Thursday 18th October – Levisham – London

It seemed to rain all night and I wondered how easy it would be to get back onto the main road. When I arrived last night (in the dark and the rain) it felt as if I’d travelled up a mountain to get here. Would there be water pouring down the hills? Would I meet the brewery lorry coming the other way? In the end, it was fine, there were a few locals who know how to drive the road at speed. I pull over to let them pass and continue to stay in low gear and sedate speed. The rain has passed, the sun is out; the countryside is looking gorgeous. The landscape rolls past – this is evidently good farming country – there are plenty of cattle and sheep and almost as many horses. There are plenty of pretty villages along the road. Once most would have been farm houses or cottages, but while there are still farms I doubt many people work in agriculture. I stop briefly in Helmsley; which is solidly on the tourist track. There is a bakery/butcher/deli and lots of gift shops and pretty things on sale, a church, a ruined castle and a number of pubs as well as the Black Swan hotel. The river runs through the centre and is in full spate. Last night’s rain is making its way down from the hills and the water is filled with mud and fury. After this it’s on through Thirsk (horseracing) and Ripon and into Bradford. I manage to be in the wrong lane and so miss the turning for the car park to the shopping centre. I end up in Magistrate’s Court car park and then stuck behind a queue of taxis. Bradford is a big place and built on hills. The hole in the ground that was supposed to be the Westfield shopping centre is still there. It is now surrounded by hoardings and so a bit less obvious than it was. But Bradford is too big for its current economy. The city centre is busy and vibrant but beyond the inner ring road is the ‘ring of abandonment’. I’ve seen this in a number of industrial cities. The city centre continues to attract people and provide jobs. There are affluent and less affluent suburbs and these have edge of town sheds with supermarkets, pet supermarkets, car dealerships, tech stores and furniture stores. But between the two are the old workplaces. The business and the jobs have gone and many of the mills and warehouses lie abandoned. Abandoned and increasingly derelict. Windows are broken, buddleia and weeds grow out of drainpipes, there is razor wire and lots of padlocks and signs about guards and patrols. The buildings are impressive but it’s difficult to image that they will ever come back to working life. Perhaps there will be a revival. In other towns and cities the old workplaces of the poor have become the new, luxury living quarters of the affluent. It might happen here but it’s difficult to imagine it happening any time soon. I find a car park but it’s on the edge of the centre. I park and wander out to explore – I stand out; everyone around me is either from the Indian sub-continent or dependent on hard liquor. I stand out and everyone stares at me. It is clear I am not from these parts. I don’t stay long. From Bradford I go to Wakefield for a quick tour of the Hepworth Museum (and a nice cup of tea and gluten free cake) and then it’s the A1 south and homeward bound. And it’s always a joy to be home.

Wednesday 17th October – Blackburn, Burnley, Boundary Mills and Skipton

I last visited Blackburn in 2008 when Jack Straw was in the news for talking about women in his constituency who choose to wear a veil (niqab?). That day he was in his constituency for the first time since the furore and there was a posse of journalists in hot pursuit. Such a crowd was attracting a further crowd. How could any of us resist being part of the news? The journalists wanted local voices but it was interesting to watch how some people lingered, keen to chat; whilst others scuttled off in the opposite direction. There are still some young women who choose to wear a veil but relatively few. Today Blackburn is relatively quiet. I find a car park and parking space easily, but getting out of the car park is more difficult. I follow signs for ‘exit’ but find myself in a metal cage with a locked door. This is slightly disconcerting, but it is only 10am so not scary. When I look properly I realise there are door release buttons, but I’m not used to this level of security in a car park. Once into the city I find the high street and the shopping centre. There are only a few shops in the high street, lots of empty spaces. The shopping centre is doing better but it too has empty spaces. But at least it has plenty of customers – lots of young people. Many are wearing ID on a lanyard and the lanyard says ‘student’; others are pushing babies and toddlers. There are young and there are old but relatively few middle aged people – at work I assume. There are more young people here than in other places I’ve visited. On my way back to the car park I realise why. Blackburn College is just off the high street. There is a shiny new campus with three different buildings. I assume they are all part of the same college, but it’s not clear. There is an interesting sign giving people reasons to study here – it talks of grants and results. There are large posters around the campus saying ‘Invest in You’. Maybe it’s the right thing to say, but have financial terms become the only descriptors of value? Education is an investment, but hopefully the investment goes beyond the purely financial? Or perhaps that’s a romantic view from the long-past days of student grants. The campus looks fantastic: modern buildings, lots of light and space, nicely landscaped. People wandering around looking keen, bright, multicultural. There are also a couple of campus workers having a fag and a chat in the bus shelter. This has been built since I was here last (cost £50 million according to the sign at the campus entrance) and it’s money well spent. I remain even more convinced that supporting students helps the economy. Not only the fees they bring in, but the shops and restaurants that can survive because of their (modest) spending. The jobs that are created – not only the lecturers and administrators, but also the cleaners, the security staff, the cafeteria staff – all add to the economic stability and the vibrancy of the city. Apparently education is as important to our exports as the City, but the difficulty of getting visas for foreign students will bring that to an end. And not just for London Metropolitan. In terms of shopping Blackburn has more of the value chains than the familiar brands but it’s not doing badly. As with most of the towns and cities I’ve visited I can see the money that the local authority has spent to make the place attractive and encourage people to come into the town. But it seems to be an uphill struggle. After Blackburn I head to Burnley. It’s a smaller place and at first glance seems to be struggling more. But as I wander around it seems to be doing OK. There are plenty of empty spaces and once again the high street shops are clustered in the shopping mall. The shopping mall is on Faceback and posters invite people to ‘like’ it. There is a competition asking for suggestions, the prize is an iPad. The iPad remains the prize of choice for many. Burnley has a market within the shopping centre. Today it’s bric a brac – and bric a brac it is – there are books and CDs, costume jewellery and toys. There are stalls with boxes of mobile phone cables and miscellaneous remote controls. But it’s busy and I leave with a bargain copy of a Lee Child’s novel. Its architecture is largely Georgian, there are factory chimneys towards the edge of town but the scale of the town seems more approachable than the larger cities. It’s easier to think that you might have shop or a market stall or a café here than in the cities where the buildings are so big you’d feel like a pea rattling in a bottle and the cost of stocking the space would be prohibitive. After Burnley I’m thinkng of going to Bradford and am undecided whether to take the high road (via Skipton) or the low road (via Hebden Bridge). What happens is that I take the wrong road from the roundabout and end up in Boundary Mill Store. It is huge, it has everything you might ever want to buy and at a discount. This is where clothes (and everything else) go when the sale is over. There is a vast car park and a central path flagged with Union Jacks. The bus comes here so it is accessible for those who don’t drive. This is where the middle class come to shop (and lunch). It’s busier than any of the high streets I’ve visited. The organised are preparing for Christmas. Some are bemused by the scale and choice and have to sit down and have a cup of tea. The dedicated bargain hunters are on a mission. If you, like me, missed something in the stores come here if there are any left, they will have one here. It’s all very bright and shiny. The ladies loos are spacious and have wooden doors. Actually it’s plastic wood but it has all the cues of luxury cars and so it all feels very glamorous (for a discount store). There is no greater demonstration that we live in a consumer society than here. When I re-discover the internet I shall find out where else they are – land is too expensive close to London for them to be anywhere near the centre. I decide to take the high road and go to Skipton. I’m not sure what to expect but it’s apparent within moments of arriving that this is a different world. I am now on the edge of the tourist economy. The car park has a dozen coaches – older Brits and young Europeans – an interesting combination of visitors (separate coaches, of course). Skipton has some smart stores but also lots of value stores. But it’s buzzing with people mid afternoon, not sure how bustling it is out of the tourist season. My plans for Bradford are abandoned; I’ve taken the wrong road. So now it’s north and east and into Yorkshire and the coast.

