A Northerner in Bristol

The first thing you need to know as a country bumpkin, northerner visiting Bristol is beware of cyclists on the pavements...

...no scratch that, the first thing you need to know about Bristol if you’re visiting any time soon and by train and are staying somewhere vaguely in the direction of Clifton is that Redcliffe Bascule bridge is currently closed due to construction works so if you're walking don't bother trying to go via Queen's Square...

...as alongside the new motorised scooters that are increasingly popular in university towns and cities there is a fair chance of being run over.

As I made my way in the vague direction of Clifton, in what would end up being an hour-long route march through the city, my initial thoughts were of how incredibly absent any kind of cycling infrastructure was given the self-evident popularity of the given mode of transport.

Once I got into the city proper and up towards College Green, some cycle lanes did appear, although just like my visit to Brighton in 2019 it took me bloody ages to work out that I was walking right in the middle of one. Entirely my fault of course but the entire experience with it all made me imagine that cycling infrastructure was one of those incredibly heated and overly dramatic local political issues that would probably be quite fun to read into. You know the sort of thing, the Tories and enviro-nimbys on one side and the eco-socialists and corporate lobbyists for the electric scooters on the other and the local council with no money stood in the middle.

Moving on, regardless of if you're a country bumpkin like me or not, if you're someone who struggles with any kind of motor abilities, I would caution against going for long walks in Bristol. This typically quaint and enjoyable British city which was much less designed as it was lowly built on top of over the years has pavement surfaces which are clearly cosplaying as the hills of the Pennines and a drainage system that regularly deposits the primary features of the Lake District in front of dropped curves. It is fundamentally, an exceedingly slippery place. Even inside! Doesn’t matter if it hasn’t rained all week, Bristol seems to be experiencing a slippery pandemic which even well-gripped shoes is struggling to vaccinate.

The third immediately apparent issue a discerning, northern holiday maker will run into is the realisation that the "Rahhhh, where's my Baccy?" stereotype is not so much some cruel overstatement as it is Bristol's accent version of a Lingua-Franca. Sadly, you'll be hard pushed to catch a glimpse of that charmingly disarming Bristolian accent. In this city (at least during term time) the privileged tones of Durham's lackadaisical cousins dominate. One cannot turn a corner without being confronted by an accent so posh. At the very best, a bit of people-watching might at least prove an informative case study for how the other-half's adolescent offspring live.

Beware too to those northerners who reside in more inclined conurbations. What confidence your experience of wandering up hill and down dale might offer you in proving the more dexterous pedestrian in places like London may be undone rather quickly by this city. I admit I was quite surprised to observe that a not insignificant part of the city literally resides atop a cliff.

Which leads me on nicely to my first suggestion for something to do if you're lucky enough to find yourself with a quiet spare day during your stay. The Clifton suspension bridge is an obvious landmark and even for a vertigo sufferer like me very much worth getting up-close and personal with (even if I didn't end up walking across it). However, it was ultimately what lay beside this Victorian marvel and monument to capitalism's conquering of nature which is my suggestion for a mooch.

Hidden just next to the north-eastern side of the suspension bridge, I was lucky to find the start of a short pathway winding its way through some rocks and into some light foliage and standing proudly at the top, contraventionally observing all below it, is the Clifton Observatory. Although before exploring the building itself, you might find the surrounding remains of an Iron-Age settlement marked out by the clear but overgrown remains of some stone and earthen ramparts a curious exploration. Although little remains, a half circumnavigation of the ancient structure will lead you to an excellent observation point.

One that paints a picture better than any words even could for how utterly dramatic the path which the Avon has cut through this landscape is. I am informed that somewhere on the land within that view resides a small herd of goats so if the urge to explore further into the landscape has not yet taken you, perhaps the promise of a furry, little surprise might just be that extra pull you need.

For those less adventurous (alas like myself) a mere £5 will grant you full access to the aforementioned observatory. Whilst to thoughtless little boys like me the promise of some cave exploration might prove the most appealing, I'm afraid all that is offered below the observatory is the risk of head damage and some sweaty exercise barely offset by an underwhelming view. Alternatively, if you choose to take the stairs heading upwards, the much vaster array of information available in wall-display medium and the ultimate prize right at the top will prove by far the better experience.

I had initially zero intention of paying to see the camera obscura sitting up 3 flights of stairs as I had assumed that once you’ve seen one you've seen them all and my god have I been dragged by my nan to see a fair few camera obscuri in my time. It was however, the price increase of only £2 for a joint ticket and some nostalgic reverence for my nan's passion which had me eventually climbing up those stairs.

