Dornock

“There he is!” I said to Sarah, pointing and waving. I could see Leys from the bus; he was standing by the side of the road, looking like a Scottish country gent. He was wearing a tweed hat, a khaki waterproof jacket, and was carrying a small tweed ‘man bag’; a mix of urban sophistication and country practicality.

Two days before the trip, I asked myself the question: ‘who might I know who might live close to Dornock?’ a small village, just over the border from England. To my surprise, I discovered that my friend Leys had moved to a house in a town that was around fifteen miles away. We arranged to meet in the Café Royale, in a small town called Annan, which was just down the road from our final destination.

After handshakes and hugs, we went inside. I was immediately hit by humidity and a very strong smell of chip fat. Not only did the café sell cakes and coffee, it also doubled up as a chippy. We found a seat towards the back and sat down. I was relieved we were nearly at Dornock; it had been a long trip.

I had met Leys by accident. Over a decade ago, I began reading a very niche blog about scientific research into a speech ‘disorder’ called stammering (or, stuttering, if you’re American). I put the words ‘disorder’ in quotes for the reason that it is a particularly negative word and I don’t like it; the reality is that people who have to deal with it have to just get on with life.

I left a comment on one of the blog posts and a few weeks later, I received an unexpected email. Someone had done a bit of Googling and figured out who I was. At the time I was unnerved and annoyed at being unmasked, but then I realised that I probably had gone public with my ‘speech’ identity for a simple reason: there was no reason not discuss it.

It turned out that Leys lived in the same part of London that I once knew. It also turned out that Leys was then the chairman of a national charity that supports people who stammer.

Fast forward a few years, after meeting Leys for a few pints in a pub, I decided to get actively engage with the charity. There was a simple thought at play: I had nothing to lose; plus, it might be fun. And it turned out it was. I remember that Leys gave some cracking speeches, and helped to set up an organisation within the charity to try to educate large employers about the condition.

“How was your journey?” asked Leys.

Our journey had been confused, fractious, and long. Rather than going direct to Carlisle from London, and then travelling to Carlisle to Annan, a bit of research had told me that it was cheaper to go up the East Coast to Newcastle and then travel the entire width of the country to Carlisle.

There was another complexity. After booking the ridiculously cheaper train ticket, Sarah discovered that there was only a single place to stay in Dornock, which was available on a Sunday, rather than a Saturday. This led to a decision: we could either book new non-refundable tickets, or we could spend a bit more money on an additional night in Newcastle or in Carlisle. I thought of a compromise: spend a bit of time wandering around Newcastle and then the night in Carlisle, before then catching a bus to Annan in the morning.

We arrived at Newcastle train station just after ten in the morning. Emma, the Newcastle University student that we met in Adlington had recommended that we visited the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, which was just across the river in Gateshead. I had been there once before; I remembered an exhibit which featured a fan, a plastic bag, and a sign which said ‘do not pick up the bag; it is not rubbish; it is an exhibit’.

I have an ambivalent opinion about contemporary art. I like some of it. I especially like pieces which have a simplicity about them, or express an essence of some kind of principle, concept or idea. I think this perspective comes from once being a computer programmer. I used to create software that used to move numbers about and transformed them into different formats. Sometimes, you discovered and created program structures that had a weird kind of beauty.

We wandered across a bridge, and along the Tyne and into the gallery. It was almost empty. We started to explore.

“Do you like that?” Sarah gestured towards a giant tooth that was dangling close to the ceiling. The tooth had a couple of metal rods.

“No.” It reminded me that I needed to visit the dentist. I didn’t like the dentist. It made me think of a dental surgery in Catford, South East London. The last time I was there I started to worry about an elderly visitor who was talking to the receptionist about her lost teeth.

We wandered to another gallery. Four squares sat on the floor. One square was filled with pebbles; another square was strewn with life jackets. A weird looking contraption and a set of headphones dangled from the ceiling. A gallery attendant looked up at us.

“Would you like a go? Its virtual reality” The exhibit was about migration and refugees. “You put the headset and headphones on and you look at four exhibits”. I looked at Sarah and asked her whether she wanted a go. She did.

Sarah donned the virtual reality head set and I was sent to a viewing screen at the back of the gallery to see what she was seeing. She saw ethereal figures. She was at a refugee camp, perhaps a camp in northern France; a camp called the Jungle. She was then in an unknown space, filled with distant figures; the images creating a feeling of disconnectedness. The pebbles represented arriving on a new land, or over the sea, and an entirely new scene. The square with the life jackets was connected with another scene where there were piles and piles of life jackets, all stacked on top of each other. There were valleys of discarded jackets.

With Sarah safely returned to reality, we gathered our bags and made our way to an adjoining gallery that contained an array of video installations. I remember three of them: a digital screen showed a mysterious object, like a body, floating underwater. The second was a video representation of a flight across the sea, towards land. The third had the visual appearance of a catholic confessional. You sat down on a simple chair, opposite another screen, and saw a stranger’s hands and torso, moving and gesticulating. Subtitles told a story of a journey; a story that involved fear and dislocation. The adjoining gallery continued the theme of refugee by presenting a number of visual narratives, telling stories of travel from a place of terror, to a place of potential sanctuary.

We eventually found ourselves in the gallery café. One woman who was wearing an inappropriate hat was accompanied by a man who was wearing an incongruous suit. Within a period of fifteen minutes, the café was full with people who were clearly going to a wedding. We later realised that the wedding was to take place in the Baltic Centre. We watched as people went to the counter, and then were told to find a seat, and then find some fellow friends.

It was soon time for us to go; we had another train to catch. We hauled our bags onto our shoulders, walked out of the gallery, and across the Millennium Bridge and back to Newcastle. We navigated our way up the banks of the Tyne and towards the train station.

I never thought that I would ever cross England in an hour, but that was exactly what we did. Our journey along the Tyne Valley Line was busy; we shared a carriage with a group of jolly drinkers. At Hexham, we were joined by a group of women who were on a hen do. I looked out of the window saw pleasant northern countryside; the only thing that detracted from the ride was the bumpiness of the train and high pitched grumbling sound emanating from an aging diesel engine.

Didn’t take us long to find our B&B in Carlisle. We were met by a very jolly man who took us to a room that was extravagantly luxurious: it had rich deep carpet, thick floral curtains and expensive looking furniture that had a glossy dark wooden sheen. Our room was, in every way, different to the room that we had inhabited during our stay in Adlington.

With our bags safely deposited, we explored the town. It felt quiet until we found the centre of the town; people were finishing their weekend shopping. After a brief stop in a local pub, we found the town’s main attraction: Carlisle castle. We crossed a road, paid and entrance fee and started to find our way through its spiral staircases, corridors and rooms. Exhibits told us how its different rooms were used and told us about the Jacobites; an aspect of history that I have always found too distant to be accessible.

On our way back to the B&B, we stopped off at another pub. I saw an opportunity to recover memories from my past and ordered a pint of bitter, and instantly regretted it; my southern palate was too used to continental lagers and fancy porters made by bearded hipsters. Our night out in Carlisle concluded with a visit to a local Greek restaurant that was known to have a very good reputation. Sarah didn’t disagree, saying it was one of the best meals she had ever had.

“He’s very jovial, isn’t he?” said Sarah.