Wednesday 17th October – on the edge of Preston

I have been staying at the Premier Inn on the south side of Preston. Last night it was dark when I started to look for somewhere to stay. Darkness changes everything. What you do, how you feel, what happens. As is often the case on my travels I wasn’t sure where I was going. I’d travelled north but I now know that off the tourist track and it can be difficult to find a room for the night. Traditional hotels lost the survival battle years ago, not enough trade to keep them going through the year. They survive in smaller towns and cities and are kept alive by a mix of local events (weddings, christenings and ‘0’ parties) and tourists. But in the old industrial cities they can be hard to find. There’s not enough business (and so business travellers) to keep them going. Lots of cities lost most of their old hotels but now the chains are moving in. Premier Inn, Travelodge are present across the country. Holiday Inn Express and Hilton Express concentrated in the cities. Premier Inn are fast becoming the coaching inns of the 21st century. They are present in the cities, but also close to the motorway intersections (the modern day staging posts for travellers) and tourist attractions. And they offer a consistency and certainty which is very attractive when darkness falls. When it’s still light it seems easy to look for somewhere to stay and easy to move on if the local hostelry doesn’t appeal. But after dark it’s more difficult. After dark everywhere seems slightly scary (or at least less certain) and after dark it’s harder to find places. I can’t remember the number of times I’ve done multiple circuits of complex ring roads desperately trying to find the access road for the hotel. Last night I’d found a bed in a Premier Inn at Preston South. Surprisingly I found my way there easily and saw the comforting sign. But I made the wrong choice when it came to finding the way in to the car park and found myself in danger of travelling down the M6 South. I managed to get myself onto the M65 and a junction appeared a mile or so later and so I could retrace my steps. I found the car park and realised I was in the wrong Premier Inn. At Preston South there are two – on opposite sides of the road and I was at the wrong one. As I walked into reception I realised that the earlier call to book a room – when the nice lady on reception said ‘we’re close, I can see their sign’ – was literally true. The whole area seemed liked being in America. There were signs for B&Q, Sainsbury’s and Aldi as well as two for the Premier Inns. Once safely in my room I looked at my road atlas and realised that the M6, M61 and M65 all meet here. So it seems that lots of people stay here. There were lots of vans in the car park and I realise that there is a modern version of the mediaeval journeyman and they stay in Premier Inns. They are the people who service the boilers, the washing machines and other equipment. They have a van and during the week they travel the country sorting out problems. There is also the sales and promotion version; the people, also in vans, whose job is to promote the knives, the gadgets and/or the experience that drive our modern economy. They are expected to be in perpetual motion and travel to wherever they are needed. In the darkness it’s hard to work out where I am but when morning dawns I go for a wander. There are buildings that look quite like houses, but have too much glass for a home. Around the corner I see the sign for Preston Business Village. Ah the words that get chosen. If we want to promote or support something it’s a village or a park or a farm. But if we don’t like it, then it’s a factory. Supporters talk of ‘wind farms’, detractors of ‘wind factories’. It’s easy to see why this was called a village – it’s not very village like (too efficient) but it would make life easy. Access from all points of the compass, plenty of parking, nice, clean, new buildings – efficient work, efficient life. There is plenty of space here in the liminal spaces of the motorway. This is not prime living or farming land, although it is desirable land for businesses. There is a strange combination of businesses here – the business village, Premier Inn, Aldi, the South Ribble Tennis club (which is where all the 4x4s are going), the waste transfer station and a builder’s merchants. There is a twin on the other side of the road but getting there feels like a difficult journey and I don’t bother to venture that far. I’m off to the M65 and Blackburn.