I was lucky, with all the anxiety I'm capable of mustering, that I was alone atop the observatory, giving me more than enough time to investigate the operation of this crude photographic device without judgement from a stranger. On entering the room, with walls painted entirely black and a large, cream-white circular basin in the centre, it took me long enough to find the latch on the door which sufficiently shut out enough light to allow the image (already barely visible due to the overcast day which a local Bristolian who later joined me smartly remarked) in the basin to become clear. This was then followed by some excellent fumbling in the dark to find the wooden pole which hung down from the ceiling and with which moving in a circular fashion would send the image from the camera swooping across the nearby landscape and finally resting on the suspension bridge itself. I don't know why, because when you deploy even a minimum amount of thought it becomes blatantly obvious, but it genuinely took me aback to see in this image projected onto the basin not just cars driving along and stopping for the toll booths but also people steadily going on their way. I had expected a still image, but was instead presented with a miniaturisation of the present, outside world. What was perhaps most special, was a solitary seagull swooping across the obscura’s view truly cementing the growing feeling of being an evil mastermind silently observing his ignorant foes and drawing plans against them. Moving the wooden pole to focus in on a couple in the state of flirtation and later a group of army cadets dutifully performing burpees only reinforced this connotation of becoming a devious villain. What made it all even better was after learning all this alone, I then had the joy of explaining the mechanism to the aforementioned Bristolian couple who was themselves visiting the attraction for the first time.

If there is to be any wider point to my experience at the Observatory, it may come from the timeline provided on one of the wall-displays which outlines how after a period of closure, the building was bought by a local gentleman in 2015 and opened to the public a few years later. Having the building as it is and not as some empty ruin is clearly the superior option but it is a sad reflection of the re-victorianisation of this country when we have to rely on philanthropists and the private sector to maintain and inform others of our local history.

Particularly when the surrounding land is at least part owned or maintained by the imperfect but far less individualistic English Heritage, to have the public’s access to this distinct monument be dependent upon the whim of a rich individual encompasses the crisis of the modern world.

Whilst it can be nice to base a day out around a specific "thing" and end up paying a not unreasonable about of cash just to do so, a more free-form day out is always appealing to me. So, on my trip to Severn Beach, I feel like I very much achieved this more adventurous style of getaway.

I confess myself very much in love with trains and the railways so the second thought I had upon realising there was a small station near my hotel (the first thought being the hope that it could provide a direct service to Temple Meads and hence relieve me of the need to slug my suitcase through central Bristol on my departure) was what sort of interesting places could this station take me too? The answer, sadly, is not many as the line performs a pseudo-metro role as a suburban line linking some of Bristol’s outer edges whilst at its greatest extent reaching Weston-Super-Mare and Severn Beach. I thought a trip to the far closer location would be the superior option, particularly as it would provide an intimate look as the Severn Bridge (a bridge that I don’t believe I've ever crossed).

Be warned that the entrance to Clifton Down station (which by all reasonable means should really be called Whiteladies station but never mind) is hidden out of view and there is a distinct lack of that classic National Rail logo. But once you’ve found it, it’s a pleasant enough place let down only by the lack of electrical signage at the entrance leaving me guessing which platform to walk down to. Logic dictated that I would need the one on the left as trains (mostly) drive on the left and that was the direction I was going in.

I popped onto the 2 carriage Class 165 which arrived 1 minute late and was instantly reminded of how vile the interior of GWR trains are. Whilst the Dark Green of their logo is perhaps too dark, the horrific highlighter-green of their seats and sharp white light they use is really quite abrasive. Northerners be warned, sitting back and relaxing is not entirely possible on these trains.

Similarly disappointing were the views. This was a route which promised to reveal from an entirely new angle the grandiose cliffs surrounding the Avon, the smooth green pastures as it nears the estuary and then a delightfully contradictive mix of port industry and wide river estuary. But amongst the over grown shrubbery and the low level of the track, very little of this is observable.

Along the route is the station of Avonmouth, which unlike Severn Beach receives 2 trains an hour (at least) as opposed to the 1 and as we slowly drew up to it, it was clear this was the stop which most people used the train for. It was then rather puzzling when as soon as the train stopped the regional equivalent of "please stand clear of the closing doors" as to indicate being about to set off was played over the PA system. The doors then failed to open at all and as the realisation that the train was about to pull away without dispensing with any passengers occurred to those gathered to depart, the guard stood next to me rushed to the rear of the train in a desperate attempt to alert the driver of the mistake. What made it all the worse for those who had missed their stop was that anyone who decided to stay on the train in the hope of joining it for its return journey didn’t realise that it sits idle at Severn Beach for half an hour.