We had just finished breakfast; we were only a few hours away from arriving in Dornock. Andrew was the most jovial B&B owner I had ever met. It was unnerving.

“He’s so jovial, I think he might have murdered his wife.”

I stopped packing for a moment. I knew what she meant. It was his laugh.

“It’s almost as if he’s very cheerful after having buried her in the garden in revenge for all her nagging”.

She did have a point. The proprietor of the B&B was called Helen, and Helen wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Our penultimate journey was by bus. With our backpacks donned, we found our way to the bus station to wait for the number 79 that was going toward Annan and Gretna Green. We travelled with a young chap who appeared to be visibly stressed, a nun, and two women who were on their way to an out of town shopping centre to begin their shift at Argos.

Leys returned to our table with a round of coffees and a selection of cakes. I asked him about his new life in Scotland. It turned out he had only been living in the area for six months but his connections to Scotland ran deep; he was born in Edinburgh but had spent all of his life in England. His new house was just down the road from where his father used to live. Although he had retired some time ago, this recent move seemed to represent a new chapter in his life, and one that I had been watching unfold over recent months over Facebook. One a few days earlier he had posted about garden renovations, and I remember feeling a twinge of jealousy. He said that it wasn’t a problem that he sounded like an upper class Englishman, and explained that the society was ‘pretty flat’ in terms of not having too much of a class structure.

“People around here are really resourceful; they’ve got to be, and many people have several jobs” he explained. He was becoming established in his local community and having been involved in marketing all his professional life, he now wanted to place his new home town of Moffat on the map.

We chatted about dogs, Scotland, double glazing and planning permission, travel and how his two children were getting along. One thing was clear: he loved where he lived, and he was happy. With our cakes eaten and coffee drunk, I vowed I would make a trip to Moffat to see him; a side effect of this randomness was to discover what trips I really do want to make.

After Leys left us, we had an hour and a half to kill. We wandered around Annan. We found signs to a distillery and discovered a closed museum. We walked past the derelict ‘Central Hotel’; it was a beautiful stone building that was rapidly falling into a state of disrepair. Windows had been smashed and boarded up, letters from its entrance sign had fallen away. It was almost as if the building was trying to tell me something about the area, but I wasn’t quite sure what it was. Except from a shell of a nearby warehouse, everything appeared to be presentable and well kept; the hotel was an anomaly.

It was five minutes to three. We stood outside Annan railway station. In the distance we could see a chocolate coloured car; our lift to Dornock; the final stage of our journey. It was a journey that I was looking forward to; Sarah had been chatting to the owner and had asked what there was to do ‘in the area’: an outing was planned.

The car was occupied by Julie and Nick, owners of The Waterside Rooms. We stuffed our bags into the boot, and jumped in the back. The journey between Annan and Dornock only took around five minutes. Our destination was a house that was situated at the end of a long single track road, overlooking the Solway Firth.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” asked Nick, after we had been escorted to their living room. I thought for a moment, and then relented, reminding myself that I was on holiday, albeit a very long and a very weird one.

Julie was English; she had once lived in London, working in a well-known news agency. Nick had a hint of a Scottish accent. He was originally from Edinburgh but had ended up working in Newcastle. They had been running their B&B for over ten years. They took to it after having been made redundant from their respective jobs; circumstance had guided to the shores of the Solway, which led to time and money being spent to convert an exposed house into what was now a lovely home. ‘Half an hour’ of wine led us directly to the inevitable subject of politics: the local MP was a Conservative, the only one in Scotland, but the area, Dumfries and Galloway, had voted to remain in the European Union; it was a contested mix of opinion and allegiances.

With some of our political views explored and exposed, Julie showed us to our room. It had a window with a clear view of the Solway. We could see England, which appeared to be distant and mysterious. The tide was visibly rushing out. I liked it. Julie and Nick’s world in Dornock seemed to be a nice place to live.

A night out in Dornock turned out to be a night in Powfoot; a short drive past Annan. Like Dornock, Powfoot was also a small village but it was one that had a series of caravan parks; its focus was less about agriculture and more to do with tourism. At its heart was a small pleasant hotel, which featured a fancy restaurant that had been recommended to Sarah by our hosts. We were taken to a table that overlooked the Solway. It had a very grown up feel to it: there were no children running about, and everyone looked smart. The only mildly baffling aspect of the meal was the menu. I had no idea what a ‘cushion of cod’ was, but I ordered it anyway.

It wasn’t difficult getting back. Mike, a local taxi driver, knew the way to the Waterside Rooms. Mike asked us where we were from.

“I couldn’t be living in London; it’s just too busy. Whenever I go there, I want to get out”. Mike was a local. He spoke with an accent that I had never heard before: Scottish vowels mixed with Cumbrian.

“I wouldn’t be able to look after my horses if I lived in London!”

As well as being a taxi driver, he had a job at a local stables: he was a horse trader. He bought young horses, broke them in, rode them, and sold them on. Even though he was in his mid-forties, he looked like a man who was in his thirties. I had never met a horse trader before. Sarah asked him whether he liked living in the area.

“I guess so. I’ve lived here all my life. I mean, from the stables you can get out and go riding, you know?”

Mike drove us through Annan.

“This is where people go for a night out. You’ll see people on some of the doors, for security, like? I used to do that for a bit, you know. People have too much to drink, and you keep a lid on things, just to make sure everything is okay.”

“How long have you been a taxi driver for?”

“Ah, just a week. I don’t like sitting at home looking at the same four walls, you know? I like to get out”. Mike was one of those locals that Leys had told us about: resourceful, with many jobs; someone who isn’t afraid of getting their hands dirty.

The following morning Julie and Nick had prepared us for an extravagant multi-course breakfast. We again sat at table that had a view across the Solway, eyeballing the English.

We had an hour to kill before we left, so we went walking. We left the tranquility of the Waterside Rooms and found our way to the shore. The tide was still out, exposing huge expanses of sandy banks. We found a path amongst a scene of sea sculpted rock pools that sat in a space between fertile soil and ever changing salty water. We had to watch our step; our shoes were designed for fancy hotels and friendly urban environments, not muddy inclines that could easily become hiker traps.

Wherever possible, we stuck to a route that was resembling a path. In the distance, we saw a bank that appeared to be covered in a light coloured sand. With the sun shining, we carefully stepped our way through passages between the pools, until we started to approach the bank. It was an illusion. It wasn’t sand, but a bank that was filled high sand coloured reeds, which were hissing collectively in the persistent wind; it was a wind that never seemed to go away.

It was time to turn back. We turned around and retraced our steps to the Waterside Rooms. Just before we started to climb a slight incline to the front of Julie and Nick’s house, I saw something in a rock pool. Tiny fish darted in and out of the shadows that I made when I peered inside. Hours later they would be gone, lifted by currents, and taken away across the great expanse of the Solway.

It was Nick that gave us a lift back to Annan station. During our drive back, I learnt something else about Annan and our night out at the restaurant. The restaurant had only been going in that venue for a couple of months. Before then, they occupied the space above The Café Royale.

“That’s a really striking building” I said to Nick, referring to the derelict hotel that we could see from the train station car park. Nick chuckled. He said it used to be owned by a chap who owned lots of buildings in Annan, and he had recently sold it to a development group for thirty grand. He said that the hotel used to cater for ‘the bottom’ end of the market.