Tuesday 16th October – The Mersey

After the Potteries I head north towards Liverpool. It will be a brief visit but I want to see what is happening and there is also an exhibition at the Tate I want to see. The motorway is busy and there is the usual spaghetti sprawl of urban motorways. For locals these are part of their mental map, for me it’s a struggle. Should I sit quietly in the inside lane away from the superspeedy? Or is my exit coming up as the motorways split and I should be on the right hand side rather than the left? Fortunately it is mid afternoon and there are gaps in the traffic, so swooping from side to side is relatively easy. I park in the Liverpool One multi-storey car park – mainly because I was in the wrong lane for the docks car park. But it means I discover this most glamorous of car parks. No simple asphalt here, the surface is grey and parking spaces are black oblongs into which we are supposed to place our wheels. Is this behavioural economics nudging in operation? It’s all brightly lit and clean and shiny; the lifts and stairs look as if they are part of the shopping centre and not the scene for some post Armageddon drama (as is the case for many car parks). There are buggies to be borrowed. There are office spaces for businesses offering services and a bank of Amazon lockers close to the payment machines. This is all possible because there are lots of CCTV. As I walk back to my car I see a man watching huge banks of screens; the feeds from all the cameras. It is nice to feel comfortable in a car park but the price is constant vigilance. Is it worth it? In daytime I might question it, at night I’d choose to park here. The shops are new and mid/high end high street – John Lewis is the anchor store here. I don’t stop I am want to cross to the docks. The sun is shining and there is a fantastic view to my left. I look across the docks and a couple of ships moored. The Liver Building dominates but is now framed by the (white) Museum of Liverpool to its left and a dark, nameless modern building to its right. It makes a dramatic image of old and new in harmony. Who knows if they are in harmony but it looks great. I try to look out across the Mersey but it’s blowing a gale and my hair is drifting in all directions, making it difficult to see anything. I am in luck, the exhibition of Turner, Monet and Twombly is still on and it is fantastic. These are three of my favourite painters and it’s a joy to see their work on the same walls. The views from the gallery are equally attractive (and now no wind to distract). The waterfront is a dramatic space, there is a sense of scale that reminds me of New York (and an eight lane highway adds to this). As I wait to cross the main road and return to the car park I realise that one of the new apartment blocks contains a gym – two or three floors of people (about 4th and 5th floors) are on bicycles or running machines – they all face out across the Mersey. It must be a great place to work out; the views spectacular. But from the road it looks strangely hamster like; all that energy expended but going nowhere. I head north towards Crosby Sands and the Anthony Gormley figures. On the way I pass some spectacular 19th century industrial architecture. Most of its is now empty and derelict but would make fantastic living or working space. A couple of buildings have been transformed into self storage spaces. Once they stored the goods of global trade, now they store the things we can’t bear to throw away. All the way along the waterline are windmills and out in the Mersey/Crosby channel is a wind farm. I am in luck, the tide is out as is the sun. The first time I visited it was low tide but it was raining. The second time I visited the weather was slightly better but it was high tide and the figures were not waving but drowning, only a few heads standing proud of the high tide. Today the tide is way out and the figures revealed in their distant glory. The wind is still blowing a gale but it’s keeping rain away and the sun is low and dramatic. People are coming here for a walk after work, dogs are playing and chasing balls, starlings are having a noisy bath in the remnants of an earlier shower, the lifeguards are patrolling the beach.

Tuesday 16th October – The Five Towns

Last year I visited Stoke and discovered that it is five towns united by the name Stoke-on-Trent. Last year I struggled to find any of them. There were fast new roads surrounding the towns and I spent most of my time driving along these roads and missing the signs for the city centre. This time I do better. I find Hanley and the Potteries Shopping Centre. Again this is where the people are. Parking is easy, the familiar shops are there, there are places to eat and drink. The shopping centre opens onto the high street and so there is no separation between the two. But there are few familiar brands on the main street – M&S, Waterstones, Greggs and the banks. Otherwise it’s the value brands – Card Factory, B&M, Perfect Home (which along with Bright House) has reintroduced the idea of leasing furniture and durables. As in so many towns and cities, the councils are aware of the dangers of letting high streets look tatty and they are investing in smartening up the streets but without the jobs and money it will be an uphill struggle. From the vantage viewpoint of the fifth floor of the car park I can see hills in the distance and rows of housing marching in ranks up the hills. There are still a few of the kilns left and the new white sheds of ‘retail parks’ stand out like scars against the older bricks. I am heading north and stop in Burslem, one of the five towns. Burslem has some rather grand Georgian buildings but the town itself looks more battered. The familiar shops are all in the Potteries Shopping Centre in Hanley. Burslem was where Wedgwood set up his original Ivy Works and the Leopard pub is where he met with James Brindley to discuss building the Trent Mersey Canal. It has an extraordinary past, but its present is looking more challenging. The signs of regeneration were there – there was a modern building called Ceramica – now derelict and no signs of what it once was – a gallery? Exhibition space? Public information? Now, there are a few flyposters and no clues about its original vision (and hope). There were signs giving directions for artist’s open studios. Perhaps Burslem will be regenerated as low rents make it possible for artists and makers to afford to work there. A bit further north is Tunstall, another of the original five towns. It seemed bigger than Burslem (but I may have parked closer to the centre) but to be struggling. The high street had very few familiar names, even the banks are closing and the ATMs are boarded up. There were a few estate agents and there are houses on sale for £35,000 (in need of modernisation). There was a sign selling the local paper with a headline saying ‘homeless hungry stealing ducks and geese’. There are plenty of people out and about and the mood seemed cheery enough but almost half of the shops are empty. Here there are no posters on the window talking of ‘exciting opportunities’.

