A Show of Beauty and Endurance

I have to admit, I had never heard of Kilnsey, let alone the 'Kilnsey Show and Sports' before I was whisked off Yorkshire-bound from Bristol one early morning at the end of August. Invited by a special someone who grew up in the area and promised a day of good, hearty fun - how could I possibly resist such an intriguing invitation?

We arrived mid-morning to be ushered into a free car park close to the domineering Kilnsey Crag, which provided a hardy, strong backdrop to the show ground nestled safely in the basin of an expansive valley.

As I opened the car door, I was immediately aware of being in an outlandish environment - not only was the temperature a fair few degrees chiller, but the broad accents of the two young stewards who'd directed us to our spot instantly beguiled, intrigued and enticed me with their jovial banter. One of the lads was sarcastically teasing the other about needing a bacon sandwich, the other replied: "Too right you need one, I've seen more fat on a butcher's pencil!"

Had to smile - I'd never heard this expression before. A harmless, playful comment, but it gave me a sense of the Yorkshire lilt. The dew from the grass wet my feet and I was glad I second-thoughted my lambs wool jumper - a flimsy cardigan was never going to be enough.

Being a self-confessed country bumpkin and no stranger to agricultural shows - I thought I'd be au fait with the general ambience and warm bovine smell, but things are definitely markedly different up this way. Some of the familiar signifiers are there: old codgers in tweed, flamboyant, over-exuberant food demonstrations, tents with meticulously-manicured cattle lined up with their patterned rears pointing towards impressionable visitors' faces.

Then you stumble across the dry stone walling competition - men fitting magnificently misshaped grey pieces of Yorkshire history neatly into place like an ancient game of Tetris, strangely mesmerising and endearing to see such mastery of a craft that has probably died out in more meagre areas of the country.

It was encouraging to see teams of fathers and sons - well younger men in general taking such weighted care of their heritage. There's a distinct level of proudness at play and playfully attuned - yes that's what was beginning to set Kilnsey apart from the other shows I've visited.

Just as the rain turns from a barely-bearable drizzle to angry spitting - so the brass band kick into energetic action with a melt-your-heart-as-well-as-the-precipitation rendition of 'Singing In the Rain'. The warming tones made me forget my shivers - nothing a strong coffee or a cider wouldn't curb anyway.

Next, we decided to take in the marquees filled with local crafts and culinary treasures. There were definitely one or two names that kept appearing against red-for-first certificates.

After a hearty chuckle at the odd shaped veg, warped flower ensembles and magnificent culinary concoctions we ventured outside again.

Cracking leeks and lovingly polished courgettes in neat pairs.

We were too late to see the cakes in their full glory - but the smell alone was a welcome treat as we entered the baked goods tent. Even though the entries were covered in protective/prohibitive plastic sheeting, we salivated and jested about the rationale behind the jam to cream to sponge ratio, which was often inconsistent with some of the Victoria Ss. How does anyone come up with the idea of making a pizza look like a scene from the Little Mermaid? It was obviously pain-stakingly put together and bizarrely brilliant, but who could justifiably eat it without feeling guilty?

Hot and sticky with the bustle of bargain-seeking bodies, the food court provided a suitable rain diversion. Top marks definitely went to a dazzling display of cupcakes (not the over-fussy feats of fantasy you witness in city stores), pretty, simple edible elegance.

We knew the smug (but rightly so) baker would have an empty display cabinet before tea-time.

Alongside her stall, there were others displaying more varieties of Wensleydale than you could ever conceivably tire of - but the most impressive array of morsels were of the pork pie variety. Never having eaten one before myself, I had presumed there was only one type of pork pie, but this local vendor displayed around 8 to 10 variants of these golden-facaded orbs of bewitching filling. I still wasn't tempted - but I was certainly tempted by the fresh fish counter's contents.

Whole trout, filleted trout, trout pate, trout medley - I doubt Bubba Gump could have come up with more ways to harvest a sea creature. But alas, they'd run out of trout sandwiches... which was what we were craving. Fortunately, the lady behind the counter assured us there was no shortage of sandwiches - we'd just have to go over the road to the trout farm and retrieve them from the cafe there.

A little mellowed from our midday tipple - my sprightly companion challenged me to a hike up the crag. Plenty of people were doing it, you could see pin-pricks of colour dotted up the escarpment and a few at the very top - so yes, why not? I was in training for the Bristol Half Marathon at the time, so I was in a 'yes' mood.

Well, the first tier was fairly gentle. We snaked through the grass which was a little slippy, but not too steep. Then, the grass ran out and the steepest most daunting gauntlet ensued. Inappropriate footwear aside - I began to feel a little worried - if I fell now, would I even make the Half Marathon the following week?

