Canal Journey

Yesterday, I had an unsolicited call from Sheila, one of the receptionists at my doctor’s practice. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “You’re on a list the doctor gave me. I just need to ask whether you are having any problems with your memory?” I was tempted to reply, “None that I can recall,” but that would have been glib and callous considering the NHS is doing its best to pick up early-stage dementia. So, I just said that I had none and thanked her for enquiring. Anyway, I don’t know where the line is drawn: they say that memory plays tricks on you; that it is subjective; that you remember only what strikes you at the time as being important.

I distinctly remember, for example, being impressed the first time I saw the 1957 film The Forbidden Planet, but when it reappeared at a local cinema last week and I had the opportunity to re-visit the experience, I realised that all I remembered were the spectacular (for the time) special effects. The cheesy romance between the Captain and the only female on the planet made no impression on me, although this could be explained by the fact that I was just a boy – assuming I was when I saw it: I can’t remember. Anyhow, notwithstanding Hollywood’s schmaltzy intervention in the plot, I marvelled then at the writer’s vision of the future and thought that the ability to visualise it was akin to clairvoyance. Now, however, I would attribute it to imagination, alloyed with an understanding of science and a degree of historical knowledge, all used to extrapolate what the future might look like.

Last Sunday morning, I took a recreational walk, not on the hills or heathlands, nor through the country lanes and muddy, rural tracks, but in the city. I followed a canal, from its terminus in the centre of Manchester towards the satellite town of Rochdale. I walked only a few miles, but how stimulating they were – and in more than a physical sense. They gave me a glimpse of a continuum of social change – past, present and future. The starting point was an artisanal bakery overlooking the renovated canal basins, where ducks float among the houseboats and people stroll with their dogs around a patch of newly-established park. I fortified myself with one of their big fat croissants and coffee made from locally roasted beans before setting off. The people who once worked in this former transport hub lived nearby in slums long-since demolished. When the railways made the canals redundant, the land around them lost value and was colonised by light-industrial buildings. But, with business now concentrated in the service sector and conducted elsewhere, the last cling-ons have been cleared and the land given over to a master-plan of high-density, high-cost, inner-city housing. The canals have been restored, cleaned up and re-purposed for leisure.

It doesn’t take long, however, to walk out of latte land and into a brown-field development of 1990s houses built for families. Here, the style is traditional but with modern touches and the canal has been adopted as a valuable feature, its banks grassy and cherished. Further on, you come to 1980s houses, their backs turned towards the canal, 19^th century-style, and interspersed with remaining industrial units. Keep going and the houses get older and shabbier. Further still and they become grand, reflecting the exodus of the Victorian middle classes from the polluted core of the city. I was reminded of the concentric rings of a tree trunk, each one capable of storing information about its heritage, except that these rings are apt to time-travel.

Overall, however, the current trend is clear: people are moving back into the city. I hope the town-planners – if there are any remaining – will extrapolate wisely and make suitable provision for all the newcomers, especially in healthcare. I don’t want Sheila to be too busy to phone me again next year.