Coventry

Coventry Cathedral - old and new

Coventry was the epitome of modern Britain in the 1960's. The centre of the booming car industry with Triumph, Rover, Daimler, Hillman, Humber, Jaguar, Land Rover and Riley just some of the local industries. It had been devastated by wartime bombing but had been redeveloped with panache. The new cathedral was celebrated across the UK as a distinctive symbol of regeneration and reconciliation. Francis Amos, the Director of Planning, guided the modernisation of the city and was regarded as the inspiration behind much of the redevelopment before moving to Liverpool.

Coventry had the best rugby team in England, a grammar school that would be classed as outstanding by Ofsted had it been operating then. In the late 1960's Lanchester College in Coventry was one of the top venues for bands, even the supergroup Cream played their first gig at Lanchester and most of the top artists played there during the era of progressive rock.

The collapse of the car industry in the late 1970's was the beginning of Coventry's long decline as one of Britain's coolest cities. Coventry was poleaxed by the economic policies of the Thatcher years and this was most famously captured in the sublime song Ghost Town by the two tone group, the Specials. The lyrics by Gerry Dammers, educated at Lanchester College, summed up the devastation of industrial decline that afflicted much of urban Britain leading to copycat riots in the summer of 1981. The haunting trombone and reggae beat made it a number 1 hit and it was voted record of the year by all the musical journals.

This town (town) is coming like a ghost town
All the clubs have been closed down
This place (town) is coming like a ghost town
Bands won't play no more
Too much fighting on the dance floor

Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town?
We danced and sang, and the music played in a de boomtown

This town (town) is coming like a ghost town
Why must the youth fight against themselves?
Government leaving the youth on the shelf
This place (town) is coming like a ghost town
No job to be found in this country
Can't go on no more
The people getting angry

I hadn't visited Coventry until I met my wife who had been brought up there by her Scottish parents. I passed through it in the 1990's on regular trips to Warwick University but we have seldom been back since. On the drive back from London at the weekend we decided to pay our respects. We visited her old family home close to the War Memorial park and then drove to the centre where it was easy to find parking in the shopping centre, which was bustling with weekend shoppers.

Like so much else the centre had been redeveloped but the Lady Godiva statue remains in the centre of the square, a symbol of childhood shopping trips. We visited the Holy Trinity Parish church and the cathedral. The first time she was taken to the cathedral by her mother, she recalled looking through the great glass screen etched with angels; it brought tears for fond remembered times. On our tour round the cathedral we ran into the Canon and were greeted with kindness and enjoyed a lively conversation about the part that the cathedral had played in reconciliation, not only with Germany but with troubled communities around the world. She encouraged us to use the charitable cafe for a fine healthy lunch before continuing our journey north.

We had been pleased that there seemed to be a new energy around the University of Coventry, the latest incarnation of Lanchester College. It enjoys a growing reputation and Coventry seems to be on the mend; recent figures show that the West Midlands is beginning to enjoy a revival as jobs prospects have improved and Londoners search for affordable housing. We returned to the M6 and survived a journey home with no hold ups until reaching the never ending congestion on the M74 leading into Glasgow.

Lady Godiva in Broadgate

War memorial park

Born in 1948, a good year all round

Coventry Cathedral Tapestry

Angels on the great glass screen

Ruins of the old cathedral

Pop Brixton

Brixton - a strapline that works

Entrance to Pop Brixton, a business park in recycled containers

Pop Brixton - big screen outdoor events venue

Diverse, dynamic, digital businesses

With added beers

Celebrating Universal heroes

Challenging Network Rail over gentrification of the arches

Graffiti that wakes you up

My hero is in the buggy

We normally arrive in Brixton by tube and emerge to the sound of Caribbean drumming, the streets are chock full with people of all ages and ethnicities as they bustle their way to homes, shops and the huge range of venues, cafes, bars and businesses that abound in this vibrant epicentre of London's diversity. This time we had driven down by car to deliver a bike and other paraphernalia to our offspring. The next day we travelled by tube and came face to face with the massive statement over the underground concourse - "Not Them, Only Us". For once it was a tagline that seemed to bear some relevance to the reality of the place. Brixton is such a curious mixture of communities, buildings, cultures and money that conspires a creative street sure purpose amongst its residents.