Taking our time and using hands to grip the rubble (refraining from looking downwards), we ascended with trepidation. It was arduous - the loose stones providing little security, but the sight of the flags at the top were a beacon to focus on. Out of breath and soaked in a misty drizzle, I soon forgot my pounding limbs and took in the sublime panorama. It was hard to believe that in a few hours, hundreds of people (young and old) would be running up this escarpment and heading straight back down again for the crag racing - with absolutely no time or inclination to admire the view.

We walked along the top of the ridge: there was no way either of us were braving the same route down. Even if this slope was covered in snow and I had my skis on - I'd still be a bit dubious about it.

Needless to say it took us a lot longer to get down, as we had to contend with slippery, wet grass. The homely-looking pub below acted as our focal point. Once safely inside, we joined the other equally triumphant and bedraggled ramblers escaping the drizzle.

I'm not much of an ale drinker, but I thought it would be positively rude not to sample a local brew. A honey-tinted, well-rounded half slipped down like a treat as we laughed and ruminated about the prospect of a "warm breakfast salad" advertised on the specials board. We were strangers to this pub, it was the early afternoon on a Tuesday - but this place had all the right ingredients associated with a leisurely bank holiday.

Damp but content after a second half of the golden liquor, we decided it best to get back to the show before we became part of the well-worn furniture... or fell victim to the ominous warm breakfast salad. As we left, one of the show's dignitaries (an old boy positively leaking tweed from every orifice) joined a group in the corner - looking every bit as proud as his attire and badges suggested. I wondered if he'd snuck out of the official show lunch hosted in the pomped-up judges marquee (imagine all the thrills and meringue-balloon drapery of a gypsy wedding) to mix with the riff-raff and savour a quick tipple?

Out in the cold and perma-drizzle again, we realised that we'd need something more than a brisk walking to fend off another fit of shivers, so coffee and flapjack was agreed on. As we left the food tent (and yes, the cupcake lady could nearly afford to pack up and get home a contented woman), we heard the announcement for the start of the crag racing, so we got a good spot near the finish line - though we could already see fast-moving maniacs scurrying up and across the hill that we'd struggled with a few hours earlier. This first batch were the under 12s, the first intrepid souls to pass us were muddy (some scuffed and bloodied), didn't appear to give even a jot of pain or anguish away in their faces - pure focus and dedication shined through.

Massive cheers of support rippled around as every new runner passed by - mostly boys, though a few iron-willed girls crossed the line at a sprint.

The open race featured burly men, the odd athletic-type, a handful of over 60s - all or mostly in unassuming, unpretentious attire, some strapped into walking boots or spikes rather than trainers.

I relished witnessing the camaraderie beyond the finish line. Many pats-on-the-back around the (one and only) water bucket where the runners were sponging mud off their legs. This appeared primitive, but strangely compelling and appropriate for such an event. I doubt this scene would be replicated at my Half Marathon in Bristol.

What a staggering feat of human will-power. Seeing these people conquor such a sharp and treacherous incline made me realise that I could do more to up-the-ante with my own running training.

The shivers were beginning to take over again, so we decided to go and investigate the Kilnsey Trout Farm, just on the other side of the show's perimeter. As we entered the cafe, they were beginning to close-down the kitchen, but we managed to persuade the girl on the counter that we'd driven from Bristol to sample the trout and we couldn't possibly leave without a sandwich. She didn't make so much as a murmur of an objection, so five minutes later we were tucking into sandwiches bursting with juicy pink flakes of trout with mayonnaise accompanied by thick crisps and salad. It was just gorgeous and well-deserved to sit inside and watch the ducks pootling around in the fishing lakes beyond the window.

Tired but content, we went back to the show for the final and hotly-anticipated event of the trotting races. As the sun dipped below the softening line of the crag, an array of traps, clinking and clattering along the way appeared from the far side of the track and began their debut parade. As with all the other beasts on display throughout the day, the horses were immaculately turned-out and the jockeys' silks were predictably and charmingly gordy.

No expenses spared, the commentator stood on a rickety scafolding tower, cursing his dodgy mic, which was faltering every time he shifted to a certain spot on his platform. A few jokes were made and the serious talk resumed. The thrill, the powerful yet steady trotting gait of the horses, the heavy clatter of their chariots all culminated in a heady mix, and a climatic charge amongst the spectators and bookies booths just behind.

We were only going to stay for a couple of races, but we ended up staying until the rosettes were handed out by the lady judge. By this time, the commentator up on his solitary podium looked ready to descend again into the furor and celebrate with the rest of show's crew in the beer tent - surreptitiously positioned beyond the field of pimped-up 4x4s and horse boxes. Temped to join him? Yes, ever-so-slightly. But it really was cold and my companion had a long drive ahead.