My thoughts returned to my earlier question of what this building was trying to tell me. In fact, the building was more of a symbol, a marker in time; it was more important to think about everyone we had met. I didn’t have a conclusion but I did have a feeling, and that feeling was positive.

Clock Face

Our alarm clock sounded. I climbed out of bed and padded to the window to open the curtains. Our room overlooked a simple court yard. A solitary car was parked; my sleepy eyes caught sight of tall trees, which were starting to bud in the early spring. I had no idea what the day would bring; our main constraint was the need to return the hire car to Manchester. Although I roughly knew where we were heading, I didn’t know anything about the part of the country that we were going to explore.

Vaguely conscious, we found our way to the hotel dining area for breakfast. We were met by Martin, who we assumed was the proprietor, and Mary, who seemed a lot calmer than she was when we arrived the previous day. It was a very pleasant dining room. Like the rest of the hotel interior, it had been painted bright white. We sat by some French doors with a view of a garden. One other resident sat in the corner of the dining room, intently playing with his mobile phone.

“Where did you get to?” asked Mary, as Martin looked on.

“We had a guided tour of Batley” I replied. Mary appeared confused. “A friend picked us up and drove us around” I paused for a moment. “It took about ten minutes”. Mary started to laugh. We told her about our walk, the visit to The Cellar Bar, a walk in the park, and a visit to the Bagshaw Museum. We changed Mary’s perceptions of Batley: there were things to do.

With our orders placed, we got chatting to Martin, who was a friendly chap in his early fifties. He asked us where we were from.

“What part of London?” he asked. Martin has a brother who lived in Kensington. He told us that he used to look after the Queen’s horses. Martin and Liz, the sweet shop owner in Adlington had both surprised me. I expecting northerners to be suspicious of us fancy London types, anticipating a degree of apathy and distain, but I was beginning to feel that this was more a reflection of a personal prejudice than a reality.  Liz and Martin had spent time and had a connection with our capital; they had memories and stories to share; this reflected in their interest and friendliness.

Mary’s breakfast was good: it was simple and no nonsense. Plus, we were given a choice; we were not subjected to ‘the black pudding challenge’, as we had been in Adlington.

The next time we encountered Martin, he was sat behind the reception desk. As he checked us out and shuffled papers around, he explained that the hotel was a lot quieter than usual. On Sundays a part of the hotel became a school; a popular mathematics teacher hired the hotel facilities, running an ‘exam preparation hot house’, helping students to get through their GCSE exams.

“He’s really popular, but he’s very strict; he’s one of the old school teachers, you know? Parents come from miles around; as far as Leeds. They pay a couple of thousand pounds per pupil.” I started to wonder about the parents of these children, imagining expensive cars pulling up to the Healy House Hotel entrance, leaving their half asleep children who were grumpy because they would rather be watching television or playing video games. “He works the students really hard so they get great results; he’s really respected”.

Sarah took her credit card statement and put it in her bag. I misheard something Martin had said; he started to make a joke about it.

“I asked my wife the other day whether she needed any ‘hosiery’. She said, ‘what?’ She had never heard of it! She didn’t know what hosiery was! So, I told her: you know, tights! She had never heard of hosiery! Can you believe that?”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twenty years” A cleaner who had been pushing a vacuum cleaner through the reception area started to laugh. Martin shook his head. “You know what, some people have real trouble saying the word ‘fire extinguisher’” The Healy House Hotel seemed like a fun place to work.

We put our bags in the car, and set off: we needed to find a path back to the M62. We would head towards Manchester and continue onwards, following the signs to Liverpool. We were going to St Helens. We traversed a map that Sarah had printed out and soon got lost amongst the Yorkshire streets and houses, but I didn’t mind; it was a pleasant lost. Despite being a little chilly, the streets had a friendly and cosy feel, amplified by the soft tone of the Yorkshire stone.

As we drove, the streets changed from being empty and quiet, to busy and full. We picked our way through streets and navigated around roundabouts and onto the motorway. Despite being early, and a Sunday morning, it was unexpectedly busy. I switched on the windscreen wipers, and then increased their pace: we were reacquainting ourselves with the Manchester rain. As we climbed into the Pennines, the sky darkened as the clouds became closer. The character of the rain had changed: it had become heavy and dense. Traffic slowed, but remained constant.

“How are you driving in the rain?”

I didn’t mind driving in the rain; it’s all about being sensible. As I drove, I had a memory: I remember driving through a rainstorm between Sheffield and Manchester. I was driving on the A57, which is known as Snake Pass. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a cracked distributor cap. As I drove, rain lashed down onto the front of the car and into the bonnet. Part way across the Pennines, the rain unsettled the electrics of my car, causing it to a stop. I didn’t tell Sarah any of this; I didn’t want to worry her.

We counted down the junctions until we reached the M60 and the outskirts of Manchester. We continued to count again when we continued along the M62, heading towards Merseyside and the coast. As we approached the junction that we wanted, the rain had softened; it was less aggressive, but still persistent.

Our destination was a village called Clock Face, which is situated between Widnes and St Helens; towns I had never visited and knew nothing about. The whole area represented a gap in my geographic understanding of England. The names Bold Heath, Prescot, Huton and Newton-le-Willows meant nothing to me. I had no family connections, and no reason to visit any of them. I did, however, know someone who lived in Widnes, but she wasn’t able to meet; she was laid up in bed with a nasty cold.

We turned off the motorway, navigated a roundabout, and accelerated down unfamiliar country lanes, our windscreen wipers running constantly. I remember passing fields, rural houses and bungalows, wondering what there was to do in this area.

“This is it; this is Clock Face” I said, as we saw some signs. I couldn’t help but feel that I would have been happier if we were visiting Clock House, which is a short cycle ride away from where I live in South East London. I slowed down. Low clouds had returned. Tightly packed red brick terrace houses sat next to the road. I caught a glimpse of the Clock Face labour club; a post office, a crèche, and then a pub; the pub that bears the name of the area: ‘The Clock Face’.

We pulled into the car park and put on our jackets, and walked over to the pub. It had started to pour down with rain; car tyres hissed as they drove past. I pushed the door. I then pulled the door. It was locked. I tried another door. The pub was closed. I wasn’t happy. I hadn’t dressed for rain, and I was starting to get wet. I needed a coffee.

We got back into the car and continued along down the road, and into another area called Lea. I saw another pub that was just off a large roundabout; it looked big and cars in the car park suggested that it was open. It too was locked. Clock Face and Lea seemed to be closed for business.

Sarah had done a bit of research; a family friend (who lived close to Adlington, but a different one to the one that we visited) had told her about something called Dream; public art work that was situated very close to Clock Face. The only thing to do around Clock Face was to visit the “Dream”.

We got back into the car and started to drive back in the direction of Clock Face. As I returned to the roundabout, I saw a sign to “Dream”, our new destination. A few roundabouts later, we were at the official “Dream” parking space. It appeared we were not the only visitors; there was another couple who had also parked up, and who were armed with umbrellas.

