Homecoming

Armley to Bradford. Ten miles I’ve seen a thousand times, punctuated by stories from the past.  Armley is where I would call home, Bradford is forever resigned to be where I am from. A friend once told me that I would feel at home anywhere, but Armley feels like the home I have been most committed to. I’ve bought a house and cat (equally as stressful) and started to solidify my life here.  

So then the road that connects Armley and Bradford is more than just one that has been heavily invested in (the infamous cycle highway and much improved public transport). It is one that delves into me, linking the past and present. Much as with any meanderings into the past, this journey can be fast and fleeting or treacherously lengthy.

The first part of the journey is always uphill.  The crowning jewel atop the hill is the Traveller’s Rest (affectionately dubbed ‘The Travs’), where many a de-briefing breakfast has been held. At the opposite end of the hill lies Armley Prison, a foreboding fortress that is usually the first thing people mention when I tell them where I live.  

On past The Travs we join Stanningley Bypass, the main lifeline linking Leeds and Bradford.  A lot of money has been spent to encourage travel from the latter to the former, but I tend to spend most of my time travelling in the opposite direction.  At the end of the Bypass we start to climb another hill, the brow of which marks halfway in distance, but rarely in time. This swift exodus of Leeds and, at times, laborious re-entry of Bradford seems to mirror the way time accelerates the more experience you have with it. The 14 years since I left Bradford have flown by with ever increasing urgency, barely stopping to mark the changing of the seasons. Each one relentlessly gives way to the next, just as one turn always leads to the next on this road I have travelled so frequently.  

Also at the brow of the hill is the venue where my uncle-in-law held his 50th birthday party, some 12 years ago. As well as being at the border line of the two cities, this place regularly makes me think of people who are no longer passengers on the same journey as me. My uncle is of Afro-Caribbean descent and in the later portions of the evening, the party was punctuated by the music that reflected this. My grandparents (very much elderly, white people), stole the show by ballroom dancing around the floor to some dub reggae. Everyone was delighted by the sight, revelling in the beauty of two cultures colliding. 

…revelling in the beauty of two cultures colliding.

As we travel onwards in our journey towards the final destination, the road becomes much busier and more hectic. There are two distinct routes from this point to Bradford city centre.  For many years I took the route I deemed to be the most direct. It wasn’t until very recently, when a friend of mine had to frequent the same route, that I changed my opinion. He highlighted the free-flowing nature of the lengthier route. So after years of doing the same thing, one word from a friend changed my way of thinking; as is so often the way.  

From here we descend the hill into Bradford city centre. The change in culture is palpable, the pubs of Armley Town Street give way to dessert bars, many neon-lit takeaways, mosques and temples. It is at this stage of the journey that frustration can begin to descend. Like a leaky roof left unchecked, this can be barely noticeable at first, but over time the build up can start to cause problems. I am often making this journey at rush hour and the start-stop nature of the traffic can lead to my good mood dripping from the ceiling and down the walls, leaving me feeling damp and dreary. Sitting behind the wheel for any length of time is not conducive to calm and serene thoughts. As with many things in the modern age, we have a tendency to focus on a singular point in front of us. Whether that means being hunched over a computer, phone or steering wheel  We slowly begin to round the shoulders and compress the diaphragm, leading to less oxygen circulation and less clear thoughts. Much as in life, we have a tendency to focus on a singular point in the future and dedicate so much of our time and energy to it. Then when the moment comes, we can be left feeling hollow or disappointed. Or maybe after the moment has passed we are once again staring into the future asking “What now?”.

At the bottom of the hill lies Bradford city centre. Centenary square has some very grand and beautiful architecture. Reminiscent of a time when Bradford was a thriving and powerful city.  Since then the city centre can feel a little bleak.  Many shops on the high street stand empty, and the atmosphere seems to lack the hustle and bustle of its nearest neighbour. My mother refutes me with disapproval when I describe it as ‘a shithole’. She cites its community spirit and multiculturalism among its strengths; I do not dispute this. But since I was a child I have felt as though this place doesn’t have very much to give me. I spent most of my adolescence travelling to other places to go out or spend time. Maybe my ability to find “a home” in most places is because of my disaffection with the city I was born in.