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My life, I realise suddenly, is July
Last Thursday it was St Andrews… this Thursday is Carlisle.
Out of the door in search of the River Eden. As I ran down the dirty terraced streets, my quest didn’t bode well, but slowly, street after street, the skies began to open and the horizon spread. As hope began to build I turned a corner and there before me, stretched out like the Roman garrisons of old, was Hadrian’s Wall path, shining like a beacon in the rain.
In the passing of a moment, I was out of the urban sprawl and into grassy meadows, running along the winding banks of a meandering river, slipping quietly past cows and river folk enjoying the selfish hours before nightfall.
Ahead of me was a mighty stone bridge complete with the distant roar of traffic; a quick foray through the river gardens, teasing me with their colours and richness, and I was back into the evening rush hour… streets paved with forlorn hopes and failed promises. Kids covered in tattoos and fat ear rings, calling out names as I shuffled past. Betting shops and all you can eat restaurants sitting alongside outdoor shops for those who know little of adventure, and the hotels full of visitors who didn’t understand when they booked.
This is Carlisle, a city born of greatness, serving the forts of Hadrian’s Wall and reaping the rewards of the textile revolution, but like a big brother who was the jewel in the family crown as a youngster, he finds himself today mopping the floors and wiping the tables of The Lake District he's forced to serve.
It is both beautiful and damaged, yet a strangely compelling place. A real place, warts and all.
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My life, I realise suddenly, is July