The Dream is a twenty metre high sculpture, made of concrete, of a girl’s head. It sits within the grounds of Sutton Manor Colliery, which closed in 1991. In 2004 work began to create a wild life park and Dream was commissioned as a part of a ‘big art’ project with the intention of it becoming the park’s centre piece. Clear signposts directed us across a road and into the park and onto a footpath that took us on an undulating route past a copse of young trees. There was absolutely no sign of an industrial past, just greenery, tree and mud. The rain had turned into a cloying light mist which defeated our single umbrella.

Around a corner and up an incline, we caught our first sight of Dream. It was a striking object; its size was super human, but also relatable in the way that another big sculpture, The Angel of The North isn’t. The girl’s head had been vertically elongated, making it difficult to appreciate its proportions, creating a sense of disorientation. It stood on a formal plinth, which we stepped on and then walked across. What was once bright white concrete, mixed with marble, nearly ten years of rain had streaked the head with grey tears, emphasising the components of its construction.

I later read on the Dream website that the artist wrote: “the girl’s eyes are closed, looking inward. This is in part my homage to the miners and their dream of light when underground”. There was also a reference to the hopes of members of the local community, and the reference to their post-industrial aspirations.

I looked around. Sarah and I were the only visitors; the other couple had disappeared. We had found Clock Face, and had seen the Dream.

“Shall we go?” I asked.

Sarah’s boots were leaking. Our umbrella was broken. I wasn’t wearing a waterproof jacket, and my glasses were spotted with drizzle. I was starting to become hungry and grumpy, but I also felt something else: I had a sense of place anxiety; I felt unnerved, not just by Dream, but also by Clock Face. Perhaps this feeling came from knowing how quiet the village was, or perhaps it was just because of the rain, the dullness of the early spring light and the need to constantly accept the unfamiliar.

There was another dimension: an awareness that something had once happened in Sutton Manor, and now there was nothing; just the occasional dog walker and day tripper. I later read that Clock Face was once a colliery too. Silence now existed where once there was the constant crashing of machinery; sounds that I would never know and never hear; a sense of history passing, of a difficult-to-imagine industrial past that was, in itself, difficult to live through.

Back in the car, I had a look at the map, tried to memorise some road numbers and then set off towards Manchester. Before we found the motorway, I took a wrong turn and I found myself amidst a set of red brick terrace houses; homes for colliers. The streets were empty of people; cars sitting on sides of roads were the only sign of life.

There was another landmark; a pub called The Smithy Manor. It was derelict and forgotten; a desperate looking building guarded by high fences. I assumed it was a pub or a social club that had once had a close link with the former colliery; a physical representation of both economic and social change. My feeling of ‘place anxiety’, as I called it had returned, moments before I accelerated out of Sutton Manor, through a set of unfamiliar roundabouts, and onto the M62.

Batley

“Would you like tea?” asked our landlady. “Or, would you like coffee?” she continued, noticing slight pause in our response.

“No, tea would be fine”.

We usually drink coffee.

Our landlord, Dave, brought us two massive plates of breakfast: two sausages, two slices of bacon, beans, a fried slice, two eggs, a substantial slice of black pudding, mushrooms and tomatoes. It was quite possibly the biggest fried breakfast I had ever seen. I gave it a good go, but I wasn’t able to make much progress.

“I can tell you’re southerners; you haven’t eaten the black pudding” said Dave, who appeared to be disappointed with our progress.

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Yorkshire. We retraced our steps, going back on the M61 and onto the M60 for a second time, then picking up the M62.

The M62 is Britain’s highest motorway, traversing the Pennines, connecting Leeds, Huddersfield and Manchester. As I drove, more memories came back to me; I remember driving to university from London to Manchester with my friend Mike in an old mini.

Mike and I left home at the same time to start new lives. When I had dropped my stuff off at a halls of residence at Salford, I then drove Mike to Huddersfield University, or Poly, as it was then known, not really knowing what to expect. I remember my car struggling, the engine temperature visibly rising and a general feeling of worry. I returned to Manchester hours later, exhausted but elated. This time, there were no worries. The weather was good with no sign of rain, just hints of menace from steel grey clouds.

I asked a few colleagues whether they knew anyone who lived in Batley.

“Ah, yes… Batley; the Yorkshire Riviera” chuckled my colleague Matt when I told him about my impending trip. “You find it nestles in a set of motorways. It’s just on the edges of Cleckhuddersfax.”

“Cleg… Cleg what?”

“Cleckhuddersfax. It’s a combination of Cleckheaton, Huddersfield and Halifax. It’s like a strip of urban areas that are gradually encroaching on each other”.

None of this made any sense. I asked another colleague, James, who had moved back to Yorkshire after my office had closed whether he could give me a bit of direction.

“Honestly, I live there and I love it, but it’s hard to recommend a single thing. It’s the general feel of the place…  It’s very small town, but it is friendly and you’re never more than a short walk into what is basically the wilderness. Great beer and low prices. Most tourists go to Hebden Bridge; the entire area is basically hills and valleys with rivers and canals.”

James told me about the TransPennine ale trail. There are seven stations between Batley and Stalybridge. The idea is to catch a train between each station and have a pint in each one.

“I'd suggest doing a 'station pub crawl'” James and I have previously taken part in a world record attempt to have the biggest number of people in one pub drinking the same brand of beer at the same time.

“You could start at Batley, then go onto Dewsbury. It’s four minutes away and the station pub there is superb. Then Huddersfield and go to The Sportsman and The Grove. There is honestly nothing in Batley itself.”

We turned off the motorway and started to make our way through villages and towns with unfamiliar names like Rawfolds, Littletown and Heckmondwike. The roads were hilly, and houses and shops appeared to me as unfamiliar, having been built from light brown Yorkshire stone and brick. Our journey took us to an area called Healey, which was on the outskirts of Batley, and towards our destination, the Healey House Hotel.

The hotel was a small but grand looking building, tucked away on a side street. The reception area was professional and efficient. We were met by a hotel worker called Mary, who appeared to be spectacularly stressed.

“What is there to do around here?” asked Sarah, after enquiring about the check-in process.

Mary appeared if she was about to combust with worry.

“Nothing. I don’t know. I don’t know what there is to do around here; I’m not from Batley.”

With our room not quite ready, we decided to walk into town. I felt vaguely excited, since everything I saw was unfamiliar; the streets, the look of the houses, a deserted newsagents that served the local community, and a Fox’s biscuits factory.

We found ourselves in a quiet well-kept square that appeared to be the heart of the town. My eyes were drawn to what was an imposing Methodist chapel that exuded Georgian elegance.

“This is weird; I remember this from the TV” said Sarah. “Do you remember that MP that was killed? They did some news stories from here”. Sarah was referring to the murder of Jo Cox, a Labour MP, who was brutally stabbed by a loner who was motivated by extreme right wing beliefs. I had seen the same news stories, but didn’t recognise any of the buildings. We found a main street and rounded a corner, my eye catching a sight of a building that was clearly once a mill.

“Look!” said Sarah, pointing towards a street sign.

I looked up; a poster. The words “home rule” were written on the background of an English flag. The poster had been stuck on the rear of the street sign. We paused for a moment. I didn’t know what the poster meant, but my imagination could be easily drawn to dark places. Did it relate to the debates surrounding the European Union, or was it something darker?

