it's directed at me, yes me!
Anguish is obviously etched on my face; he asks if I'm ok, do you know where you're going?Instantly, hearing these words make me feel a little more relaxed, yes I am ok and I do kind of know where I'm going. But I say it anyway. Hammersmith. He gives me the directions I know I know, sort of. But it's reassuring. Always reassuring to be helped without having to ask for it. I said I was tired, he laughed and asked where I'd traveled from. We struck up a short conversation about Liverpool (whilst walking), it was nice, casual. When does this ever happen in Chamonix? He was interested, then pointed me even more in the right direction when it looked like I was straying. An insignificant exchange, but poignant for me, reminding me that I'm home and I'm safe.
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