As the sun dipped lower, casting honey-tones over the hills and valleys, we meandered homeward through the commanding landscape - I sank lower in my seat, enjoying the warmth in the car, following a spectacular sunset.

Reflecting on the day, I really enjoyed observing the quiet confidence exuded by the breeders, showers, craftsmen at Kilnsey - they all knew their strengths and owned every right to that proudness. I loved the lay of the land and the crag racers' determination to both be at one with and master the tumultuous terrain, even if it meant having to soap themselves down with a bucket of muddy water and tend to bleeding knees in return.

There was just the right level of humour, true sportsmanship and bravado to keep me entertained - it is tough up north, but I didn't hear a single grumble from either man nor beast.

Block Party Continued

Here's some very belated pictures to complement my writings about the Nelson Street Graffiti Art Project in Bristol last month:

Woolmersdon Walnut Thief

I was in Somerset for work last week, so thought I'd stay at mum's. She offered me a lift on my second morning, and on our way past the neighbours' driveway (which runs along the length of our garden) we spotted a ruddy-faced rogue conspicuously foraging for walnuts - collecting his loot into a Quality Street tub, with his van parked where the drive entrance meets the road.

The loot belonged to my mum. The poor ravaged tree sits prettily at the corner of the garden, a few branches innocently over-hanging the fence. Initially, mum carried on driving past this heinous crime scene but I was outraged and we pulled over a short way up the road. My anger helped to fuel mum's fire so we made a swift u-turn and headed back to confront the old codger walnut thief.

Derek Irish is one of many 'local characters' that mum knows to be wary of - she said she wouldn't be surprised if he'd been casing the tree for weeks - waiting for the prime time for preying on the golden-cased gems, with the intention of selling his bounty to a local fruit and veg vendor.

I just couldn't believe the gall of this twerp - it was 8.30am in the morning, broad daylight, bright as brass.

Mum pulled up into the verge and wound my window all the way down.

She said, "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"

Derek idles over, with a slight hobble (attempting a sympathy vote?), leans right into the car, resting both elbows on the window frame. Taking a highly conspicuous look at my chest, he says, "Just collecting the dropped ones, I got permission."

We were both aghast.

Mum says, "They belong to me and you do not have my permission."

Irish says, "You can have 'em love. But I got permission... from the boss."

We both laugh in shocked dismay.

Mum says, "No, the tree is mine, my ex doesn't live here any more - and even if he did say you could take them, it's not his concern now."

Irish remained cocky, contented to commence battle. "I've got a witness."

Mum, "I don't care, I want you you off my walnuts, now."

Irish, "My misses was a witness, she'll tell you."

Irish kept a wry smile on his weathered face during this entire interplay - leaning dangerously close to me, so much so that I had to turn towards mum in order to avoid his ghastly gaze.

Mum says, "That doesn't mean anything to me, please just leave."

The persistent git had more, "Just taking the ones from the floor love..."

Mum, "It's stealing, please leave."

Mum begins to release the hand break, his elbows slip off the window sill. His glare is fixed on us, but he begins to step back. The yappy little dog in his van begins to bark and jump up against the glass.

I haven't come across anyone quite so horrid, abrasive and determined in a long time. The bloody cheek of it. Mum said that she wouldn't be surprised if Irish was eying-up other neighbourhood trees - what a joke. He'll probably come back, perhaps or perhaps not with more stealth.

When we returned from work, mum gathered as much of her bounty as possible and will no doubt harvest every kernel with fevered protectiveness from this day forward. Walnut thieves of Woolmersdon - beware!

Learning to Breath

I'm running the Bristol 1/2 Marathon in two weeks. I'm running it for Penny Brohn Cancer Care, as my mum received emotional and therapeutic treatment from this charity during and after an invasive course of chemotherapy to eradicate cancer of the ovaries.

I am not a competitive sports person, so doing the race for a charity is helping to keep up momentum, especially when the donations keep coming in: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks. I may up my target to £500 as there's still time to do some tin-rattling.

At the moment, I am feeling very confident and considering I ran 11.4 miles in an hour and a half last Sunday, I definitely can make the 13.1 miles on September 11th. The only thing I'm worried about is running in public. I know it sounds stupid, but I'm so used to running on my own, (as far from civilization as possible) that the mere thought of sharing a road with even a cluster of people rather scares me. That, and the fact that I go a deeper shade of beetroot when I exercise. Can't help it, think it's hereditary.

I know a whole load of race entrants will be eagerly awaiting race day so that they can show off their peak physical condition, latest running gadgets and bling sportswear but I'll be hiding or blending into the background as much as possible in baggy shorts and muddy trainers. Ah well, vanity is not my concern.