I saw a quaint looking church, the church of All Saints, which sat in a court yard surrounded by spring cherry blossom. The sun was trying to come out. I saw a photographer with an expensive Nikon camera taking pictures of the trees. I wandered over to her and Sarah followed. I realised that had I been on my own, I might have come across as potentially intimidating; it was easy to talk to people when you’re a couple.

“Excuse me, do you know what places we should visit around here?” The photographer was called Susan. She was happy to talk. I got my camera out, and I confessed to having no idea about how to use it. Sensing that I was clueless, she suggested that I should set it to the automatic mode ‘to get some good settings’.

We picked our way through side streets, circumnavigating a massive Tesco, arriving back on the high street, struggling to get our bearings. I needed a coffee. Still carrying my camera, I looked up and down the street, looking for anywhere I could buy a Cappuccino, toying with the idea of heading into an ice cream parlour.

“It’s a dump isn’t it?” said a middle aged man, who wore a grey beard and scruffy jacket. By the time we realised what he had said, and wanted to know why he had said it, he was gone. Sarah and I looked at each other. I felt slightly unnerved.

We ended up in the Corner Café drinking weak and milky coffee, surrounded by pictures of kittens. As Sarah leafed through the Batley & Birstall News looking for interesting stories, I sent a message to my mate Dan.

I had met Dan at a charity conference a couple of years earlier and had discovered that he lived not too far from Batley. In passing he had offered to show us around. I looked up from my phone. Sarah was reading an advert about carpets.

“Dan’s going to be here in fifteen minutes. He’s going to give us a tour.”

Sarah’s expression suggested that she didn’t quite believe it. True to his word, Dan arrived in an expensive red Volvo with his partner Yvonne and parked directly opposite The Corner Café.

Implicitly echoing the more direct language of the middle aged stranger, Dan began by telling us that Batley was considered a deprived area. Like Adlington, its history is closely connected with the textile industry. We drove past an impressive old mill, which had been recently converted into a gym.

“What do people do here? I mean, where do they work?” asked Sarah.

“They commute to Leeds or to Manchester” replied Dan. Dan worked for a local hospital, providing IT support. He had been working in IT for the last twenty or so years. Yvonne worked in a boiler company, providing customer and engineering support.

We were driven past the huge Tesco towards the other side of the town. I looked outside of the window; the light brown bricks of the buildings remaining a novelty. Dan drove us up a street that was once clearly spectacular; station road. My eye caught sight of three storey Victorian buildings with grand architectural features, not dissimilar to the Methodist chapel that we had seen earlier. Suddenly, I saw a gap in a terrace of richness: a building was missing.

“This is Batley train station; there used to be all these other train lines that used to take wool into the town, but they’re all gone. Just behind you, there’s The Cellar Bar.”

Dan turned around, and retraced the route, took a couple of turns and we were on a road that was heading out of town.

“That’s another thing they do here; they sell cars.” said Dan, referring to the surprising number of used car lots that we had passed. “And beds. Beds are big in Batley” I later found out that there was a very good reason for the number of bed shops in Batley; bed manufacture was once a part of the industrial landscape of the town; wool, weaving and beds are intrinsically connected.

“You see over there? That’s the Frontier club. It used to be a night club, and before then, it used to be a really famous variety club where loads of famous bands played. It’s now a gym. On the corner, there’s an Italian restaurant called Zucchini’s that’s really popular. So, it’s still a place where people go” I continued to peer out of the window, registering Zucchini’s.

After a few moments, and feeling thoroughly disorientated, Dan drove on, passing a blur of bed shops and car sales rooms. We stopped a few minutes later.

“This area is called Batley Carr. Do you remember the case of Shannon Matthews?” I did; I remember it being on the news. Her mother, Karen Matthews, had pretended that Shannon had been abducted. The motivation was to try to get some ‘reward’ money when she was miraculously found. It was a story which resonated with Dan’s assertion that Batley was a deprived area.

“They found Shannon in a house just over there. She was being looked after by her uncle; they didn’t do anything to her, but she might have been drugged or something. I remember this area was filled with police cars and news vans. One thing I do remember was how the community rallied round when it was discovered she was missing; there was a real sense of community.”

We were taken to another site; a site of an old theatre.

“I remember this from when I was a kid; it used to be a grand old building, but now there’s nothing”. I looked over at a piece of land that had been boarded up. “A local comedian who used to play there.” His voice trailed off, his thoughts moving from the present to the past.

It was time to leave Batley Carr and head off to another district: Birstall, a neighbouring village that could be considered a part of ‘Greater Batley’; a notion that I understand would greatly offend those who lived there.

Sarah chatted to Yvonne about politics; in particular, the referendum.

“People would rather say who they vote for in the general election than tell you how they voted in the referendum. People just don’t talk about it” said Yvonne.

Dan parked up close to the local library. I knew where we were; we were at the second crime scene of our tour. I felt unnerved.

“This was where Jo Cox was murdered” said Dan.

Perhaps every town has its own peculiar side of darkness, but the events that took place in Birstall resonated across the country; the political debates had reached a fever pitch. War was being raged by poster and battle bus. There were images of desperate immigrants and words stripped of context, and then a member of parliament was senselessly murdered.

We were on the move again. Dan took us to his old school, which was in Birstall, where he drove around a couple of the blocks. We asked him what it was like going to school in Batley.

“I hated it; I was bullied”.

Dan told us that the school was mixed in terms of cultures, but not in genders; Batley was one of those areas that had separate boys and girls schools. Having gone to a mixed comprehensive, segregated schooling is an idea that I find baffling. The multicultural nature of Batley goes back to the 1950s when immigrants were invited as workers to work in the mills and factories.

Dan wanted to show us another part of the town: upper Batley; the part of the town where the well-heeled live. We were driven to the entrance of the Bagshaw museum.  It seemed that Mary had been mistaken: not only was there the cellar bar (and the ale trail), but there was also a museum. It was situated in a grand villa, situated on the top of a hill. Dan then drove down a residential street that gave us a view of the town and the surrounding areas. I wouldn’t say it looked pretty, but it was very green. I decided I quite liked Batley.

It was time to go. On the way back to our hotel Dan gave us a tip: if we went to the Fox’s biscuit factory before 2pm, we could get some broken biscuits from the shop. It sounded like a great tip, but we didn’t think we would be able to make it in time.

Back at the hotel, we decided what to do; Dan’s tour had opened our eyes to new possibilities; a new network of roads, and sides of the town we wouldn’t have seen without him. We decided to explore a local park and try to make it to the Bagshaw museum, and then we would cross town to go to The Cellar Bar.

Our walk took us past the Fox’s factory and towards a mill that appeared to be in the process of being redeveloped and past a garage that occupied the crumbling innards of another mill. We took a slight diversion to investigate a massive building that resembled an old hospital, before finding a path that led towards Wilton Park. It started to rain, but it wasn’t Manchester rain; we walked close to trees to try to escape the worst of it, then followed a path towards the museum.

The Bagshaw museum tells visitors the story of Batley and its immigrant population. One of the signs offers a key historical fact: “in the early nineteenth century a local man, Benjamin Law, developed a process to recycle woollen rags”. It continued: “Batley: it was a town that had sprung up … owing to the development of the rag grinding machine”. Woollen rags were ground up to create a material called shoddy.

I caught one of the museum attendants yawning expansively.