Monday 15th October - public private spaces

Work done and I head off on my travels. First stop Derby. There is the usual wide ring road and standing above everything else, a Westfield shopping centre. The town centre has plenty of people but many of the shops are closed. The Westfield Centre seems to be in a different town. Within the walls of the fortress everything is shiny and bright and new. The famous brands are here, there is a cinema and ‘food courts’ with places to eat and drink. Escalators sweep up and down; it all looks like an architect’s drawing. On the high street life is a little less shiny and bright. A few years ago there was talk of ‘clone towns’; towns where there were no independent shops, only the same national brands. Now many of the brands have disappeared or reduced the number of stores and there are few things more plaintive than empty shops. (There are empty shops at the edges of the shopping centres too but the centre managers are better at disguising their emptiness. Bright posters talking of ‘opportunities’ mask the fact that the shop behind is empty). Now, towns are smarting when dismissed by the big brands. Derby’s shopping centre at least links to the high street and so the high street still has life. When the shopping centre is apart from the high street, or the main shopping opportunities are on a ‘retail park’ then there is a sharp division between the car owners and those who don’t or can’t drive. Everywhere I go I hear older people talking about the places they can’t go unless someone is willing to take them. It’s probably the same among the young, but parents may be more likely to take their kids places, than take their parents out shopping. It’s easy to see why people choose to spend their time and money in the shopping centres. Parking is easy and secure (if not cheap). The space is bright and warm. There are delights all around. The brands are familiar. You can look even if you don’t want to buy. There are lots of places to eat and drink. There are security staff to keep you safe. For those intimidated by groups of high spirited youths, beggars, drunks and other social disruption this is reassuring. The security staff are largely invisible until you break the rules (I take photographs, this is not allowed, I am deemed a rule breaker). I’m disconcerted that so many of these apparently public spaces are, in fact, private spaces and the rules set by the management companies. But despite the dent to my liberal tendencies, the shopping centres are more relaxed than many high streets (so long as you stick to the rules). After Derby I head towards the hills of the Peak District. Hotels in cities tend to be expensive and so I often visit cities during the day and head out to the countryside in the hope of finding a room in a pub for the evening. The Peak District is looking very lovely. I am slightly ahead of the rush hour and so the traffic is not too intense although there are a lot of large lorries travelling at speed on modest and quite twisty roads. There is rain around and so dramatic cloud formations, but there are also bouts of sunshine that highlight the clouds and the trees autumn leaves. I’m heading towards Buxton but intimidated by a lorry that appears to be in my back seat I turn off the main road and risk single track roads for the view and hope of a pub. I drive through Dove Dale which is breathtakingly pretty. There’s a youth hostel but this is filled with hordes of school parties and all the staff have disappeared. I try a rather smart hotel which is full and then find another hotel which has one room left. Everyone else is here on an activity holiday – most are walkers, some are here to paint, some may be learning bridge. But everyone else is sitting on social tables of ten and I am sitting alone. People are intrigued by my separation. They smile, by breakfast the next morning they want to know who I am and why so separate? They head off for walking and I am going to Stoke-on-Trent.

Monday 15th October 2012 - Nottingham

Nottingham before the shops open. I have to give a talk later this morning but wanted to see something of the city before I set my mind to work. Nottingham is huge – I drove round it trying to find my hotel in the drizzling dusk last night. Fortunately this morning the sun is shining and plenty of people are out and about – cleaning the city ready for the working week and delivering stuff to shops and restaurants. The parking wardens are out, as is a man on a cherry picker putting up Christmas decorations on the front of the City Hall. Nottingham is big. The city is big, the buildings are big, the streets are wide. (Nottingham was Celia Fiennes favourite city on her travels, she liked its modern scale). It was the same in Coventry, which I visited yesterday. There are, as with so many towns and cities lots of empty places. But the scale of buildings must make it difficult for start up businesses to work out what to do on this scale. You might be able to imagine setting up a small shop, perhaps renting an office to house you and a desk. But here there are thousands of square feet and it would be impossible to afford the rent, or buy the stock to fill these huge palaces. The old lace market areas seems to be best populated, or perhaps it’s just more upmarket and so the stores here are weathering the downturn better. The universities seem to be an important part of Nottingham’s economy. The University of Nottingham is on the west side of the city. Nottingham Trent University is in the city centre and there seems to be a lot of building going on. I can see the influences of the student economy around me – plenty of bars and clubs, lots of Tesco Express. Rents seem relatively high (£500-600 per month) but house prices are low. Here there are houses that cost less than £100,000. This is beyond the wildest dreams for many parts of the country, but low house prices usually mean few well paid jobs and over-supply. I am a week too early to take part in Game7 – a games festival that is trying to strengthen and build the skills needed for computer games. Boots the Chemist still have their headquarters here and have invested in the university as well as providing jobs. Once again I’m struck that a big local firm seems to have an influence on the city that goes beyond its direct spending. Perhaps it’s because they offer regular and reliable jobs that their spending trickles down into the area. Certainly I’ve seen no sign that money trickles down from rich people, but perhaps it’s different for companies. I saw the same thing in Bolton where Warburton’s seems to have a positive influence and create wider wealth.