I am proud that my fitness level is the best its been since I learnt to snowboard, but I'm worried about what will happen after the race. I think I'll have to sign up to another race otherwise I'm likely to slip into bad habits.

Yesterday I had my first ever personal training session (and another this morning) with a French friend who's trying to get his business off the ground in Bristol (http://www.rainbowfitness.org/pages/circuit-class.php). He's amazingly confident and dedicated to making sure I get the best routine I can before the race. The first session was fun and not too strenuous. A mix of boxing, circuits, weights and stretching - so Neil could assess my fitness levels. It felt a bit weird doing exercises like this in public (Clifton Downs), while we were boxing, a cabbie came over to watch. He used to go to a boxing club himself, I tried to encourage him to get back into it (he was rather on the portly side) and Neil gave him a business card.

I woke up tired and achy today, especially from doing the lunges. I was a bit anxious about the session ahead of me. I met Neil at the same place on the Downs and we started running around the edge of the park. He made me attempt to do some pull-ups on the bars. I failed miserably and Neil had to get me down again.

Next, we practiced breathing. How hard could that be? I've been doing it every single second of every single day of my life. Pfft. It was hard, I'm used to breathing in and out through my mouth when I run and Neil insisted that I breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Actually bloody hard to do. Then - he wanted me to sprint and breath! It was so weird, the reverb of the air coming out my mouth at such high-speed made my whole mouth shake - god knows what I must have looked like in close-up. Uh oh, lots of people are going to see this delightful spectacle on race day - I think they capture photos as you cross the finish line too. Great.

I totally appreciate how important it is to breath correctly and to get into the proper rhythm when you're pacing yourself and then to alter it before you sprint, but really - am I actually going to be able to breath like this on race day? I might be too nervous.

Must practice. Try and control the mouth wobble.

One should not wear one's best dress to Glastonbury Festival

All you girls out there will know that there's one dress in your wardrobe, 'the' dress that makes you feel complete. It makes you feel confident, you can dance in it, you can accessorize with it, you can flirt in it - you can even sleep in it and walk home in it with a smug air of dignity. It's usually a classic design, or a neutral colour that compliments your colouring and shape.

I found 'the' dress a few months ago... out searching for a wedding outfit. It found its way to me in the form of a navy blue one-shouldered cotton number - classic and understated yet elegant and soft. I knew it was 'the one' for me. Needless to say, I did all of the above in that dress at that wedding and fell in love (with the dress, I was too busy dancing to find a man). Obviously 'the' dress needed a good wash, but I was eagerly anticipating its next appearance.

Stupidly, I decided to wear it to Glastonbury Festival a month after the wedding. I had a Sunday ticket... surely not much could go wrong? I though, I've never been to Glastonbury as a punter (usually work on Info or in the Pussy Parlure for the duration of the festival), so I will glam-up and arrive looking and feeling fresh. No such luck.

The dress got splattered with mud the moment we squelched our way on site. For the duration of the day the dress managed to stay neat and sweet. I got a ridiculous tan mark from the one-shoulder aspect, but was blissfully unaware of this until the following day.

No, the real trouble started when I met up with Charlotte - and we were, to put it mildly... a bit sloshed. Both a bit bored of the naff dance routine that Cool and the Gang were brandishing on stage, we decided to head to Shangri-La before everyone else descended. What fun we had at Arcadia, dancing to the energetic Gentleman's Dub Club. What fun we had with the reggae crowd in the London Underground... even donned some fake moustaches in order to dance around and watch a few queens perform in the NYC Downlow club. The piece de resistance - and when 'the' dress got really wrecked happened at the pinnacle of our odyssey.

Charlotte and I stumbled upon the Snake Pit, a massive club which was fairly crowded when we got in. The music was thumping, so we decided to get a place at the front. Through the stage curtain, we could see two nearly naked women being dressed in balloons - covering just there private areas. As they came out onto the stage some crazy techo-sleaze came onto the sound system and the 'strippers' began bursting the coloured balloons with giant pins. What we didn't realise was that the balloons were filled with paint: UV paint. We were standing targets and swiftly regretted our front-row positioning. Next thing I knew Charlotte was staring at me with a UV yellow eye. Ekkkk! It was inside her eye... she tried to get it out. I thought we'd have to go to first aid... but she insisted it was ok. Eventually she got it all out, but then we looked at our persons. Uh oh, guess what was on the dress?

'The' dress looked like a Jackson Pollock, had he experimented with LSD. At first I thought (drunk remember), well, it'll be cool. I can still wear this. Except for the fact that I'm 28 and I can't get away with the fluoro look any more. Surely the UV paint will come out, if they're going to use it in a show, surely it has to be 'health and safety approved'?

