The British weather really turned it on for the bus trip to Manchester. Cold and rainy again, yes! And, as usual I'm a mixture of emotions. Happy that I'm heading somewhere new and meeting some new people. A bit scared that these people will hate me or more likely that I will offend them in some way. Depressed that I have to spend the next two or so hours festering in public transport. But on the whole floating along just on the happy side of neutral as usual, with a little grin on the inside still.
Arriving at Manchester bus station I fumbled around with my enormous bag for five mintues until I composed myself. OK, I have to get from the bus station to the train station in a city I've never been to. No worries, just ask the person behind the ticket window. She says there are three main stations in Manchester. OK. I took a punt and caught the #1 bus from the bus station to the train station. It seemed loigical and it was free.
Arriving at the the train station and staring up at the arrivals and departures board I can't help but think how screwed I would be if I were at moscow train station or something similar. After gettingmy ticket and the most filling but cheapest lunch possible from the trian station I stood on the platform which seemed like it was in france I had to walk so far. I was becoming more depressed as I waited for the train. I was hungry again, getting wetter and colder by the minute. But then my saviour, Richard Branson. His train swept into the station like lightning bolt from heaven. I was soon on my way and the only thing playing on my mind was what the hell did these relatives look like.
I ambled down the platform at Southport and my eyes darted from left left to right right quicker than a buck in hunting season. Who was picking me up, man or woman? How old were they? And then our eyes met. I knew it was him. Tweed from head to toe. Awesome. Slightly boweyed, thick glasses, tie and vest. Oh, yes. Thats my lift. His name was Robert but everyone calls him Fraser. So the conversation begins as always with plesantries and polite discussion about the nature of the journey. I only hope this can suffice until we get 'home'. It does, thankgod, I was not in the mood to have to actually talk about something that requires brain function.
We arrive at the house and I'm happy. It is a stereotypical english house and I am keen to experience the wonder it holds. The first of these wonders is Gladys, Fraser's wife. She is your grandma in a different costume and she has a constant supply of tea and biscuits. I am sampling the deligthts of tea and shortbread within five minutes of entering the house. They're good.
So following an afternoon of tea and chatting I embark on my first homecooked english meal. There is so much food on the table it's ridiculous. And then there is the food over on the kitchen bench that doesn't fit on the table and of course the toast that is had with every dinner. So I dig in, as I am pretty hungry. There is about five slices of some mytery cold meat staring back at me enticing me to digest it. I do. The first slice is a new taste for me. Yeah I deffinately haven't had this before. The second slice intrigues me enough to ask Gladys what the mytery meat is. As I close my lips around the third piece Glagys answers. I'm not sure if was my loud chewing or Gladys' quiet nature, but I didn't catch the name. The third piece leaves my mouth and I ask again. The answer comes back loud and clear. "Lamb's Tongue." "Mmmmm, it's great I've not had it before", was my prompt reply.
Fraser and Gladys are scottish ex-pats who have lived in England for most of thier lives. Fraser used to be a civil engineer so there were a few conversations about what I want to do with my future and engineering in general. Conversation is a term used lightly however. Fraser is first and foremost, Scottish. His accent is still very thick and he is very proud of that fact. I found his accent and general style of conversation akin to Billy Connelly. In that he can ramble seemingly about nothing for a good ten minutes without so much time as to take a breath. He will then end with a somewhat rethorical question about the local area which he cannot answer, nor can I. Thus we sit in silence for as long as it takes for one of us to produce a new topic of conversation and the cycle repeats. I don't mind however. Old people can be an excellent source of information if ones has the time to let the ramble on. Time I had and experience was cerntainly in the bag of Gladys and Fraser. They are a very well travelled couple, having seen many countries throughout europe, so I got some good stuff from them.
Southport is on the west coast of England just north of Liverpool. It a little over 200 years old and served mainly as a beachside holiday town for most of it's history. Not far from Liverpool and Manchester it is now famous in England for it's main street, Lord street. The main section of this street runs for about one km and is said to be some of the best shopping in the UK, or so Faser says. Other than holidaying and shopping, the town has a proud prawning culture. The beach, and I use the term lightly, consists of large silt flats on which prawning trucks drive across. Yes thats right trucks. Really odd looking things, believe me.
To my eyes, despite the beach, shops and prawns, Southport is little more than a glorified retirement village. Thus if you ever visit be ready to drive at 5 kph below the speed limit the whole time. It kind of has that run down feeling about it and this was amplified ten fold when I vistised Blackpool. This is the next major beachside town north of Southport. Fair enough I was there on a Monday and it wasn't in summer, but come on. A coat of paint once every twenty years could be helpful. The foreshore at Blackpool looks the same as it did forty or fifty years ago. It didn't inspire a feeling of riotous joy within my bowels. So I went the the movies after having my first full english breakfast and midday. The breakfast and movie were good. Blackpool was cold, rainy and forty years out of date. I think the Brits should leave the whole beachside holiday town thing to those countries who have real beachs and sunny weather.
On the whole my experience in Southport was a good one. The hospitality of Fraser and Gladys was amazing and it was good to sleep in a bed again.