Sunday 14th October 2012 - To see a fine lady ride on a white horse

I’ve just been to Banbury, I wanted to see Banbury Cross. It is basically a mini roundabout filtering traffic. I’d planned to come to Banbury on earlier trips but had always run out of time. This time I was on my way north and my sister Sue was at a folk festival in Banbury. So after meeting up with her, I went to find Banbury Cross. Apparently there used to be three crosses in Banbury and all were destroyed by the Puritans in the 17th century. But a new cross was built to commemorate the wedding of Queen Victoria’s daughter. Queen Victoria looks to the town centre, Prince Albert looks in the opposite direction. This is where the old horse fair would have been, hence the nursery rhyme. And there’s a new status of a fine lady on a white horse which was commissioned for the millennium. I’ve also recently discovered Celia Fiennes, another woman who travelled around Britain. She was braver than I and travelled on horseback (and side saddle). Yesterday I saw a second hand bookshop and was surprised and delighted to find that they had a copy of her story of travelling (between 1697 and 1712). She describes Banbury as ‘a pretty little town, its streets broad and well pitched’. She makes no mention of the destroyed cross, but she was a Puritan and according to my new book, Banbury ‘the most Puritan town in England’. Banbury remains a pretty little town and many of the streets broad. But many of the shops, restaurants and offices are now empty and looking for new tenants. Since Celia’s time the Grand Union Canal has been flowing through Banbury and is lined with barges. Now it’s part of the leisure economy rather than a means of moving materials and finished goods. In a curious coincidence her mother lived at Newton Toney (just outside Salisbury where my mother now lives) and many of her travels (as has been the case for me) started with leaving Wiltshire. She often stayed with her aristrocratic family when she travelled. I have fewer relations, and none aristocratic so our paths diverge. I may try and follow one of her journeys. The weather forecast is looking patchy and it may be I decide to avoid the rain rather than follow her route. But I shall be trying to work out if places are still recognisable. Everywhere was looking moodily autumnal as I left London. The morning was cold and bright. Blue skies and season of mist and mellow fruitfulness as is supposed to be the case in autumn. The leaves on the trees were changing colour and the plentiful field maples were turning gold and orange. All dramatically highlighted by the sun. As I travelled further north the field maples disappeared, dark clouds were filling the skies and everywhere looked more drab.

Friday 7th September 2012 - Around the Kent coast

I wander around Ickham and discover it has an oast house, just to add to its rural perfection. It’s a glorious morning, the sun is shining and there is the promise of a sunny day. So a trip to the seaside seems ideal and I head off to Margate. I came to Margate in 2004, in the early days of my travels around Britain; I want to see what has (or hasn’t) changed. I miss the turning for the Turner Contemporary Gallery and find myself heading out of Margate, on a magical mystery through its suburbs and swirling 1970s estates of Cliftonville. There are great views out across the Thames estuary and out to sea. On the horizon are windmills – I assume this is the London Array. It looks pretty spectacular on this sunny morning. There are ships, large and small, going east and west. There is a beach and funfair – it looks like a picture from a child’s storybook. Closest to the sea are the 1930s villas – judging by the popularity of 1930s houses I’ve seen in the past few days; being beside the sea was fashionable. I visit the Tracey Emin exhibition – lots of embroidery and about to close soon. I sit in the sunshine and look out across the town; Margate has changed less than I expected. There is the lovely, shiny, new gallery but otherwise the town looks pretty much the same as it did in 2004. I’d expected the gallery to have helped regenerate the town, but perhaps it’s too soon – and recession has made a lot of towns look pretty tatty so maybe I’m being too tough on Margate. There is a Georgian centre to the town, it’s a bit battered but still lovely buildings, the western side of the town seems to be more 60s brutalist (and less appealing). As I leave Margate, I begin to realise why its shops have not been regenerated. There is a large edge of town shopping centre called Westwood Cross and that it where all the shopping happens. It’s certainly where most of the traffic was queuing. Where shopping centres are linked to the old high streets they don’t seem to cause problems. But when they’re separate from the high street, shopping centres seem to become vampirelike and suck the energy out of surrounding towns and high streets. I visit Sandwich where the old town walls have kept the modern world away. Pfizer was the big employer and sits, in its office fortress at the edge of the town but it’s announced that it’s closing its factory so who knows what the future holds for Sandwich? So many companies (old and new) either closing or shrinking – where are we all going to find work? I know there are lots of cheery forecasts about the ‘ideas economy’ but I’m not sure it’s going to provide regular jobs for everyone. I meander my way along the Kent coast – to St Margaret’s and more 1930s delights – then Dover when I manage to take a wrong turning and end up in the lorry escape lane. Up a the long steep hill that makes the white cliffs of Dover and off to Folkestone. I wanted to visit Folkestone’s creative quarter and see how it’s surviving the downturn. I haven’t visited it before and it’s very quaint and pretty and there are some interesting shops. But it seems to be struggling for survival like everywhere else. But even if not all the shops are filled, it makes a difference to find independent shops and cheering that someone is trying to do something other than the usual property development thing. I sit on the beach at Hythe and watch the waves, people fishing and strolling along the shore. Then it’s back to London via Ashford (restored by the Eurostar) and Maidstone (looking battered) and the A2 back into London with the sun in my eyes and the long slog of the south circular on a Friday evening.

Thursday 6th September - Chatham, Dicken’s World, Antiques Roadshow

I was heading (south) east and found myself in Chatham – well the outskirts of the town. There were new office buildings and signs for a marina and so it seemed a good place to go and explore. I got the signs completely wrong and ended up in the bus park squashed between two buses. I found the car park for something called Dicken’s World and assumed it was a theme park around Dickens who was born in Chatham. But other than the sign with the name but it was harder to find any trace of Dickens. There were bars and restaurants and a shopping centre. There was a theatre but I didn’t bother to find out the day’s events. There seem to be a lot of tribute bands. There was plenty of parking. There also seemed to be a lot of empty office space, the as yet unglazed windows covered in signs talking about ‘exciting opportunities’ but a distinct lack of excitement on show. The old boatyard is now a shopping centre and plenty of people coming along looking for a bargain. I realised that Dickens World offers what people want most – easy parking, a bit of entertainment, places to eat and drink plus a few bargains. And it was popular, plenty of people rummaging through the racks of clothing and looking for a great deal. It made me realise why many high streets are struggling – parking is too difficult and expensive, it’s easier to head to the edge of town rather than stay in the centre. As I as about to leave I saw signs for Antiques Roadshow, in Chatham that day and only the other side of the roundabout. So off I went and whilst it was only a roundabout apart the world was different. Here was the Royal Dockyard Chatham. Whereas I’d just left the Victorian dockyards, these were the earlier, Georgian dockyards. Today the car park is full. Antiques Roadshow has come to town and people are queuing to be seen. For me it’s perfect; the presence of the roadshow means that access to the dockyards is free. How could I resist? I wander among the queues of people waiting with their potential treasures in hand. It’s interesting to see how it all works. There are antiques dealers as you enter (and the queues here are longest), they check what you have and then tell people where to go to find the appropriate expert. There are plenty more queues as people wait to meet the experts. Each has a table and umbrella (shelter in foul and fair weather) and an expert. A lucky few are chosen to be on the telly and there are plenty of people queuing. From Chatham I drive through Whitstable, Herne Bay (where my grandmother lived when her family returned from India) and then down to Canterbury. There are the usual shopping centre shops and many ancient buildings. There is a house that is so off centre you wonder how it stands. With such extraordinary angles it must induce feelings of drunkenness from within. I’d planned to stay in Canterbury but there are few hotels. This seems odd for a city that attracts so many visitors. I give up on my attempt to find a room for the night in the city and head out to a village pub for the night.