I didn't dwell on the paint for long, Charlotte was recovered and we carried on our adventure. The next day, I had to put the dress back on and then I felt like a bit of a disgrace. The paint was brighter than ever, and didn't look like it was going to budge. Once I got home, I asked mum what I should do. We soaked it, and tried to dislodge the paint, but it looked like it was acrylic-based.

I tried several other methods, but nothing seemed to work. Scraping appeared to be the only sure way of extracting the particles, but that was time consuming.

The dress will never be the same, it peaked too soon. I should have been more respectful.

It serves me right I suppose. 'The' dress should only come out on very special occasions, that's what makes it timeless. Sigh.

Rain Won't Stop the Pink Lady

So, you know, it's mid August - the 'height' of the summer. Thought I might be safe to assume that a lunch-hour picnic in the park would be safe. Huh.

It was sunny when I left the house - a few light clouds appeared to be peppering the horizon but I didn't think anything of it. Bag laden with salads, couscous, a rug and elderflower cordial, I headed to College Green to meet Alex and Polly. A few light speckles of rain touch me half-way down Park Street. It'll be fine.

Meet Polly and Alex - we make the sensible decision to lay the rug under a tree. Everything is laid out and drinks poured. Then it rains. We muddle on, eating quickly, but trying to ignore the increase in size of the drops falling outside the tree's reach. Then the drops permeated our canopy. Oh. Dear. We finish the food, I shiver and Polly offers her coat. (In my haste to leave the house, I stepped out in shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops.) It appears that the city's abundant tourist population is much more savvy than us natives - taking refuge or donning macs before it's too late.

We're British, we shall persevere. Until the splodges of rain are as thick and fast as beyond the tree. We have to make a decision. Cathedral or a coffee shop? Have to think quick, we're sheltering up again the trunk now. Cathedral wins as it's that bit closer. The foyer is already crowded - but it offers some shelter.

We burst out laughing, what else can be done?

Alex takes some pictures of the torrential down pour. As he does - we witness a beautiful but grotesque vision. A large lady in her late 50s comes into the foyer from the depths of the dry cathedral. She is wearing just a short pink dress which could be mistaken for a ballet tutu if she was five-years-old.

Without the slightest flinch she strides out into the rain, no quibbles.

What a woman. Brave and British. (I presume)

Five minutes later we leave tentatively. I give Polly her coat back, Alex and I walk up Park Street. As I get to the top - I put my sunglasses back on. The only real give-away that we've been through an 'ordeal' is the muddy flecks of water splashing up from my flip flops onto my ankles.

Boys In Blue Get a Makeover

Can't believe I didn't notice this on Saturday but the Police Station in Bristol (at the end of Nelson Street) has had an understated yet rather uplifting makeover. The building itself is (I'm guessing) Georgian or Victorian - quite imposing with a pollution-tarnished layer of dirt covering the ocher-yellow stone walls.

A very different form of graffiti has been employed here. Using reverse graffiti (cleaning away dirt to create a 'negative' style imprint), the artist has embellished the entrance to the police station with classic tattoo emblems like swallows and hearts adorned with the words "More Love" and "Mum". There's an artist called Moose (Paul Curtis) who I think coined the style... I wonder if this is his work? With there being so many world-renowned graffiti artists painting up the city last weekend, I suppose it wouldn't be such a crazy assumption.

The columns of the two grand street lamps that stand either side of the doorway have been fitted with knitted blue and white stockings - under closer examination, the knit reveals a complicated geometric pattern. Beautiful when properly observed but subtle enough not to upset the tone of the 'establishment'.

The piece de resistance has to be the sign hanging above the doorway. White lettering on blue background, it reads, "Holding Out for a Hero". I laughed out loud.

Again, subtle enough for most people to miss due to the traditional police colour way - but somehow the sign is saying: we, the police - we're fun. We can have a laugh too. I would love to know who came up with the concept. Was it the 'See No Evil' organisers? I should think so - I can't imagine the super-intendant of the station suddenly thinking... hummmm, today guys, we're going to be ironic. Today, we're going to give the people of Bristol a giggle. Today we're going to make reference to Bonnie Tyler's camp pop anthem.

Jokes. I need to buy myself a digital camera - words alone do not do this justice.

See No Evil Urban Oasis

The Bristol 'See No Evil' street art project (http://www.jondavey.com/panoramas/evil2.html) has reached epic proportions, not just in the size and scope of the concrete canvases that have been brought to life before our eyes, but in the way it has brought the city's inhabitants together to reinvigorate a woefully neglected part of the centre.