“Busy day?”

“We’ve had seven hundred people in today, it’s been really busy” He was called Steve, and a proud resident of Batley. He began to tell me about the museum, telling me that it once belonged to George Sheard, a mill owner. The house had been built on the top of the hill for a very good reason: to escape the soot, smoke and dirt that emanated from the mills below.

“I’ll take you in here…” Steve unlocked a room that was marked ‘staff only’. “Bagshaw died in this room” gesturing for us to look around. “Look up there!” Steven pointed towards the ceiling. “Copper. A copper ceiling! Can you believe that? Sheard didn’t spare any expense. In today’s money, this house would have cost him millions. He had that ceiling made just because he could”.

In 1909, the house that had cost millions was sold to the local authority for five pounds. A museum leaflet explained that Walter Bagshaw, a local businessman, asked to open one of the rooms as a museum. By the time the museum opened in 1911, three rooms were open to the public. I joined Sarah in the Bagshaw Gallery. Walls were adorned with paintings and the room contained exhibits that referenced rivalries between Batley, Birstall and nearby Dewsbury. One exhibit was about Joseph Priestley who discovered oxygen and invented soda water. Priestly had a life that began in Birstall and ended in Pennsylvania; it was an exhibit that made me realise how little I knew about the history of science.

As I wandered around, peering at black and white images, I thought about my own industrial heritage. Whilst my roots do not lie in Yorkshire, I started to question how they might be connected to the industrial revolution.

It was time to go. Steve came looking for us. He discovered us playing with Punch and Judy puppets on the first floor. We put the puppets down, wandered through the final galleries and back on the street.

“Where you going to now?” We told him that we were going to The Cellar Bar. “You be careful! The beer up here is stronger than the beer down south!”

The Cellar bar was different to how I had imagined it. James’s talk of it being a ‘real ale’ pub had generated images of barrels of beer stocked behind the bar. Instead, there were six or so beers on draught. To add to a deadening feeling, loud rock music was pumping from speakers in every corner. Despite a challenging ambiance and the fact that it was nowhere near the town centre, it appeared to be relatively popular; there was a constant stream of visitors.

A young couple, Mark and Nicole, who were on a night out, sat down next to us. I asked them what there is to do in Batley.

“I would go to Leeds if I were you; there’s more to do there. There is this thing called the ale trail…”

Mark’s job was delivering Fox’s biscuits in a van. They were visiting Batley for the night because there was nothing to do in Dewsbury. We asked them about places to eat: there was an Indian restaurant called LaLa’s, or Zucchini’s, the Italian that Dan had spoken about. I called Zucchini’s, but it was all booked up. Nicole had another suggestion: a club called Legends; a club dedicated to tribute acts.

Two pints later, we staggered down the hill, took a couple of left turns and found our way into LaLa’s. LaLa’s restaurant had a dark interior, some unfathomable monochrome abstract art work and the biggest chandelier I had ever seen in my life, all housed in a building that architecturally resembled a used car show room. The service was dramatic; naan breads were dangled vertically from naan bread dangling devices, and waiters were immaculately dressed and faultlessly polite. The food was excellent.

“Do you want to go to Legends?” asked Sarah, offering me a challenge.

“Would you like to go to Legends?”

We didn’t go to Legends.

For the second night in a row, I felt old. Fresh air, novelty, hills, rain, beer and food had all taken their toll. It was time to find our way through slightly familiar streets to the Healey House Hotel.

After I returned home, I gave my Dad a ring. He asked me what I had been getting up to. I told him I had been to Batley.

“You’ve been to Batley?” he replied, sounding confused, since I had no good reason to go to Batley.
I asked him whether he knows that part of the UK. It turned out he did. “We had a night out there once. “Me and your mum, and Jenny and Albert”. Albert and Jenny were a couple that my parents used to know when they were younger. I couldn’t quite believe that my Dad had been on a double date to Batley with Jenny and Albert, and I never knew about this. But then why would I? The opportunity to discuss either double dating or Batley had never arisen.

“We went to this club, a variety club to see a band. It was really famous, back in the day. Morecombe and Wise, and Shirley Bassey played there. I can’t remember who we went to see.” I asked him whether he had been drinking. “Yes, I might have had a few, and that’s why I can’t remember. Your mum was there, she might know, but I don’t think she does. I remember Albert dancing and this woman coming up to me; it was quite funny. She was drunk, and she said to me ‘I’ve got a man! I’ve got a man!’ I think it was a bus trip from Scunthorpe. Yes, that was it; it was a bus trip.”

I later realised that my Dad had been to the Frontier Club; the club that had become a gym; the club next to Zucchini’s.

Batley was full of surprises. I now know where my biscuits are made. I also know where to go to in Yorkshire if I need either a bed or a used car.

Adlington

We caught the nine fifteen from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly; I had booked the train tickets and Sarah, the accommodation. As the train set off I started to wonder what I was doing and where this whole adventure would lead. I hoped that it would ‘shake up’ my hidden perceptions and challenge some of my prejudices. I was also mindful that I needed to be bold; I wasn’t as good at talking to people as I would like to be, and what really matters isn’t place, but people.

I felt a hint of excitement as the train passed old mills and drew into Piccadilly. Manchester was a city that I used to know, having studied there as a student in the late 1990s. The station had changed; it had been thoroughly remodeled. Another change was that some of the derelict Victorian buildings that has always been visible from the station had been renovated. There was, however, one constant that hadn’t changed, and that was the rain: we were met with a consistent dull drizzle.

“Where are you going this weekend?” asked Steve, the chirpy car hire assistant.

“Just heading to the north a bit” I replied, not really wanting to give away the real reason.

“Would you like some extra insurance to cover the cost of the one thousand pound excess? The excess is one thousand pounds which has to be paid if there’s an accident, irrespective of fault. It’s the Easter bank holiday, and there are a lot of people driving about. Shall I put this on for you?”

After Steve had sold me the extra insurance, he gave me a handful of mini chocolate eggs. Each tiny egg had cost me ten pounds each.

Sarah had planned well. She had come armed with a set of AA route finder printouts for each stage of our first trip. Within fifteen minutes of picking up our hire car, she had navigated our way through the A57 and onto the M602. Our route was pretty simple: find the Manchester orbital motorway, find the M62 which heads towards Preston, and then join the A6 heading north.

“Have you been to Preston? What is it famous for?” Sarah asked, noticing the motorway sign.

“A nuclear research establishment.”

“You been there?”

“Just once.”

“You’ve been to a nuclear research establishment?!”

“No, sorry… to Preston, not the nuclear research establishment in Preston”.

I didn’t really want to walk about Preston; I was more interested in getting to Adlington, but I did once receive a postcard of Preston bus station from an ex-girlfriend. The bus station is a brutalist concrete monstrosity which is now a listed building.

“This is the countryside!” said Sarah, looking out of the window.

She was right; we had turned off the motorway and could see fields. The road started to gently undulate and the Manchester rain had eased up.

Adlington sits between the village of Blackrod and the town of Chorley. Further south was the town of Bolton. Our destination was The White Bear Inn which was located on the A6. It was easy to find; I pulled up, parked and we wandered over to the entrance to check in. It was the kind of pub that I liked: traditional, simple and without any pretense.