A mini tour

For the past few weeks I've been editing the story of what I've seen on my travels and feel the need to go out and take a look at the country. I should be looking for work but travelling gets more difficult as the year drifts towards winter and nights draw in and with the sun out it seems like a good idea to head off towards Kent. So, assuming the now rather elderly, but hopefully still trusty Ka is willing, we are off to the coast for a couple of days.

High (tech) drama on the 77 bus

I was sitting on the 77 bus going home about half past ten, the bus was the usual mix of slightly grumpy and wary people who inhabit late buses. It's a curious balance of trying to shut out the world and concentrate on book/music/mobile phone screen/Evening Standard and at the same time stay aware of any trouble that might kick off. We'd just left Vauxhall with the mishmash of half the bus getting off and being refilled by those waiting. The melee of seat changes was over and we could settle down. Police sirens screamed from behind as the bus pulled into the next stop, no-one blinked assuming the sirens would rush ahead of us. They didn't. They pulled in in front of us, blocking us in. About a dozen police, some in uniform, some plain clothes jumped on the bus. Now we were paying attention. 'Don't move, stay in your seats, there's been an incident and we know that what we're looking for is on this bus'. Now we are properly intrigued. What had happened? How had our sleepy bus journey turned into an incident? Some people were tutting and muttering, most wanted to know what had happened. We looked around - no sign of an incident on this bus. Then we are asked to file off the bus one at a time to have our bags checked. Evidently something had been nicked. I was on the lower deck at the front and so one of the first to be searched. 'What colour was the cover?' the policemen asked his colleague as he took my iPad out of the bag. 'Orange' he replied. 'You're all right this is blue' the policeman reassured me. So an iPad had been nicked and because Find my iPhone was on, the police knew that it was on the bus. Those of us who had been searched were asked to wait on the pavement. The policeman with the tracking iphone was standing among us. 'Oh you can set off an alarm' he suddenly remembered and set off the alarm. You could see the heads on the top deck turn and a couple of minutes later a young man was marched off the bus with the stolen iPad. Allowed back on the bus the mood was transformed. Here we were in the midst of our own little drama. Our own 77 soap opera, the action had taken place, the wrong doer found and about to be nicked, here was some late night entertainment and we were an engaged audience. The bus depot was giving the driver a hard time for stopping and threatening to cancel this bus and make us all wait for a later bus. We could hear the conversation and the passengers were on the driver's side, increasingly annoyed by bus company bureaucracy. We were ready to take over the bus if the depot said stop. I think they must have heard the hubbub in the background and agreed to let the driver take us home. But we were transformed. No longer silent and apart, we had now bonded, we were chatting. There was laughter and people who a few minutes before had been annoyed by fellow travellers bags/size/demeanour were now chatting happily. Bus crowds are mobile phone users more than iPad users and many were amazed how a device could tell the police where it was. After watching the humiliation of the person who'd stolen the iPad walking through the bus, I think anyone who might have thought these devices were fair game, might be thinking again.

The Lavender Hill Mob 2011

‘Ann just called to say that she’d heard the BBC say that there was rioting on Lavender Hill. Are you all right?’ There’s nothing new about social networks and family is the strongest social network for most of us. It was about 10.30 and my mother was on the phone. I looked out of the window; there was no sign of a riot. ‘No it’s fine. It’s quiet here. It’s very quiet actually’.

The quietness should have been a clue. It was 2.30am quiet, not 10.30pm quiet. But it took me a while to realise that it was quiet because the traffic couldn’t get past the looters at the bottom of the hill. There were no sirens, but sirens are a pretty everyday sound around here. Not that there is usually a lot of trouble but Lavender Hill is a road that people use to get to other places, so the emergency services often go through on their way to somewhere else.

Within a few minutes the street was transformed. Suddenly there were dozens of young men on their way down to the Junction. They wandered along in groups of four or five. Hoods were up, but their pace didn’t suggest they were interested in rioting or looting. They just seemed to want to find out what was going on. I don’t think it was Twitter or BBM that was encouraging them out. It was the BBC. Television seemed to drive the change and encourage people who earlier had not bothered to go out. I don’t know if they ended up rioting or whether they just wanted to see what was going on. But within ten minutes of news coverage, many more people were on the street.

I switched on the news and suddenly my evening was transformed. The quiet evening in was shattered (although still I neither heard nor saw anything) I was living in a ‘war zone’. The BBC were saying there were reports of Debenhams being on fire. I looked out of the window. No sign of anything other than wandering youth (and not so youthful). Everyone wanted to see what was happening and the foot traffic was still increasing. People were wandering home up from the Junction, but they too were sauntering. It was easy to assume that bags were full of loot, but most seemed to be non-hoodie wearers and carrying gym bags rather than swag. I kept listening to the news and there was endless replaying of the fire in Croydon. That fire had, by then, been out for some hours because an interview with the owner had described looking out over the smouldering ruins.