My mum and her best friend (who live in Somerset) came up especially for the NY-style block party, and I couldn't wait to take them to Nelson Street. We walked from Redland towards St Micheals Hill, which is where we got our first glimpse of the pinstriped paint-spiller piece, on the side of a 10 story building. The music on Nelson Street had managed to permeate all the way up here - surprising but adding to the anticipation. We arrived at the West Gate end at around 3.30pm and there was already a big crowd clustering close to the Team Love sound system as well as pockets of people ogling the art works.

Overnight the street had been transformed into an urban oasis - complete with green astro-turf on the ground, baskets/pots/tubs overflowing with flowers, herbs and foliage covering all the mundane and unsightly objects usually associated with your average urban setting. Even the bus stops had been camouflaged in reams of fake greenery - further embellished with, "Bus Service Suspended" signs. Then you look up and see the finished pieces of graffiti - well most except for El Mac, who was was still working on his sublime 'mother and child' long after the music stopped at around 9pm - so much pride has gone into this event, and it's evident at every turn of the head.

Every area was accessible, there were few security guards and even fewer police - an unusual yet welcome gesture of trust. We explored a whole new world accompanied by some funky family-friendly tunes spouting from three sound systems - the distinctly poignant smell of paint still lingering in the balmy air. Up on the bridge crossing the street we got a proper view, though I was more intent on watching other people reacting to the Nelson Street take-over - such happiness in abundance. I don't think I heard a bad word spoken all day.

I'd say most of the people there had heard about the event through word-of-mouth and wanted to satisfy their curiosity, but you'd see the odd stag do or hen party (rudimentary element to any Saturday night in Bristol) happen upon Nelson Street and get a bit caught up in the commotion. A friend of mine over-heard someone saying "What's this - some kind of a hippy street party?", which I suppose it looked a bit like after about 7pm when the street's inhabitants became more inebriated. I think it was a good idea to stop the music and close down the street at 9pm, to preserve the kudos of such a good day and not let things get hairy.

I only had one cider and a few sips of wine - mainly as I needed to train for the marathon today (11.4 miles without stopping!), but I didn't feel like I needed anything else - it was such a naturally high day for me. I even managed to fit in a bit of sightseeing from the M shed (acting as tour guide for mum and her friend), the top floor terrace really gives you a unique view of the city - though it's a shame it's not quite enough of a panorama to incorporate the suspension bridge.

My night drew to a close at Castle Park, sat within a circle of friends discussing the day's events. Such intrigue and debate - where else would you see so much contemporary art for free, in the middle of a street? Or, where a ten-year-old boy can bust out his break-dancing routine in a circle of over-joyed parents and party-goers - everyone gunning for more?

Received a very encouraging text from my mum the following day, which read: "Still soooo impressed by the graff, may come again while it's still fresh." She also said the graffiti had inspired her to inject more colour into her ceramics - which is a beautiful and moving gesture. I would imagine that many others feel the same, and this should be exactly the kind of reaction the 'See No Evil' organisers were hoping to evoke.

Bristol is where it's at. Friendly, unpretentious, gritty yet hopeful.

I love this city - take a bow Bristol!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfp6a0rEcqc&feature=player_embedded

Art Breaths Life

There's something brewing in Bristol - the cosmetic transformation of a concrete jungle.

Over the last few days, a terribly sad street in the heart of the city has been given a graffiti-centric facelift. Who'd have thought that a lick of paint could purvey such power. Last night Nelson Street (formally known for its tired office facades and limited retail outlets) was abuzz with people and a heady reek of aerosol spray paint tinged the air.

The organisers of the 'See No Evil' street art project (http://www.seenoevilbristol.co.uk/) - billed as the biggest of its kind in the UK and Europe, hope that this extravagant showcase of world class graffiti artists in the city's forgotten district will breath new life into the area. It is definitely already drawing a flood of curious locals, photographers and journalists - if today's crowds were anything to go by, the finale NY-style block party tomorrow should hit the mark.

I was desperate to take my SLR down there to capture the art-in-motion today, and it was a pleasure to see so many people cluttering the street, heads turned upwards in awe. If 'See No Evil' gets enough publicity, I would not be surprised if Nelson Street becomes more of a tourist attraction than Banksy's many statement pieces around the city - it's such an exciting adventure to experience so much artistic diversity in one place. The likes of Inky, Tats Cru and El Mac are topping the talent board of artists, with El Mac's black and white portrait of a woman holding a baby making a visceral, poignant and haunting statement at the top end of the street.