It includes Papas Park, a children's playground on a bit of waste ground that is run by community volunteers (time philanthropists) and is usually alive with children, parents and grandparents seeking fun and friendship in the heart of Brixton. The Council have recently indicated that they will no longer be able to fund the park so a campaign to find alternative funding is starting up. The whole area is buzzing with new developments as it has become one of the sought after locations in London in recent years. Its position at the terminus of the Victoria underground line means there is a tube every 2 minutes to central London, which is reached in 15 minutes. There are big event venues like the O2, a stupendous array of eateries, good parks, outstanding schools, a thriving local cinema, library and bus services in all directions.

There are downsides too, like the main shopping street being the most polluted in London after Oxford Street, a high proportion of people on the breadline living in crowded or poor accommodation. It has a high profile police presence that creates tension with speeding cars and noisy sirens that are evident 24/7. It is on the flight path to Heathrow airport, and despite a night flight limit of 5800 landings and takeoffs a year is still enough to disturb sleep for hundreds of thousands of people in this corridor of south London. Network Rail has decided to cash in on the arches below the overground lines and dozens of small businesses are being evicted to allow upgrading the arches to generate a higher rental income. Some of the large murals made it clear how much this was despised by the existing community that has been nurtured in the dilapidated old buildings of Brixton. It is gratuitous urban gentrification in the beating heart of Brixton that focuses on the markets and independent shops that cluster around the underground station and Electric Avenue.

Nearby a new business park has been created by the simple expedient of stacking containers on two levels to create an intimate environment for new businesses to thrive. Being Brixton there are cafes offering cuisines from all parts of the world as well as local craft beers and a smattering of new technology businesses. A large space has been created between some containers for local concerts and an outdoor sports pitch doubles as a venue for big screen events. It had been the perfect place to watch European football and the Olympics in the summer. The whole place had a collective vibe that is multicultural, relaxed and edgy; just like Brixton village.

The streets are full of indigenous graffiti. Alongside Bob Marley painted on the shutters of a lock up street stall are dramatic cartoons of gaming characters. We ate at the Ritzy cinema, listened to the street musicians and observed the building of a new Council HQ being built along with lots of social housing next to the existing town hall. Lambeth will be closing all its other offices once the new building opens. I spent quite a bit of time wheeling our grandson round the streets and posed him as my hero in front of David Bowie, who had been just another celebrated Brixton resident.

Norfolk

Wells, there will always be an England

It has been a long time since I last visited Norfolk on a university field trip to Cromer in 1968 when the highlight was an afternoon spent sheltering in a haystack with my friend, Sue, during a thunderstorm. As a six-year-old during a holiday with my cousins in King's Lynn, my lasting memory was a day on the beach at Wells-next-the-sea. My Uncle Jack, a test pilot for the Canberra bomber, had raced away in his car with Auntie June and my four cousins. My Dad had mainly driven jeeps during the war and could not keep up in our hire car. Uncle Jack picked up yet another speeding ticket on his journey home, he could have papered the living room with them.

This trip was to visit a cousin of Aileen whom I never met but who had helped her with a family history project. We had made rapid progress down from Yorkshire through the flat farmlands of Lincolnshire to the Wash, the Brexit heartlands, and on to King's Lynn. The September heatwave in the south gave us a warm welcome and the entire population of eastern England seemed to be on the road to Hunstanton and the north Norfolk coast. It was nose-to-tail traffic and our hope of a late pub lunch faded as the clocks made faster progress than the vehicles. Hunstanton had lost its fabled charm and was another seaside resort with all the usual embellishments of fast food outlets, pleasure rides, continuous kerbside parking along the promenade and tawdry-looking guest houses. Despite the splendid sea cliffs, there was no temptation to stop in the town; the streets were crowded, a haar was hanging over the coast and the sea looked the colour of elephant's breath.

