Ever walk along Royal York Crescent? Admiring the views, the architectural facades of past wealth, maybe peering in through the windows to get a peek at life on the otherside? (I’m yet to see James McAvoy or Rebecca Hall clatter onto the paving – bonus points if you get the reference). Continue reading “Royal York Crescent”
You don’t have to look far to see the physical impact of WW2 in Bristol; the myriad of concrete greys in Broadmead; the skeletal shells of St Peter’s church standing sombrely alone in Castle park and across the river the spectral vestiges of Temple church leans into the silence that separates it from the busy thoroughfare of Victoria street just metres away.
All of these, in their own way, starkly show the total devastation caused by the bombers. But on top of this, personally, there are two scars, a splinter and some pock marks, which every time I see them bring home to me the sheer force these incendiaries smashed Bristol and its inhabitants with.
I reckon I am justified in saying that Bristol stomps to its own beat: street art, poo buses, mayors in red trousers, water slides, its public clocks…….
Let’s set the scene. You are sauntering along the top of Corn Street, maybe you’re heading to eat some falafel and browse the stands in St Nick’s market, maybe you have spent your pay check sipping cocktails at the Rummer and are now heading to tipple your way down Small Street….
Whatever you have been doing next time you are mooching outside front entrance to St Nick’s on Corn Street have a little glance upwards to the scarlet and white clock that is ticking away the time over your head.