One of my other favourites is the understated 'oasis' mural with birds of paradise weaving around mountains and seascape. Beautiful use of colour painted over a series of dotty-textured metal grills. I can't wait to see how things evolve tomorrow - and I wonder if Banksy will add to this torrent of intrigue by contributing a piece?

The other triumph of this event is the 'pop-up' club (complete with mini-replica of the Millennium Square Mirror Ball, coloured light box seating cubes and an almighty sound system provided by Team Love) at the West Gate building separating Lewins Mead from Nelson Street - it's a prime location for any business, but why has it been left to fester for so long? Whatever the reason, I hope people will realise that this ought to be the beating heart of the city and the 'See No Evil' project is setting a precedence now.

I've proudly been living in Bristol for a year, and in these austere and trying times, it's refreshing to witness a vibrant, thought-provoking act of city-love by those who want to make art the centre piece for change.

More tomorrow, but while I'm waiting to get my pictures developed (five days is the swiftest option in Boots these days!), here's some links to the best found on Twitter so far:

http://www.lobstervision.tv/seenoevilbristol#

http://twitter.com/#!/SeeNoEvil2011/status/104579622754205696/photo/1

http://bristolculture.wordpress.com/2011/08/19/welcome-to-bristol-by-tats-cru/

http://twitter.com/#!/SeeNoEvil2011/status/104571493698117634/photo/1

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturepicturegalleries/8711647/The-See-No-Evil-graffiti-project-in-Bristol-Britains-largest-street-art-project.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-14577524

Black Cab School Run

I don't suppose many people can say they were delivered to primary school in a London black cab... well, not in the Somerset countryside anyhow.

I suppose I had quite an obscure childhood - living in the middle of nowhere and having parents who didn't want to send us to the closest, most average of village schools. They wanted to send us to Enmore C of E Primary, which was around 6 miles from our cottage. This caused a few catchment-area problems. We were not alone though, my parents closest friends who had two boys the same age as my sister and I were also gunning for Enmore too.

So, somehow, we were entitled to transport via taxi to school. I do not remember exactly when the black cab made an entrance into our young lives - before that we had had 'Colin Cowpat' (obviously named for his distinctly bovine odour), a quiet man with wiry hair a bit like Gene Wilder in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, alternated with Ray who smelt of really cheap aftershave and looked a bit like what the biker from The Village People would have looked like if he'd sat in a car all his life.

Even now when I return to North Petherton to visit mum, Colin Cowpat and Ray can often be identified cruising the village in their (possibly) updated rides. Imagine some of the sights and sounds they must have witnessed since my childhood!

So, for some time, Lilli, Tom, Richard and I shared this weird environment with our chariot drivers... I don't really remember if there was much chit-chat, but I do know that we all dreaded the days that the black cab appeared to collect us. Black cab driver was an archetypal 90s boy-racer... probably into the rave scene and definitely not concerned about our lives. Cabs are big, especially when you're under ten years old. If a cab is tearing down country lanes twice over the speed limit with four little bodies in the back - there's no way of keeping in your seat. I definitely remember white knuckles featured quite regularly. 'No Limits' by the Euro dance duo 2 Unlimited also featured very heavily - at top volume. Ekkk.

Boy racer didn't speak to us through the plastic division. Inside we were probably all thinking we were going to die... perhaps we did shout out for him to slow down, but I doubt he ever heard or cared. Bring back Colin Cowpat or Ray - please!

That was one of many quirky school transport issues we faced. Another rather scarring one that sticks in my mind is the times when no taxis where available (or perhaps we weren't entitled to them any more?) and the car wouldn't start in winter. On those dire days, we'd get up extra early and have to cycle (regardless of snow/rain/wind factors) to Richard and Tom's farm - a good two/three miles up and down some ferocious hills, in order to catch a lift with them.

Getting to secondary school was almost as perilous... more later.

Willow Man Looses his Stomping Ground

There's a scary amount of development occurring along a stretch of the motorway between Dunball and Bridgwater. I was shocked to see that the once enormous, landmark figure of the Willow Man has been barricaded in by ugly mottled green buildings - more like giant lego blocks, along with what I presume is yet another housing estate.

The gracious and charming natural beauty of the Willow Man has now been dwarfed and shunted into obscurity. This is man again nature writ large. I suppose he's been there for quite few years now, and sadly some of the fibres holding his frame together are straying - a bit like an untamed birds nest. There are many other motorway attractions nearby to distract bored passengers - most notably the Maunsel Monster (a 10ft dinosaur who recently got knocked over) and the carnival camels. These obviously have their charms... but old willow man, striding through the grass, arms outstretched somehow summed up a more serious message of freedom and heritage - built from the willow trees that dominate the surrounding Somerset levels.