We continued along the coast road through attractive villages such as Titchwell and Brancaster. Well-maintained houses were built of flint and brick; a large percentage looked like retirement homes. The pubs had stopped serving food but the consequence was a chance encounter with the boat park at Brancaster Staithe, where we happened upon the Crab Hut, a local food outlet that sold fresh crab baguettes and a mug of tea for £4. What a bargain and then a chance to mosey around the sailing boats and observe the muddy banks draining towards Mow Creek. The haar was restricting visibility, creating a cool belt of weather next to the sea and giving the day an eerie feel.  The lady in the crab hut told me that the haar would stretch to Wells-next-the-sea, which was my intended destination for a stroll through the pine trees onto the beach.

I was tempted to stop at Holkham Hall until I figured out that it was a cash cow for the owners who seemed to have obtained first dibs at UK and European conservation grants, and topped up this income stream with car parking fees for access to the beaches as well as pricey entrance charges. They then claimed the credit for preserving and providing activities through renting buildings and land for various commercial ventures to entice yet more visitors. We continued to Wells and parked by the sea but even here the land was owned by Holkham Hall with parking charges so high that they would be an embarrassment to most city councils. We had little choice but to fill their coffers in order to walk through the pine trees to the wonderful Wells beach.

The sun had broken through the haar and the beach was buzzing in the way that English beaches buzzed. Dogs chasing balls, lines of beach huts, brightly coloured windbreaks, folding chairs, straw hats, children paddling, pensioners swimming with the current of the incoming tide, inflatable devices, artists, kites, frisbees, sand castles, flags, lifeguards but not an ice cream vendor or donkey in sight. Holkham Hall probably has the franchise on those activities and restricts them to its commercial honeypots. Nevertheless, it was a treat and we had a long walk along the beach that fronts the channel that leads to Wells. Later as the tide rushed in a few pleasure boats returned with their passengers, whilst sunbathers were retreating to their beach huts as we exited the beach.

Our last leg for the day took us south and into the searing evening heat, 26°C, as we drove through Fakenham and Swaffham to a B&B in the village of Great Cressingham. It was a tranquil village with a pub on the outskirts, a school, a community centre and little else. We indulged ourselves in the pub and cursed the dubious online reviews of the B&B that had few endearing features. Its low beams almost decapitated me on return from the pub and the owner had all the characteristics of a small businessman with a cravat and associated prejudices.

The next day was spent on the catch-up with Aileen's cousin Colin and his wife Viv. He was a retired policeman who had good values believing strongly in community policing and protecting wildlife against the poachers and gamekeepers. It was fascinating to watch and hear two cousins rediscover their common past and share their stories of the intervening years. We went for a pub lunch as the thunderstorms marked the end of the heatwave in Norfolk. Everyone seemed keen to tell us that it was the hottest September on record, given global warming this could be a warning for East Anglia as it slowly sinks into the North Sea.

We drove off to Suffolk in the afternoon to stay at the village of Lavenham. It had been on the radio a couple of times in recent weeks reminding me of a night out there as a student when staying with a flatmate who hailed from Sudbury. This was before Harry Potter arrived here. The houses in Lavenham are so quaint that they are obviously exempt from building control and many had been snapped up by wealthy outsiders.  The primary school could only provide for some of the villager's children owing to the iniquities of placing requests from incomers. The hotel only took the Telegraph and Daily Mail and the local worthies at the bar cursed the Council for trying to build social rented housing. We were indeed in the heartland of Mrs May's England.

