Bristol felt like a benediction. Was it this city or the general narrative?
Arriving in Bristol, we laughed with pleasure at sight of the city. It all seemed magical and rather fun – the creative vibe, the well-preserved cultural heritage, the cleanliness, the planting schemes and the imaginative use of the 19th century docks by the harbour.
The way the canal went through the centre of Bristol felt a little like the clever manner San Antonio, Texas had integrated its river into the life of the city.
The houses in a variety of pastel colours looked like a paler variant of the paintbox effect created in Jalousie, Port au Prince, Haiti.
Getting off the train from London, everything in Bristol seemed vibrant. A cheery tune spilled out of somewhere near the station and young people walked briskly, joshing each other.
All was fresh and green as far as the eye could see.
There were no piles of rubbish anywhere.
Perhaps it’s a measure of the gloomy way British cities are increasingly described that Bristol seemed like a benediction.
The indoor St Nicholas’s Markets, established 1743, had an impressive range of quirky shops. Outside, a stallholder caressed the Nepalese tongue drums, their silvery sound surely the most melodious sales tactic ever. Inside, a Hot Sauce Emporium stocked with shelves and shelves of condiments, fiery, fruity, gingery, garlicky. A shop with metalwork from Indonesia and elsewhere. A mini nursery with lovely plants and food cans repurposed as planters. Racks and racks of clothes from India and Nepal.
The Harbourside was humming.
The Bristol Hotel (part of the worldwide Doyle collection) was everything it should’ve been.