But the Croydon footage was on an endless loop on BBC News. I was interested in my own reaction. The combination of a reporter talking about what was happening, together with the footage made me want to go out and see what was happening. Sanity returned a moment and I realised the folly of my impulse.

I’d returned from a meeting in leafy Cambridge about 5pm and the second I came off the platform I realised something was afoot. There was a young boy with his bicycle being eyed by two lads of 13 or 14, one wearing a hearing aid. It looked as if they were thinking of nicking his bike and they were being stared down by grumpy adults, such as myself. The lads tried to look confident and seemed to be looking for others, or for something. But their confidence was fragile; they couldn’t find what they were looking for. With a rather showy gesture of kissing their phones (I assume Blackberry but other brands were probably present) they walked out of the station attempting bravado.

There had been police on the platforms and now police in the station entrance. This was not usual afternoon staffing. The effect was somewhat marred by the presence of two PCSOs who were chatting to each other and not paying much attention to the people coming out of the station. They looked about as intimidating as a paper bag and would have struggled to keep the library under control. Their impact was considerable. The youths slightly ahead of me, sized them up, saw them lacking and you could see their confidence and swagger increase.

I had no food and so was planning a trip to Waitrose. There were lots of kids on the streets, but matched with lots of police. The kids were young – most were aged 8-12. It’s hard to tell, while girls often look about 18 at 12, boys often look like children in their mid teens. There was almost a festival atmosphere; a sugar rush of excitement rippled through the kids; a sense that something was about to happen. They were laughing and joking, waiting for the main event. They were watched over by police, but at this stage there were only high spirits. It didn’t seem that threatening, but it was a sunny afternoon and the carnival feel was building. I was rather more unsettled to discover Waitrose had closed one of their shutters. A number of mobile phone shops had boarded up their doors but had not boarded their windows which seemed a rather half hearted gesture. Waitrose was less busy than usual and there was a lot of slightly nervous giggling in the aisles. How very British.

It was pretty clear that the police were expecting something to kick off but at that stage it didn’t seem too scary. As I walked up Lavender Hill I realised that Wandsworth Council) had ‘helpfully’ left about 70 bricks neatly stacked up as convenient ammunition packs. There are in the process of redoing pavements and lights and the workmen left the bricks around the yet to be secured new lampposts. This seemed a bit risky and I popped in to the police station to suggest they might like to call the council and get them picked up before dark. It was past 5pm and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get anything other than an answerphone. The nice lady constable (the only person left in the station) said she would call the council’s emergency number. I have no idea whether she had any joy.

I wandered home, cooked my supper and settled down for the evening. I was wary, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, I wanted to be at home to defend my home. But I felt reassured that there were plenty of police to keep things under control; made a few phone calls and cooked supper. I had a few texts and emails from friends in the area. ‘Was I OK?’ I was. Were they? Yes, but a lot of police and some with roads cordoned off. Then the call from my mother and within minutes everything felt different.

The BBC News was telling me every few seconds of the rioting and looting at Clapham Junction. There were reports of the police station being attacked which is only a few streets away. There were still no sirens. There was the odd buzz of one of those micro scooters that sound like angry wasps and kids drive round the estates. By 11 I could hear the police helicopters above. The police were in air, but there was no sign of anyone on the ground. I felt alone. Alone because there was no sign of the police. I could hear the people who live in the other flats and that was comforting. Between us, we might be able to defend ourselves. But I was shocked at the speed at which my inner vigilante was revealed to me. ‘Where were the police?’ Why weren’t they on the streets. Why did the BBC keep saying there were no sign of the police?

I felt abandoned. I made plans to take care of myself. The blinds were already down but I switched off the lights. That way I could watch what was happening on the street. If I was alone, then I needed to know what was happening. The more sensible thing would probably been to have switched off the news. I still couldn’t see or hear anything other than the police helicopter. Should I block the letterbox? Fill buckets with water in case of fire? Or would it be better to find blankets and towels to smother any flames. Making plans felt like regaining control. But I was feeling increasingly angry with the mob. How dare they? What right did a bunch of kids have to create this sort of mayhem? I was now ready to fight. My inner vigilante was revealed to me. The house next door has scaffolding and I had visions of the police driving the looters up the hill and a pitched battle being fought from the vantage of the scaffolding.

And still the BBC kept talking about Lavender Hill and showing the footage of Croydon. I found myself increasingly angry with the BBC for inflaming the situation. How dare they, as a news organisation, show out of date footage that made everything feel worse. Yes, it was the most dramatic footage. Yes, they want to win a Sony award. Yes, I know the media like to see themselves as seekers after the truth, but most have been revealed to be every bit as self-interested and blinkered as the institutions they criticise. There may be questions about police tactics, but criticising the police when all I wanted was a sign that the police were on the ground felt totally inappropriate. And showing the endless film of Croydon burning while saying ‘fire crews are unable to reach the blaze on Lavender Hill’ felt irresponsible. Would it be the same here? Fires raging along the hill?

Just when I was wondering whether I should sleep in the living room to be able to fend off any intruders along came the cavalry; actually probably more like knights in armour. I had never seen armoured vehicles in England; I’d seen them in Northern Ireland. Instantly things felt different, it wasn’t down to me to protect my home. I could leave it to the police. My inner vigilante could go back to the place it came from.

Maybe it’s the weight of the armour but these blue beasts had a presence that was as primal as my desire to defend my home. As primal as the marauding looters: but the power of armour shifted the balance. To me, it felt that their solidity revealed the chaos of the looters. I don’t remember sirens, but the heartbeat pulse of blue lights as six (I think, might only have been three or four) dark blue armoured police vehicles drove down the middle of the road - purposeful, powerful. A single file of security. In an instant, things felt as if they were under control. It was safe to go to bed. I sent an email to say I might be late for the next morning’s meeting and went to bed and slept.

