To Hull and Back
On Holiday in Unsung Britain
Tom Chesshyre
TO HULL AND BACK
Copyright Tom Chesshyre 2010
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pp. 18, extract from 'Here' by Philip Larkin printed by kind permission of Faber & Faber
pp. 36, extract from Coasting by Jonathan Raban printed by kind permission of Pan Macmillan
pp. 43, extract from 'Slough' by John Betjeman
pp. 145, extract from 'Poem in October' from The Poems by Dylan Thomas printed by kind permission of Dent
pp. 205, extract from Kingdom Come by J. G. Ballard
pp. 225, extract from English Journey by J. B. Priestley
pp. 315, extract from 'Friday Night at the Royal Station Hotel' by Philip Larkin printed by kind permission of Faber & Faber
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CONTENTS
1. East Coast Main Line: Never Dull in Hull?
2. Hull: Poems and Parties by the Humber
3. Slough: 'We Must Celebrate the Trading Estate!'
4. Salford: 'The Real Coronation Street'
5. Derry: On Holiday in Bogside
6. Port Talbot: 'On Yer Bike, Boyo!'
7. Norwich: Mustard Factories, Che Guevara and Delia
8. Milton Keynes: Feeling Green in the City of Dreams
9. Coventry: Cappuccino with Lady Godiva
10. South Shields: Fish 'n' Chips and Ancient History
11. Croydon: Planes, Trains and Friendly Faces
12. Hell: Not Such a Bad Place
13. Postscript: Back in Hull
Acknowledgements
EAST COAST MAIN LINE: NEVER DULL IN HULL?
S tanding on the concourse at King's Cross station, a quarter of an hour before my train north, I get a strange sensation. Around me are hundreds of people, mainly commuters judging by the suits and laptop bags, as well as others catching trains to go home, and students with huge rucksacks. But here I am with my black roll-along case about to go on holiday.
I peer around, feeling like an outsider: what am I doing taking a long weekend break in Britain by train? Everyone else seems to be bustling with purpose; absorbed in their routines. They don't look like tourists. But I am one: about to visit a place I'd never have thought of seeing for anything but work (a dull trade conference perhaps, or a last-minute business meeting). It almost seems old-fashioned, I suddenly realise as I gaze towards the platforms, as if I've stepped back in time: I'm taking a break in the UK to a spot that somehow feels forgotten and that's certainly not what most people identify with 'holiday', travelling along rail tracks laid down in the nineteenth century before planes had even been invented.
Next to the departure board, there's a large television. 'WATCHDOG SLAMS HEATHROW AND GATWICK' says a headline. Britain's Competition Commission has attacked airport authorities for 'failing to manage security queues, causing unacceptable delays to passengers, crew and flights', the presenter announces, in a weary tone that seems to suggest: 'Yes, they've messed it all up again.' The authorities, the presenter continues, have acted 'against the public interest'. I look about the station again, glad not to be stuck in a security jam at Heathrow or Gatwick. There's a long row of strawberry-red 'Fast Ticket' machines, without a soul at them. There's a quirky florist selling sunflowers, a Marks and Spencer and a sandwich shop called Ixxy's from where I've just bought an expensive bagel and a drink for the trip. A couple of very camp middle-aged men pass by. One is in charge of a bright white, fluffy poodle that looks as though it's just been put through a washing machine. He theatrically says to his companion: 'The one thirty to Darlington. That's the one you want, dear!' A young man with a bushy beard, a waistcoat and spectacles is reading a slim book of poetry (T. S. Eliot) by the ticket machines. He's leaning against a wall with his legs stretched out casually, looking as though he's waiting for an English literature lecture.
There's an almost bohemian feel to the place. It's laid-back, simple to navigate, and a far cry from all the airport queues. I'd probably still be at check-in at Heathrow. Here I'm walking towards a small, shiny green train, already on my way.
So begins my journey into Unsung Britain, on a sunny early October day. I'm heading for Hull and I'm on a mission: to see the parts of the country that most people choose to ignore. I'm soon to become very well acquainted with Britain's train stations (not always quite as relaxed as King's Cross on my first morning) as well as some of the country's most overlooked, least celebrated spots: places that I know from newspaper reports, but have rarely, if ever, seen in the travel section pages. Am I mad? After all, as a journalist working for the travel desk of a national paper I have access to some of the most exotic, exclusive and downright glamorous locations on the globe. It's my job to fly to sunny, far-away locations.
So why am I waiting for a train to Hull at 10 a.m. on a cold Friday morning? I suppose I could just pretend I'm bored of hot climes, pristine beaches and living it up, but that wouldn't be quite true (although once you've been to one all-inclusive resort with palm trees and pools with swim-up bars, you've really been to them all). What it comes down to is that I'm simply very curious about the parts of Britain that so often get passed by. What goes on in the bits of the country that so few people bother to see: the parts so few ever reach? After spending six months travelling through the 'unspellable', off-the-beaten-track parts of Eastern Europe for How Low Can You Go? a book on places you can't pronounce, but can reach on dirt-cheap budget flights I've realised that one of the best ways to get to know a country is to take yourself to the less touristy, less obvious destinations. And let's face it: things don't get much less touristy than Slough (waiting for me with its famous trading estate a couple of weekends away). Finding out how these places sell themselves as 'tourist sights', how they chase the increasingly important tourist pound, will give me an insight into life in Britain that I just wouldn't have got in traditional holiday spots.
