Cadishead

In Europe, it seems like people are strongly tied to the area that they're from. There's not as much moving around to different cities pursuing more money and higher culture. There are no misgivings about your supposed lot in life, and there is not as much of a rush to leave it all behind.

This is admirable, in that you don't have people constantly trying to become something and somebody they are most definitely not. Of course, it is also admirable to see the world and pack as many experiences in as possible in your short life, and so you can say there are two sides to this bitter coin. But instead of getting bogged down with aspirations and, of course, setting up for likely letdown in the not-too-distant future, most people settle down and live their lives.

They live!

In Portland, where I live, I think about old friends moving to Vancouver, and even the dreaded West Side, and I almost throw up in my mouth. People tend to grow up in an area, and leave it all behind as soon as they can afford to, and they start to lament how things "aren't how they used to be" back home, something that could very well be avoided if people stopped complaining about certain areas and instead invested some time and effort into making it a livable and friendly community. Neighbourhoods don't only need influxes of cash to improve the quality of life; they need people who have pride in the area, people who will stand up to criminals and violence and yuppies who move in and complain about not having a Starbucks nearby.

It is like a Patek Philippe wristwatch: You never own it - you just keep it safe for future generations.

I went to Cadishead on my last full day in Manchester. Cadishead is just down the road from Irlam, and here, when people say things are "down the road" or "just round the corner", that's exactly what they mean. Back home, I say my work is "down the road", when it actually it like five miles away, and I live "just round the corner" from my grandmother, who is a 15-minute walk away. Margo and Terry, Paul's parents, live in Cadishead and I wanted to see them before I left. The pubs scattered through the area serve as navigation points: The Ship, The White Lion, the Catholic Club, the Conservative Club, the Coach and Horses, the Cadishead Labour Club. I walk up to the house on Buckingham Road, where they've been for 41 years.

Forty-one.

This is why, after tea and some time admiring the garden, Margo is able to take me for a walk around the area. She is blind, and not too happy about it. Still, she is so familiar with the area that she can act as a tour guide around town, eventually leading us toward the chemist and the butcher shop, where Bob, the owner, has worked for about 41 years. Margo introduces me to Bob; Bob shakes my hand with his blood covered paw and introduces me to his co-worker, Paul, and Paul tells me he has relatives in Connecticut. I pretend to care.

Later, Margo says this: "He probably thinks Connecticut is right beside Oregon."

She pronounces Oregon correctly.

Off to eat at Ye Olde Red Lion, a restaurant in Warrington (again, down the road) that has "the best Peppercorn sauce this side of Irlam", according to its most recent American visitor. We all say goodbye and that I'll come back someday. We embrace. I am sad.

I hope they believe me.

TJH