It’s unclear to me how exactly this serious and, in my experience, quite unique mistake occurred. System failure, lack of communication between staff... act of God... who knows? But it displays quite handily just how important having guards and indeed any staff on our trains is. Even if the problem was one caused by the workers on that train it is self-evident that when problems occur, if the train is fully automated there's no one to advise passengers of the options available to them; no one to reassure those who experience difficulties when traveling. When getting onto that particular train, the gap between the platform and the train was nearly a foot high (be aware that I am a zoomer and do not understand imperial measurements lol) and entirely impossible for those in a wheelchair or even with a pram to get on. Our rail network is not built for automation so the safety risks when we lose rail staff are immeasurable.

But what of Severn Beach itself? In a peculiar way it reminds me of La Pineda in Catalonia. As I’m sat here in front of the Severn Bridge writing this, I have to my left the vast splay of port and industry with some characteristically modern wind turbines sprinkled amongst it, as if the vague abuse of the wind's potential in any way offsets whatever destructive actions are taking place there. In La Pineda (a town built almost exclusively for tourists and I imagine much like Milton Keynes is a creation of the 20th century) whilst one lazes in the warm Spanish sun, the contradiction of the vast port of Tarragona with large goods trains running up and down its piers was pleasing enough to me, although I concede not to others. Quite unlike that Catalonian resort town, Severn Beach cannot quite boast such excellent facilities.

There is a small spread of local shops and I believe a McCoys further down the road and indeed the actual river front is charming enough. Although there is barely any beach and what there is of it is exclusively pebbled, the wildlife in the grassy mudflats and the delicate curves of the sea wall and the well-kept grassy park which sits behind it offer some attraction. But I confess the grand total of 2 cafes does not quite compete with the endless restaurants of sunny seaside Spain.

As a northerner, one thought which continuously entered my head on walking from the train station to the sea wall was the comparison to Humberside. The bridge over the massive estuary being the most obvious link with its suspension-style build supporting the likeness. Although I’d say without having seen the Humber Bridge in a great many years, sight of the Severn bridge did feel quite underwhelming in comparison. The Severn’s tiny suspension elements and boring, repetitive concrete pillars feel entirely uninspired compared with the Humber’s massive suspension towers and domineering stature. Similarly, they both have cafes near their landward beginning at which one can sit and appreciate the engineering. On my way to this particular cafe, the notion took me (being as close to Wales as I was) to joke to a friend about swimming over and going to see him. Cos of course Wales is the sort of place one can walk the length of in an hour or so. It was with that notion that I spotted the estuary’s muddy surface and was reminded of a story or perhaps TV show I had seen about someone who at low tide and with a special mud-suit actually walked across Humber Estuary. Given I can’t swim very well, perhaps walking across the Severn was the better option.

A nice rest and a panini at the slightly nicer looking local cafe set me up well for a final mooch towards the Severn Bridge itself. With only 40 minutes to spare, it was best to keep atop the seawall and not struggle across the rocky beach below. On my way, a red sign post (which I assumed had some warning information on it) gave reference to some standing stones used as markers to designate land ownership and hence responsibility for sea wall maintenance in the times of feudalism. It took me a good moment however to identify to which standing stones the sign gave reference to as the sign itself had been perfectly placed to obscure my particular view of them. They were only small and numbered 49, 50 and 51. Responsibility, in this case that to keep the land at the side of the Severn from being worked away by the river, is one of those peculiar justifications often made to reinforce a particular political paradigm. The contradiction that the only reason for there being sea defences in the first case is due to the wealth resulting from there being land there at all is not lost on me. It reminds me of a discussion had in the first season of Netflix's Enola Holmes where Tewkesbury's grandmother justifies to Enola how the ownership of great swathes of previously common land and hence the exclusion of common people from it is justified as it is their duty as an aristocratic family to preserve that land and nature "Britain’s true Greatness". Of course, as is revealed very effectively by Nick Hayes’ “The book of trespass” the true function of aristocratic land ownership is that of controlling people. Through tying them to the land and limiting where they can physically go the feudal economic system maintained itself. In these small marker stone curiosities that I came across is encapsulated a conflict that has existed throughout the era of civilisation, that of between Man and Nature. Yet they also lead to further questions, about the legitimacy of the justifications we still use today for our various social structures. We know there is no truth in the historical claim that aristocratic land ownership is needed to maintain sea defences and yet we still struggle to see how within private ownership of individual businesses and our wider public services is unjustified. Private Ownership is increasingly proving itself to be not only a functional inefficiency but a cause of great downturn in the post-industrial age. The middlemen of rail franchises or business owners who derive wealth from little more than ownership of a name and a place are not necessary to the running of the given industries. The justifications we use today, take your pick, of “wealth-creators” or of creating innovation or of these people having some kind of innate right to derive wealth so passively will hopefully in the future be simple historical oddities like these little marker stones but for the time being they very much obscure us all.

