City Life

There’s a heat wave on and the neighbours, who have just returned from Greece, are pleased that they can continue to sport their beachwear. Not everyone is happy though: a fire is sweeping through the normally sodden moorlands north of Manchester and wind-blown smoke is spoiling barbecue parties all the way to Liverpool. Meanwhile, those of us with campervans dodge such obstacles and discover the sweetest spots in the countryside for dining al fresco. Not that I am desperate to escape the city, even in summertime: right now, I am sitting in a small, city-centre park feeling connected with the human race. A runner, passing on the adjacent road, stooped to pick up a tiny bird. It would not or could not fly so she brought it into the shrubbery for safety. One man took a photo of it. Another gave it some water in the lid of a takeaway coffee cup. “I think its nest is in that tree,” he said, pointing across the street. None of us knew what species it was, nor could we do much to help it. We are city folk, but I make no apology for that.

I thrive on the concentrated diversity and ceaseless activity of the city. The other evening, on impulse, I went to a gig at BOTW, where I spotted Toby Jones, an actor I admire. Others recognised him too and asked for a selfie, which he graciously granted, though they did not linger afterwards to talk with him. I would have liked to introduce myself but, in such situations, I am always too slow and tongue-tied. (The one occasion when I spoke up was when introduced – by a friend – to the author, Rosie Boyt, but it turned out she is shyer than a dormouse and returned only a brief, beguiling smile before shrinking away.) The gig itself was uninspiring. The ten-piece African funk group was not as exciting as I had hoped. The leading performers were two old geezers who had been big in Bulawayo in the 70s but had atrophied since then and were coasting now on a repetitive, low-energy groove. At the interval, I nodded at Toby (he looked bewildered) and slipped away to Matt & Phred’s, arriving in time to catch the first set by a group of young Turks who blew up an enthusiastic and accomplished jazz storm. And so to bed, a contented man.

The next day I pointed the van towards the Lancashire coast, intent on a couple of days of rural exploration. The campsite was near a village in the throes of its annual Scarecrow Festival, the manifestation of which was a profusion of stuffed dummies sitting, standing, leaning, or hanging outside peoples’ houses in apparent competition. Perhaps, at the culminating Scarecrows’ Ball, prizes would be awarded for dress, posture, size, wit or originality – I meant to ask but forgot. I was more interested in the notice board outside a house that advertised home-grown produce within. An old, weathered, but very sprightly woman opened the door and led me in to the enormous garden, where she pulled beetroot, broad beans and lettuce for me. “All organic,” she said and went on to elaborate on her horticultural technique and its associated lifestyle. She asked where I lived and shuddered in horror when I told her. “I couldn’t live there,” she declared. I felt it would be useless to argue the case for living in cities, so I paid the £4 that she eventually decided upon as a fair price and gave her an extra £1 for the Feral Cat Rescue Operation she runs. The experience – and the produce – was far better than shopping at Sainsbury’s Local anyway.

Meanwhile, back in the city centre park, I was studying a map of the coast path in Anglesey where, tomorrow, I will go hiking when, suddenly, the little bird recovered its composure and took flight. I must say I was happy that the creature, like me, was back in its element and, to be honest, I was pleased to be relieved of any responsibility for its future welfare.