Our room was the second smallest bed and breakfast room I had ever stopped in (the smallest being a room in Milton Keynes which had been converted from a cupboard); it had purple satin sheets, and a view of a deserted car park and a set of overflowing bins.

With our bags deposited and the hire car safely parked, we began to explore what Adlington had to offer. We crossed the road, passed a line of terrace houses, and immediately found ourselves on the outskirts of the town. We were opposite what appeared to be a large factory: Pincroft Dyeing and Printing Co. I later discovered that its website proudly declaimed that it was “one of the most modern bleaching, dyeing, printing and finishing facilities in the world.” It also said that millions of Euros had been invested into state of the art machinery.

Something caught Sarah’s eye. It was a street sign close to the entrance of the factory with the words: “Bolton, a great place to shop.” The letters for the word ‘great’ had been removed.

We paused, looked around, and started to make our way back into the town, via Helen’s shop which sold motorcycle clothing, and specialised in making custom leatherwear for bikers.

“What is there to do in Adlington?” I asked Helen.

“There’s not much around here, especially on a bank holiday. You could go shopping if you like doing that kind of thing. There’s the Macron Stadium, which isn’t too far. It’s up by the Middlebrook retail park, if you know that? It’s just down the road. Or, you could go shopping in Bolton.” Sarah and I looked at each other. Neither of us liked shopping. “There’s some pubs down that end of town, but some of them have been closed now. There’s a place called Rivington which is a couple of miles away; it’s a place where bikers go”

Sarah started to ask questions about Rivington, but I wasn’t as keen; I was impatient: we were in Adlington to discover what Adlington has to offer - we were not there to discover places that were better or more attractive than Adlington. I soon realised that my dogmatism and mild grumpiness could be blamed on the weather; if Adlington people visit Rivington, then we too must go to Rivington.

We said goodbye to Helen and wandered up the road and past our B&B, and soon discovered a picturesque marina. Row upon row of narrow boat and barge sat silently next to each other. The only sign of occupation was the smell of wood smoke coming from a fire on one of the boats.

I have never personally seen the attraction of a narrow boat, but that might be down to the fact that I can’t swim. My mate Dave nearly bought one, but then he realised he would mostly be spending a lot of his time living in Milton Keynes. Living in a narrow board in Milton Keynes in the middle of winter sounded like the very definition of 'miserable'.

As we wandered around, it started to rain yet again. We opened and closed doors and returned to the road and found shelter in one of Adlington’s pubs: The Bridge Inn.

“That’s what we’re doing tonight” Sarah pointed to a sign: Steve’s Karaoke.

“Is the karaoke on tonight?” I asked the landlady. The pub had gone very quiet. All seven of the local drinkers were looking at us both. We ordered a couple of half pints, and went to find a seat. We had the whole wing of the pub to ourselves.

“So, what do you think?” asked Sarah.

“What, of Adlington?”

“Yes”

“Well, it’s alright, isn’t it?”

By the time we left, The Bridge Inn had a single drinker. He eyed us up suspiciously as we said goodbye to the landlady.

It was time to explore other end of the town. We walked past the railway station and continued along the road. A café was closed, but a sweet shop called ‘The Grubber’ was open. We went inside. It was an old fashioned sweet shop, with jars of sweets that sat on high shelving, away from troublesome children. There was a simple serving counter with a large set of scales. I needed to buy something, but was paralysed by choice: should it be sherbet pips, or some of those menthol sweets? How about some mints? I made a choice: aniseed balls. I hadn’t had aniseed balls for years. I wondered whether they still tasted the same.

I asked the owner, Liz, what there was to do in Adlington. She appeared to be confused and asked us what we were doing there. We said we had just picked Adlington from a list of place names.

“You’ve come from London all the way to Adlington?!” Liz was incredulous. “What part of London?” she asked; the tables were turned: the questioner was now being questioned. Liz used to live in London for a while, living in the east end and working in the middle of the city.

Liz gave us some tips: “Head up the road, there’s a pub called the ‘Top Spinners’. If you continue up the hill, you’ll find another pub called the Bay Horse Inn, which serves good food. Actually, the walk up the hill is a bit like a tradition.” Liz gave us a raffle ticket, and told us to check the shop website to see if we win: the prize was ten pounds worth of sweets; it struck me as a great marketing idea.

We found the Bay Horse Inn, and then continued to wander to the outskirts of the town until our eyes caught a glimpse of another sign. It read: Beer Festival – please park carefully! The festival appeared to be in the next village, and the sign seemed to be entirely aimed at the population of Adlington.

We followed the sign and wandered onto a narrow country road, with no pavements, situated amidst rolling hills. The nearby fields were an unfamiliar green due to the ever present rain. In the distance we could see some kind of gazebo, which we figured was the festival.

The gazebo was accompanied by a huge tent that was set in the gardens of a packed pub, the Yew Tree Inn. New drinkers were arriving, and others were leaving, to visit a pair of portaloos that had been installed in a discrete part of the car park. The tent was humid and noisy; drinkers were holding plastic pint glasses. Kids were standing or sitting, appearing visibly baffled at the weird things that adults choose to do.

“What would you like?” I asked Sarah, after giving her a beer menu.

“I’ll have Fanny’s Bramble”

Armed with drinks (I had opted for the Dark Mild), we wandered around for a place to sit before choosing to loiter at table that had a good view of the exit; a place where we could watch all the comings and goings.

“You should have seen the advert!” said a middle aged woman, who was drinking a coke. “They said it was like an Indian Tee Pee and there would be some live music! It’s nothing like an Indian Tee Pee, and that’s not live music!”

“It was recorded live…” I said, trying to be witty and clever.

We were chatting to Dee, Rebecca and Emma.

“You mean, you’ve come all the way to London to Adlington? What part of London?”

Emma was Rebecca's daughter; she may have also been drinking Fanny’s Bramble. They had all travelled to the beer festival from Horwich, a village that was just down the road from Rivington. Emma used to be a student in London but was now studying at Newcastle University and had returned home for the Easter holidays. Being all thoroughly middle class we chatted about shocking house prices and the challenges of living in a big city.

By the time we had finished our drinks, it had started to rain again. It was time to go; we didn’t want to be lurching about on an unfamiliar road in the darkness dodging drunk drivers. Besides, we needed to get something to eat. The Bay Horse Inn was still packed, and didn’t appear to be serving any food, so we continued to The Retreat, which Liz had recommended.

The Retreat was an impressive looking restaurant. Its defining feature was that it was in a converted church. The inside was cavernous, and we were ushered to a table that sat on a balcony, overlooking an expansive ground flood dining area. It also had the biggest menu I have ever seen. It had everything: posh meals, fish and chips, and an impressive choice of pizzas. Plus, it was busy. This was clearly the place to visit for a night out. We were surrounded by families and young couples on dates. Although it was perfectly pleasant, I couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable; it felt as if it was trying too hard to be too upmarket.

It was time for some entertainment. We had a choice: karaoke, or a visit to The Top Spinners to hear a singer called Linda Jennings who had been on the TV talent show, The Voice. We opted for the singer.

Linda J, as she was known, was clearly the toast of the town, and had secured a regular Saturday night spot that the Spinners. It was packed, hot, and noisy; the polar opposite of The Bridge; all seats to witness the talent that was Linda J were taken, so we beat a path to the opposite end of the pub that was mercifully quiet. As Linda J belted out covers, Sarah and I chatted. Half way through our pints, a torso appeared within our part of the pub.

