City Life (not really)

I wish they cleaned the windows more on trains: I took the scenic route for a reason. I love the coast, I love Cumbria, but I don’t really think about it until I’m on my way out. I love being able to look out over the horizon and see Scotland, I love the salt that hangs in the air, even if it kills any potential of a snow day. I love how my town has twice as many pubs as churches, how we have about 3 Roman museums because we can’t stop digging up artifacts: like we’ve just thrown one town on top of another. You don’t really appreciate all these little quirks until you’re miles away from them. 

I’m strangely aware when I’m at uni how far I am from the sea, Morecambe is my only connection to the tides from home, and I don’t exactly visit there often. But I guess people develop a built in preference for what they’re used to. When I was younger I yearned for the city, I wanted that New York I saw on the TV, I wanted London in all its glory. Now that I’ve visited a few, I can definitely say it’s not for me. It’s the noise mostly, it’s loud and droning, busy, warm but the concrete is cold. I can’t connect to those buildings, this street, the bustle. I can’t even handle a conversation in the kitchen when the extractor fan is on. I’ve got friends like me, who prefer those slow places, the coast or the lakes, forests: one’s a self proclaimed nemophilist. As a pretentious English student I love words like that, old words, ones that were decommissioned hundreds of years ago. For anyone interested, it comes from the greek “nemos” for grove and “philos” for affection: “a haunter of woods.” 

But I’ve also got friends from cities. Friends from London, Manchester and so forth. Some people live for it. They want to see the skylines and visit the shops, see the sights, learn the history. I only really think a city is worth it if there’s a skatepark, but that’s just me. To appreciate a city I think I’d have to focus on the architecture, I appreciate nice visuals. It reminds me of GCSE art, when we looked at an artist called Ian Murphy. He made bricks and run down buildings seem beautiful. He spared no details either, each brick was perfectly worn or scuffed or damaged, I reckon with enough focus I could grow to appreciate the human aspects of a city. That urban grit that draws people in. In the same way I love a shitty pebble beach, algae and litter included – you learn to love the worst parts of where you’re from. 

I’m sure most people wouldn’t say Lancaster is a city, but to me it is. These row houses and sandstone bricks, the traffic and one way system, the existence of a sushi restaurant: it’s a far cry from home. I try to appreciate the beauty of it all, the beauty of a packed bus, the cracks in the concrete, how these buildings pierce the sky. A couple friends of mine live in a house in town, it’s small and quaint, they found a Christmas tree in the basement. There’s something cosy about sitting in the living room, a small, warm pocket of familiarity, good people, a movie, a PS3 game. A window of humanity in the cold of a city night. Their garden is a mess, they refuse to take the bin out front to get emptied, a sort of revolt that backfired on them, I don’t know why I like it so much. It’s that urban grit with a pinch of humanity – and it did make for a pretty iconic photo.

Carriage 2 seat 34B

Where are you from?

And don’t say:

“You wouldn’t know it”

I hate when people say “near-”,

I don’t care if it’s “the middle of nowhere.”

And when I ask about it, don’t say:

“It’s shit, I hate it.”

How harsh it is, to hate what you’re simply used to.

You miss it you know, that small town mentality you so despised.

I miss knowing the chemist on a first name basis.

I miss living by that horrible shore.

I get so sentimental when I’m on the train.

What is that human instinct to look out of the window? 

And when did we lose it to screens?

I can see miles of coastline from my little carriage.

People walking their dogs, boats out fishing.

Is this the overflow of emotion they talk about in those romantic poems?

A flower growing from a crack in the concrete,

A wild rabbit in a field,

Things like that make me know I’m a poet.

Or a sap.

20 or so seagulls sit on a rock, and I could just cry.

I used to feel robbed, to be stuck in that little town

So far from the world.

Now I cry when I leave.

I don’t want cities and people, I want that field 20 minutes from my house.

I want the corner shop and 20p newspapers.

Sometimes I stand on that beach

in Morecambe,

And wish the salted waves could wash me back home.