Brancaster Staithe in the Haar

Brancaster Staithe Crab Hut

Wells-next-the -sea, an artist captures the beach huts

Tory government reveals new affordable housing initiative

Wells-next-the sea

Lavenham, unaffordable housing

Harrogate

Bettys establishment

Carved memorial to the stage finish of the Tour de France in Montpellier Park 

'Keith's Choice' Dahlia in Valley Gardens

Royal Pump museum

Shrinking in blue

This solid sophisticated Yorkshire town was founded on the abundance of sulphur springs. My Yorkshire relatives who lived in the Huddersfield-Wakefield rhubarb triangle used to talk about Harrogate all the time, it was their day out of choice. Flower shows, parks, shopping and afternoon tea at Betty's. I had passed through a couple of times on the A59 on trips to Scarborough but never stopped to explore its charms. We were en route for London and decided to rectify the omission, arriving via the Yorkshire Dales and Blubberhouses moor on a blissful early autumn evening as the skies were turning from blue to pink to grey as the sun gave way to the moon.

Half an hour later we were seated in Bettys tea house, an institution that was opened in 1911 by a Swiss confectioner.  It occupies a substantial corner building at the foot of Parliament street and has the ambience of a Viennese coffee house set in the 1930's. The food was good and the clientele made us feel quite young; Harrogate is the preferred choice for retirement in Yorkshire and sells itself as the happiest town in Britain. It reminded of a ditty that a friend recited at a Burns supper when he had been asked to toast the haggis. He was from Yorkshire and explained that "we don't talk to wer food where I come from and I can't pronounce Haggis cos its got an aitch (H) in it. He then gave us a rendition of what the teacher had taught his class at school in a forlorn attempt to correct their pronunciation.

'Arry went to 'Arrogate,
'Arry lost his 'at
'Arry's mother said to 'Arry,
'Arry where's your 'at
'anging in the 'all mother,.
'anging on a 'ook'
'Arry's mother said to Arry,
Arry go and look.

He made a word perfect presentation of the toast to a haggis but it was "'Arry went to 'Arrogate" that brought he house down. He told us that a Yorkshireman that pronounces Harrogate correctly probably lives there 'cos no-one else in Yorkshire can.

Harrogate has long been a conference centre, most famously for the Lib Dems, being big enough to cater for Cyril Smith, but the large conference centre and still thriving grand hotels host a myriad of events; today it was 'Christians against Poverty' and balloons festooned the entrance stairway. We decided to tour the town centre and trooped round the victorian buildings that remain impressive and well preserved. The sumptuous gardens that encircle the centre were at the stage when the summer displays were wilting but the level of planting and imagination were still evident. The Montpellier quarter, which is dripping with antique shops, cafes and high end independent shops had yet to come to life. The museums were still closed so we walked through Valley Park, window gazed at the furniture shops and galleries before finding some good coffee in an Italian cafe, the pleasure of never using a franchised coffee chain always cheers me up.

The drive out from Harrogate was through parkland and roads lined with splendid Edwardian houses until we reached the outer suburbs that resembled any other town in England: brick boxes and a slew of modern warehouses. In no time we were on the A1(M) and passing the massive power station at Ferrybridge. There are more probably pylons in this part of Yorkshire than words in the bible.

Despite the existing devastation to the environment around Ferrybridge, I would still have preferred to see the well advanced carbon capture scheme implemented by SSE, after all Ferrybridge is/was the largest power station in the UK. The designs and pilot scheme for carbon capture had been completed but Chancellor Osborne pulled the funding. The UK could have been at the forefront of carbon capture technology that is essential as a retrofit for both coal and gas power stations; they will be the mainstay of electricity production for decades in many parts of the world. Osborne had no such reluctance to fund the French and Chinese to design, build and operate the massively expensive and controversial nuclear plant that Mrs May has now endorsed at Hinkley Point and thereafter at Sizewell and Bradwell. Once again the UK will have jettisoned its technical expertise and reputation through its adherence to economic theories that are even less sustainable than coal.

Ferrybridge Power station and pylon landscape