“I told you to move away from her once, haven’t I?! I’ve told you once, and you didn’t do it!”

There was some pushing; two lads were getting involved in what could be loosely described as a fracas; it appeared that Linda J wasn’t the only entertainment for the night. The landlord made his way to the other side of the bar, there was more shouting, followed by opening and closing of doors. The troublemaker was asked to leave. Linda J, the consummate professional, continued to sing.

“Do you want to go to karaoke?” asked Sarah.

I shook my head. Adlington had tired me out. The rain, northern hills, and Dark Mild had all taken their toll. Had I been ten years younger I might have been up for it. As it happened, I had already noted down a list of songs I could have asked for: Day Dream Believer by the Monkees, Park Life by Blur and Sit Down by James. I do enjoy a karaoke session, but I could barely think.

We wandered back through empty streets to The White Bear Inn, catching a glimpse of another Adlington landmark: St Paul’s Church. We had both expected The Bear to be filled with raucous drinkers, but it was surprisingly quiet. A few drinkers were quietly chatting; others were watching the television. We slipped into the accommodation quarters, unnoticed.

“What do you think? Would you like to move to Adlington?” asked Sarah.

I thought for a moment.

“I’ll have to see what Batley is like first” I replied.

Introduction

It’s Monday morning. It’s cold and dark and I’m standing on a railway station platform in South East London. I’m surrounded by commuters who, like me, are standing in a spot where the train doors will be. Two minutes go by. I look to the right and catch a glimpse of some lights; the train is approaching.

I start to strip off. My gloves, hat and scarf all go into my bag. I take off my jacket, carefully putting my headphones into my inside pocket, quickly remove my jumper and put that in my bag too, and then put my jacket back on again. I stuff earphones in my ears, press a few buttons and find a track that is vaguely relaxing. The train doors open. The train is packed. Two people get off, but fifteen try to get on.

“Move along the carriage please…” I shout; my voice offering more of a hopeful encouragement than a positive instruction. Smart people wearing suits look around. There is some sighing. Some bags and cases are picked up and some shuffling begins. I step onto the carriage and find a space for myself between the door and a hand rail. My glasses start to steam up, so I move them down my nose, making the world blurry and softer. Strong cologne emanates from the tall man next to me who staring intently into his phone. There is the acrid scent of cheap deodorant, which could be coming from anywhere. I become increasingly familiar with the location of my body; an elbow could end up in someone’s ribs or back. I’m conscious of my breath touching a stranger’s cheek.

I remember when I started this journey; my first experience of the rush hour. There were so many people that I couldn’t see the door, but I needed to. A fellow passenger, tired from a day’s work sensed my panic and saw that I was getting ready to get up, to try to find an impossible place by the exit.

“Don’t bother, mate. You’re not coming over here”

His expression said: sit down, calm down, and stop it. I knew he was right. I pulled my laptop bag to my chest and looked out of the window, and wondered whether I had made a huge mistake moving to Lewisham.

My work situation is now very different; my contract has changed. I don’t have to live in Lewisham anymore since the office where I used to work has now closed due to cost cutting and restructuring. I’m now a ‘designated home worker’. In fact, I could live just about anywhere in Britain providing that the senior management agree; all I need is a high speed internet connection. The only condition is that I need to be able to visit the head office which is in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire. I have colleagues who travel from the West Country, the Isle of Wight and even Northern Ireland.

Lewisham to Milton Keynes is a bit of a trek. It takes around two and a half hours door to door. I begin with a train to London Bridge or Charing Cross, a tube to Euston, a train from Euston to Milton Keynes, and a bus to the office. It’s draining. If you miss one connection, you can get into a transport tangle of unfamiliar times. The worst part of the journey is always the first train journey, especially in rush hour. In summer, you sweat. In winter you freeze, and then you sweat.

Two months after my office had closed, I stood on a packed train from London Bridge and asked myself a simple question: ‘should I move?’ Even though I have lived in a number of different places, I couldn’t answer this question because I didn’t know where I might want to move to.

Even though a rush hour commute was hot, crowded and stressful, I loved my new neighbourhood. I loved that there was a park just around the corner from my flat and that I’m on nodding terms with the chap who runs the Malaysian and Thai takeaway, and that I’m a short distance away from all the hustle and bustle that London has to offer.

One evening, I said to my girlfriend, Sarah, that I sometimes wondered whether I should move out of the city. Was there somewhere else to live that could be better?

“Where would you go?” asked Sarah.

“I have no idea… I really like where I am, but sometimes I wonder whether there is somewhere better.”

In some respects, Sarah and I were opposites. I was born in the East Midlands and had come to London as a child because of my parents’ search for work. Sarah, on the other hand, had been born in London, but her parents had moved to Manchester.

“Better than Lewisham?” she asked, gently teasing. Sarah lived in North London.

“I know! Its crazy talk, isn’t it?”

I’ve lived in Brighton, Norfolk, West Sussex, Cambridgeshire, Manchester, different parts of Essex and three entirely different parts of London. Sarah, on the other hand had lived in Leeds, Paris, Berlin, Prague and Guatemala City.

“I don’t really know this country as well as I feel I should.”

We had two reasons to begin to explore: I wanted to find out whether there was somewhere that was better, and Sarah wanted to explore Britain.

“Perhaps we could do, like, an A to Z… You know, go through the alphabet, going to different places that begins with that letter, like you suggested with restaurants?”

I had told Sarah about a friend of mine who had done a culinary tour of London. It was a great and simple idea: go through the letters of the alphabet. For each letter, you choose a name of a country. You then visit a restaurant serving the cuisine of that country. Sarah and I got as far as Argentina.

I stopped for a moment to think.

“So, how do you choose a place? And…, do we just choose town, or cities, or what?”

“I don’t know. There’s got to be a list somewhere.”

We soon figured out a methodology. The online encyclopedia Wikipedia had a list of UK place names. We would then take that list and put it into an Excel spreadsheet. I then figured out how to write a very simple formula to choose one place name out of all of the place names for a particular letter. We also decided on a number of rules: the place had to be a distinct town, city or village, but couldn’t be a district or a place that isn’t a defined settlement.

One we had chosen a place, we had to go there to get a feel for what it was all about; we should do our best to speak to locals to find out what there is to do there and what it might be like to live there. I should ask the question: could I live here?

There was another reason why we wanted to do this; a joint reason: a sense of being alienated from our own country. The referendum about the UK’s membership of the European Union and the accompanying debates have offended my liberal sensibilities; I am a remainer, and I’m struck by how the UK has been divided and how the country has voted.

London is a remain city, but the town where I am originally from sits within a leave constituency. A key question is: how different are places within the UK? Also, what is the extent of that difference? Randomness is a way to sample that difference and a simple way to begin to understand more about the country in which I inhabit.

“Okay, so that’s all the A’s in the spreadsheet. I think this formula should work now. Do you want to press the return button?”

Sarah hit return.

We got a number which represented the row number of the place that we were going to visit. I scrolled up.

“Adlington. We’re going to Adlington.”

“Where’s that?”

“I have no idea”.