I suppose he'll either be left to fester or perhaps be removed to make way for more development. What a shame, but then isn't this just one more example of nature being eclipsed in the name of 'progress'.

Rogue Knitting

I know that rogue knitting is not exactly a new phenomenon, but I'm delighted to be experiencing it first hand in Bristol.

For those unacquainted with knitters of the rebel variety - it basically entails people with a penchant for anarchy and goodwill leaving little yarn-based presents attached to everyday street furnishings... ie: lamp posts, benches and railings.

The first piece of rogue knitting I encountered here was in Stokes Croft: A rainbow band embellishing a lamp post just below eye-level. Aha! Good work, a bit like graffiti artists: you've managed to give the city a unique piece of art without shoving morals or ethics down people's throats. It's funny, quirky and completely harmless. I love the thought of gangs of Bristolian knitters patiently waiting till the clubs have closed and the streets are clear to sneak out and twitch their needles ferociously huddled around a lamp post. Perhaps I should try and make a documentary about them - reach the inner-circle, become initiated. How hard could it be to infiltrate such a clan? I can't imagine that they'd make me take a fraternity test.

The second example of rogue knitting I've encountered was just the other day, up the top of Redland Road. When my phone won't give me enough signal to take a call or receive messages (which is 99% of the time), I hike up the hill. There's a small park with a few benches lining the grass looking across the city. As I passed the last one, I noticed a white mouse sitting on a pink sleeve, woven around the arm of the bench.

A mouse you say? Yes, a little white (knitted) mouse with little pin-prick black eyes. He was facing the view, stationed on a soft pink blanket. How romantic, though he could have done with a little chum, non? I will go back and take a picture as soon as I've bought batteries for my camera - I hope he doesn't fall prey to vandalism or cat-attack in the meantime.

Watch out rogue knitters - I'm determined to catch you at it now!

Bus Stop Brawl

It was just after 9am in the morning. Still a little sleepy, I approached the bus stop on the main road leading through North Petherton (the village close to where my mum lives).

I was jolted into fully-fledged adrenaline-fueled consciousness by the bizarre scene that unfurled as I put my bag down on the pavement to wait for my National Express:

A large (most likely pregnant) woman, in her early twenties stood beside the bus shelter, gently pushing a buggy containing a mixed-race toddler. Inside the shelter (around 15ft away from the woman) slouched a short black man in a scruffy tracksuit - a handsfree set/ipod headphone plugged into one ear. An empty push chair was positioned close to him.

Like a car chase scene from an action film (minus the handsome hero), a people-carrier taxi swerves across the oncoming lane (facing the wrong way in the bus bay), bumping the curb and screeching to a stop. An angry fat man with grey joggers and a massive paunch bounds into the bus shelter and begins to shout a derogative steam of abuse at the black man - their foreheads practically touching. In fact I initially thought that a headbutt was surely going to be planted.

The crux of the fat man's 'beef' I began to realise was the idiocy of the black man and his treatment of the woman standing by... who was trying her hardest not to react to the scene. I swiftly realised that the black man was the father of the toddler (and potentially the unborn child?). Their distant stance at the bus stop definitely pointed at some recent feud or breakup. But why did they have a push chair each, and what part did the fat taxi man have to play in this obscure situation? After a few more very loud expletives at close range, the taxi man stormed out of the shelter, pointed a threatening finger at the woman accompanied by a sentence along the lines: "You're both as bad as each other - should of bashed your heads together..."

Without any though to the highway code or road safety, the taxi sped off again, crossing lanes- screeching tyres leaving black marks on the tarmac.

I was shocked and wished I was anywhere else. I was the only person witnessing the scene on their side of the street, and now I had to endure the aftermath.

The black man came to the edge of the shelter and mumbled to the woman, who tended to the toddler - who remained remarkably unscathed by the shouting. Maybe it was used to this kind of behaviour from its parents. The woman mumbled back, though neither looked directly at each other. Intermittently, she angrily answered her phone with, "WHAT?!", listened for a minute or two and then hung-up on the caller. The woman hide her dismay well, but did look round at me a few times anxiously. The man kept trying to get the attention of the small boy, cooing at it but not daring to go any closer. She continued to argue with the man and the person on the phone until their bus pulled in. Half of me wanted to get on and follow the story, but I also wanted to get out of this hellish situation.

She pushed her toddler on and paid for her ticket. The man followed soon after with his empty push chair. I watched curiously as the woman sat down near the front and the man folded his buggy, put it in the storage area and then took a place right at the back of the bus.

Did he have another mistress and another baby to attend to? Or were they going to swap the toddler into his buggy at their destination and go their separate ways? What had the man done to spark such a violent attack from the taxi man?

Perhaps I will write a script which explores a possible situation.