This thought however, is fleeting. As I come off the tarmac path and down onto a much rougher path which goes under the bridge, I am struck by the realisation that it is (quite unlike how it preciously appeared) not a bridge that goes in a straight line but curves across the estuary and from where I’m stood hides its central suspension section behind itself. For how unimpressed I had previously been with the structure, it had now, at this stage, revealed some beauty. It was not some unimpressive, monstrous thing carving across the water. It moved with the landscape, onto the higher mud patches revealed by low tide. It compromised and I like it for that.

It was only then, however, then my stupidity was revealed. As I crested the verizon, it became immediately apparent from what I saw that I had fallen victim to a silly assumption. Blazing all in white, suspended by 2 gigantic towers which could've rivalled the Humber bridge was what was immediately, obviously the actual Severn Bridge. This monstrosity which I had been critiquing and had only just found some semblance of appreciation in, was not the titular crossing but, as a quick google maps search revealed, the Prince of Wales Bridge. An appropriately disgusting name for an appropriately disgusting bridge. The absurdity of such a thing as a Prince of Wales equalled only by the absurdity of the tiny suspension feature. Oh no, the real Severn Bridge, despite being so far from view was clearly a marvel and made only the better by the appearance of its quaint little companion bridge, identical in colour and shape but smaller to a humorous degree sat on the far side of the peninsular to which the main bridge connected. Even though I was now running a tad late for my train and had to turn back, I was justifiably pleased by this journey of revelation I had undertaken. There was now only a brisk walk back through this absurd little conurbation which sandwiched between 2 giant layers of residential sponge was the thinnest layer possible of shops and amenities. When you then consider that a not inconsiderable number of the residential buildings are not in fact actual houses but static motorhomes which seem not to be advertised for tourists but indeed for residents, the absence of any real facilities and the omnipresent need to drive to go anywhere worthwhile makes Severn Beach one of those perfect encapsulations of somewhere truly perverse and truly representative of the world we have built.

For the most part, my journey to Bristol was of a highly personal nature which I haven’t been keen to write about. So I hope I’ve been able to encapsulate the more solo experiences I’ve had and offered not just some nice tips for less expensive things to do but also revealed more relaxed style of holiday. Learning just how to holiday is something I’m still very much doing. To be singularly responsible for what you do and when is one of those curious experiences which one can only perfect by doing it over and over again. Here’s to the next getaway!

PS

I’m not sure why, but I feel compelled to explain how alongside planning for this little trip out to Severn Beaches, how I tried desperately to fit in going to a B&M at some point that day. During my 2nd year of Uni, I was pleasantly surprised by a random visit to the B&M to find that they were the exclusive vendors of the new Doctor Who action figure line. When I was little, saving up my £2 per week to go to the local Tesco and pic out either a David Tennant or Sycorax was a proper ritual. The Birthday that I got to pick the entire Cult of Skaro set left me utterly ecstatic and I regret that I don’t think I have those Daleks anymore. So, on that particular visit to B&M during September of 2020 my delight at finding not only new Doccy Who figures were available for purchase but that they had a figure of my newly favourite Classic Doctor was indescribable. Perhaps it’s the relative modernity of the 7th Doctor's era who made it so accessible to me at that time or just how utterly adorable Sofie Aldred is but I had become obsessed Mr McCoy's incarnation. So, the opportunity to own a little version of him alongside what looked like an early version of a Time War Dalek was unmissable and I made an immediate purchase. Newly out now is a set of 3 10th and 8th Doctor sets, the latter of which looks particularly interesting. But in Bristol, the only B&M near a train station would require a lengthy change at Temple Meads which I don’t have the time for today.