On being a northerner abroad

It's been eighteen months since I decided to accept a job in London, moving away from Newcastle after living, working and studying in the north east for about ten years.  Before that, I spent much of my childhood in Bradford and I'm definitely a Yorkshireman, even though I've always had a slightly nomadic life after being born in Australia.

It's still a bit strange, truth be told.  For most of my time growing up, London was a place we went to twice a year and it was a big exciting day out.  No sleep the night before- too excited- and then the first train south in the morning.  I'd usually be spark out on the late train back, with dad enjoying his beer from the buffet car.  It's weird to be working in that city I always came to as a kid.  It was even weirder when I lived in London too, although now I'm living out in the Home Counties it's a bit different.

There are things about London that I love.  Decent shops and decent coffee for one thing.  The view of the river from Waterloo bridge, and from the south bank, for another.

Swimming on Hampstead Heath is something I'd tell anyone to try once (though maybe not in winter, like some weirdoes do).  Everyone should go up Parliament Hill once

There's obviously all the good museums and art galleries and theatres (well, maybe- I can't stand shitty musicals and that's all that seems to be on now) too.

Where I live now is not London, but it has it's perks too

But you know what?  I actually really miss the North, and really don't see myself staying down here forever.  I miss being able to afford to own my home, for one thing.  Renting sucks, and I deeply resent handing over a huge chunk of my wage every month to someone else, to pay their mortgage.  My partner and I both have good jobs, yet buying down here is pretty much out of the question.  It is utterly ridiculous.  Living outside of London has the benefit of cheaper rent, but then the train company will charge obscene prices to make up for it.  My train commute, for the same distance, would be half the cost if I lived back in Yorkshire.

But even leaving the finances out of it, there's something about the northern hills that gets me.  I miss them.  I miss the different colours, the cloud, the way the hills don't look the same each hour, never mind each day.  I miss the big skies.  I sometimes- but only occasionally- miss that bitter Baltic wind that cuts you in half.

The southern rolling hills just don't have the same effect.  

Really, I miss all this:

One day I'll be going home.

Le Tour de Yorkshire

Going to watch the Tour de France has been on my bucket list for as long as I can remember, right back from when I first started watching cycling back in 1996.  I never thought I would see it in Yorkshire and, two weeks after the event, I still can't quite believe I have seen it in Yorkshire.

I think the thing that stood out for me was the way everyone has taken the cycling to heart, and really got involved.  Many- probably most- people who came out to see it probably didn't really understand what was going on.  But they were still out putting up the bunting, dressing up the trees, cheering and clapping and waving.  It was the same with the Olympics, people gamely trying to discuss the minutiae of a sport they've never seen before and really probably never will again.  I think that's the real Olympic legacy, to be totally honest: the desire to watch different minority sports rather than dismiss them out of hand.

Yorkshire was truly beautiful for the two days of the Tour's visit, and the secondary events really were pretty special.  I've never seen Huddersfield look so green

and nor, for that matter, have I ever seen Leeds so yellow.

One thing the Tour organisers do understand is that standing around for several hours waiting for the peloton is a bit boring, and that people are a captive audience.  I can think of no other reason for the Publicity Caravan, a train of novelty cars from which pretty young things in PR throw cheap plastic tat.  It brings out the desire to grab something, anything, because they don't throw things out constantly.  I know it did in me, and I was really quite chuffed with my fridge magnet, packet of seeds, cheap Gendarmerie biro and plastic Festina gym bag.  I was moderately annoyed I just missed out on the cheap cycling caps from Carrefour.  

I was even more chuffed at seeing a giant four-pack of Fruit Shoots career past me at 40mph

Not to mention the giant inflatable Miffys

and a London taxi with a bottle of wine booted to the roof.

After the novelty cars had gone, it was back to standing by the side of a road.  Luckily, the view from the "Cote de Oxenhope Moor", as the French organisers renamed the hill above Keighley, was pretty impressive

Eventually, though, the riders did arrive.  You could hear the cheers come before them, a small breakaway of a handful of riders, before the motorcycle outriders.  And then, finally, what we'd all come to see

The rider making a break for it as he came past us was just the cherry on the cake.

Two minutes later the rest of the peloton came though, riding six abreast at 20mph and shouting at people who dared stand too close to the side of the road.  And that was that.  Eighteen months in the planning, weeks in the preparation, hours in the getting there and waiting, and seconds in the passing.  

And with that they were gone, onwards towards Paris, taking the long way round.