Next morning I got ready to try and make my meeting, unsure what I would find when I left the house. Would the station be open? Trains running? As I set off everything looked exactly as normal. More litter than usual, but otherwise the same. The only change was that the other people in the street were not living on peripheral vision plugged into their ipod/phone. People had escaped ‘I’, there was a sense of ‘we’. People wanted to chat, to share their relief. There was a sense of the social.

Battersea Arts Centre seemed fine but Foxtons’ window had been shattered along with a couple of other estate agents. This seemed an odd target for the kids I’d seen earlier and made me wonder if a few anti-capitalists had decided to get ‘down with the kids’. I crossed Latchmere Road and as I walked down the hill the density of broken glass increased. An independent electronics shop had been hit hard. Most places had broken windows – some had shattered, other fractured but held their form. The party shop had been torched and the road was cordoned off. People were clustered at the barriers, cameras were out and photographs taken. A slight detour to the station which was open and trains running. The shops in the station were intact which was a surprise but probably a reflection that the station had been closed for much of the evening.

So what was it all about? A sign of the cuts? A sign of a sick society? An underclass kicking off? Perhaps the most dangerous thing about Monday is that the kids think they have found a way to be visible, powerful and gain the consumer goods they want. I don’t really even want to write that sentence. We need to transform from ’I’ to ‘we’ if we are to avoid that eventuality. It won’t be enough to be cheery for a few days and then go back to normal.

There has been lots of discussion and analysis of cuts or broken Britain, but it’s infuriating me. There are no simple solutions. It’s not about who’s to blame. We are all to blame, we are all responsible for the society we have. There is no magic ‘they’ who can make things worse or better. Society is the sum of what we each do. If we want it to be different, then we all need to change.

I have no idea of the background of the looters on Monday but I wouldn’t mind betting that there are as many hard-working nurses and porters, administrative assistants, cleaners, care assistants among the parents as there are those on benefits. Many in London struggle to make ends meet in a city that increasingly feels designed for the rich, super-RGUs who move to London because their home country feels too dangerous. They are welcomed despite spending a lower proportion of their income locally and paying a lower proportion of tax. This is not to excuse what happened on Monday, but to blame it on those on benefits is missing the point just as much as is those who blame it on the cuts.

There is a growing crisis of legitimacy which has been blossoming long before the last election. Everyone knows that trust has changed, it is more fragile and more fluid. But following scandals over MPs expenses, alleged bribery of the police, the actions of much of the media and the near-collapse of capitalism and the bail out of the bankers by the taxpayers, there is a dangerous sense that you are punished for playing by the rules. Work hard and pay your taxes and you’ll find your modest pension is taxed. And this is a comment that I may later retract but in hard economic facts how different are the looters to the bankers. Emotionally it feels worse, but is it? Those in the city knew that there were problems long before it was made public. I heard tales of merchant bankers rushing home one afternoon to get all their money out of RBS because they knew what was going wrong weeks before it was made public. Is it so very different?

That is one of the problem of this crisis of legitimacy. What is right? What is wrong? Looting is definitely wrong, but so too was much of the behaviour of the financial institutions. The argument might be that the bankers didn’t know what they were doing. I leave you to make your own decision about the financial institutions. I see parallels between both – both have a strong sense of identity and (I would argue, twisted) and narrow view of what is acceptable behaviour. If you understand those narrow rules you can probably make a case. I don’t see either extreme as acceptable. So far most of the analysis I’ve heard leaves me shouting at the television or radio. It seems to fall into the comfortable old tracklines of blame. ‘It’s the parents’ ‘It’s the cuts’ ‘It’s a life of entitlements’. It’s the same old story – everyone looking to generate their own revenue from the story. And the same old faces. I’d like to hear more from David Lammy and less from Diane Abbott. And I’d like to hear a lot more from the youth workers who were on the streets trying to persuade the kids to go home. We need new ideas, but less blue sky, big picture thinking and more down to earth stuff that everyone can do.

My wider worry is that these extremist views of what and what isn’t acceptable make it very difficult for the middle to know what a good life should look like. Should they be grateful that they have a roof over their head, that their kids were at home on Monday night and there is enough money to pay the bills? Or should they be aspiring to the 40 inch high-definition TVs that so attracted the looters and the designer lifestyles and brands of the rich (even if a handbag in the sales costs a month’s wages)? And I know that no-one thinks they are rich – ‘we’re comfortable’ or ‘we’re provided for’. There is always someone richer. But as a nation we are rich. We are some of the richest people in the world so most can still live very good lives even if we have a bit less than before.

This is not an argument about government cuts. Whatever happens with that, there is a bigger global economic picture that will affect us all. The world is changing and we cannot navigate this new territory with the old structures. We need to define a new map (and keep refining it, there will be no new certainties). Just as the police’s command and control structure looked flat-footed compared with the fluidity of the looters’ networks on Monday, so too the tax and benefit scheme is broken. There is inappropriate generosity and inappropriate cruelty.

Was Monday a canary call of dangers ahead? Or a moment of madness? None of us know, but whichever it is, I think there is a need to have some sort of collective discussion about what sort of Britain we want.

I’m writing this in a sleepless night. I usually sleep like a dormouse and am unsure whether my lack of sleep is a need to get these thoughts out of my head and onto paper. Or whether my still slightly jangled nerves pumped adrenalin because of a sound in the garden. I looked out of the window to see a sleek (on the edge of chubby) fox sitting staring at me on the wall. I’ve seen the havoc that foxes can wreak on a hen house but while many people described the looters as ‘animals’ their behaviour seemed so very human.