Happy and Glorious

In a rare feat of moderation I was going to tack this blog post onto the last (see below). A footnote to a few weeks in Great Britain, encompassing a small enclave of what is broadly known as ‘The North’ and peppered with some time spent in the capital, London. Or London2012 as it is fondly known these days. However, they warranted a post in their own right, not appendices to Westcountry scrumptiousness but full bodied warm ales of golden appreciation and deep-filled pies of friendship.

I really should spend more time in the North of England. I have never been to York. Or Manchester. Or all those places like Piddlyton-on-Wellyboot in the Vale of Rambunctiousness. I don’t know where it starts, but it is undeniably distinctive and full of clichés such as gritty humour and down-to-earth friendliness. In this it is as charming as a toasted teacake.

Still, I would never choose to holiday in Blackpool and cannot quite understand why, or how or what on earth would possess you. More refined and it knows it is Lytham, where I can regularly reacquaint myself with air mattresses of old, rely on fajita night, and have serious Words with Friends. There are wee nippers to contend with, and the start of a long run of 6am wake ups, but these are happy shared family moments.  

The North provided a mixed bag of weather, starting with tropical heatwave like conditions (for The North) and offering a gorgeous day to stroll along the prom, have a burger and pint at a decent pub, and head back again. It even lasted just long enough for BBQ number 4 on a Sunday afternoon.

But quite quickly summer ended, the wind emerged to blast all the harshness of the Irish Sea onto the land, and a trip out to St Annes-On-Sea provided me with a taste of the summer that so many had experienced on their British holidays this year. As I battled the forty five degree rain that little ‘oh we do like to be beside the seaside’ ditty lodged into my head, amplified by the tuppeny bit games and jingle jangle machines on the pier.

Still, I must make more time to see other parts of The North.

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Possibly the best thing about Preston train station is it only take two hours and a quarter to get to London. From a Lancashire drizzle it seemed that London was still beaming and was it me or did Euston and the Northern Line seem incredibly smooth, clean and efficient? I made it to Finchley which is like memory lane big time. The odd change of shop and pub, but still Victoria Park and Tesco and the number 82 bus. And more entrenched bonds, added with more sprogs and, ahem, 6am starts.

Most of my time here remained in The North (of London) but I did manage a half day jaunt into the city and even south across the river. It was wonderful and I can only imagine how such meanderings would have been full of joy during the Olympics. I started at London Bridge and crossed the bridge for the first time ever, noting a giant shard like building beside the water – ah, the Shard! On the other side, through wanky banks and city schlicks, appeared a big monument or something – ah, Monument! 311 steps it takes to reach the top of this obelisk, and I got a certificate to prove it.

From here I stayed north of the river and ventured onto St Pauls, which was more gorgeous than I remember. For me, this is London’s Sydney Opera House. I’m thinking the grounds and greenery around this iconic landmark were rather spruced and fancy, but, in a great and British way, still open for anyone to meander, laze, catch a bus from, have a larf, eat a packaged sandwich beside, have a knees up in jellied eels at, or bum a fag.

Back to that river, which, escaping the Olympic magentification, remained steadfastly brown. Even on sunny, colourful days like this, London is at heart a black and white kind of city.

South Bank was all hip and happening and I detect a greater celebration and use of the riverside as an asset, with fine dining, casual cafes, pubs and food carts providing distraction aplenty. Gentrification with attitude, as obviously they keep the graffiti walled skate grunge concrete-park and encourage random entertainment featuring moonwalking, giant bubbles and steel drums.

By now we had reached the latter part of Friday afternoon, the sun was out, and Britain’s economy was losing 1% of GDP as people knock off early for a pint at Snail and Cabbage pubs everywhere. And why not, for the money only goes to fund more Mercedes Tractors for bankers to drive around Hampstead, probably. So, for me, off to the Slug & Lettuce in Clapham to have a beer and chat to some treasured former work friends. Friday night memories.

More memories were awoken over the next few days, including a ride on the number 82 bus to enjoy a sumptuous sunny Saturday at Golders Hill Park. What a lovely spot, with animals, play areas, ice creams and an unsurprisingly overpriced pub nearby for golden lunchtime burgers served on wooden boards instead of more practical plates. Another striking memory was the meringue and cream cake from Sainsburys, reincarnated now as an individual pavlova, but still packed with fresh cream. And then there was a trip to Tesco, where little had changed apart from the presence of freshly cooked barbecue ribs and salted giant pretzels. Food, my ever constant companion.

And so, despite a dubious belly forming and a run of eleven consecutive days with child waking regularity, it was a happy and glorious time. My last endeavour in the UK was to survive Essex, which I managed despite being visually assaulted by fake tan and blonde peroxide. Lifting off from British shores at Stansted, saying goodbye to the Thames estuary, it was over the hills and far away to Europe, and the start of a holiday within a holiday.