The Great Northern Sanity Tour: Escaping Bristol's 'Issues'

Trading Bristol's Ethical Posturing for the Refreshing Sanity of Leigh, Hebden Bridge & Ramsbottom.

This week all seemed to start off quite well, until I experienced a complete breakdown in Lowton, Lancs, at 3 am (ish) on Wednesday, and only three miles from my destination. Now, having traveled over 200 miles to reach this far, and with only a few minor seizures along the way, I honestly believed I was going to make it to Leigh, where, after a good sleep and a fresh start later on that morning, the problem could be sorted. But no. As it transpired, the problem was terminal, and a new clutch would be needed for Simon's camper van.

Simon, I should explain, is a longstanding friend I come to visit in Leigh. He'd given me a lift to this, my second home, following his visit to Zummerzet—yes, Zummerzet, you know, "zider" country. Anyway, I'll continue with my stunning travel guide a little later, as I tour the Northwest. For now, though, it will come as no great surprise that the intended, long recovery sleep didn't happen. With eyes like yellow patches in the Lancashire snow, I persevered against everything my body and mind were telling me not to do, and zombified forward for much-needed vittles close to the bus station, where I got into conversation with Phil, the owner of an outdoor catering unit.

As I awaited what turned out to be a bacon barm, almost the size of a side plate, and Truly Scrumptious, by the way, I learned a lot about the history of the town. Addicts and late-night drunks who fight were nothing new, but not, however (at least the drunks and fighting part), in recent years. Simon reflected on his northern existence while working down south, and I reflected on how joyful it was to be able to leave the asylum of Bristol and head to the Northwest for some relative normality, by comparison.

Being tired of Bristol's relentless ethical posturing and the lingering scent of last week's Palestinian protesters. And the city's self-appointed "adult play areas" (read: previous blog), filling me with more dread than a climate change pamphlet, it was clearly time for a swift, satirical treat to parts of the Northwest I hadn't visited before. Because, up there, "issues" are what you get with a dodgy pasty, not a personality trait.

Forget your Southern 'ooh la la's and rambling anecdotes. Up North, they're straight to the point, like a rusty nail through your foot. Sarcasm is their love language, and self-deprecation being their preferred mode of communication. They joke about grim weather and shite football because, frankly, life's funnier when you embrace the absurdity. This blunt honesty is a revelation after enduring the thin-skinned hypersensitivity endemic to the South, where every mildly disagreeable opinion triggers an existential crisis for the 'perpetually aggrieved' Gen Z and Alpha cohorts. Apparently, my decade of weathering Pacific Northwest barbs makes me a "hardened misanthrope," but I call it emotional resilience. Newsflash: taking offense is a choice, not a mandatory subscription.

First stop, Hebden Bridge. Now, being a typical Southerner with very little knowledge of Yorkshire, the county, except for Leeds—I visited some years back for a "girlfriend experience" at the time: cricket, Yorkshire tea, Emmerdale, Countdown, and mills. Until the Black Dyke Mill Band added to my knowledge of the county, through being, well, suddenly world-famous in the day. Oh, and Terry Wogan. Now, knowing how popular brass bands are up North, I naturally assumed these were the most famous out of all other towns that had similar. So, when it came to Hebden Bridge, well, how much more incorrect could I have been? Not a Black Dyke Band to be seen, or heard of!

Nestled in West Yorkshire's steep Pennine hills, this isn't just a town; it's a social experiment in living ethically – provided the Wi-Fi's decent. Once "Trouser Town," it now churns out art, independent thought, and a pervasive scent of defiance. Its unique "double-decker" houses are a testament to building on sheer stubbornness. This place draws artists, writers, and the LGBTQ+ community, creating an inclusive, liberal ethos that would make a Bristolian "kidult" feel positively understated. They banned plastic bags years ago, proving that true activism doesn't require a protest banner every Saturday. While its politics lean fiercely Labour and Green, the Northern pragmatism keeps the collective navel-gazing to a minimum. Even the annual floods are just another excuse for dry-witted resilience.

Cross into Lancashire, and you find Ramsbottom. If Hebden Bridge is a vibrant, slightly chaotic canvas of self-expression, Ramsbottom is a sensible, well-poured pint. Its mill town heritage has transitioned into pleasant, traditional Northern life. Here, the vibe is charming, but thankfully lacks the persistent hum of self-aware quirkiness. It attracts families and those who appreciate a good local pub without needing to decode interpretive dance. Politically, it's a traditional Labour-Conservative battleground, happily unburdened by any grand counter-cultural statements. The pace? Genuinely serene. No impromptu drum circles, just the gentle chug of a steam train – a soothing balm after the non-stop cacophony of Southern 'wokeness.

So, why these Northern havens? Simple: the refreshing contrast. After enduring Bristol's constant engagement and ethical sermons, the North offers a genuine exhale. Here, you can breathe air not thick with revolutionary zeal, where the biggest debate is about whose prize-winning marrow is most magnificent.

As for those who find my bluntness offensive: my 'counsellor training' (yes, really!) taught me that hurt feelings often stem from an internal struggle. It’s about your ego, folks. Developing a "water off a duck's back" mentality will save you a fortune in therapy bills. Fifty quid an hour? Please! Send that money to me instead. It’ll fund this 'ahem' – fag and tea-induced writing frenzy.

Now, just days from returning down south from 'up North', where sanity and humour has topped me up, and all the bleeding hearts down South can go whistle 'til the weekend. I'll be back then, even more fired up with my usual dose of daily wit and wisdom. Until then, you deserve the rest. I know I do!

P.S. Well, they say 'sleep on it,' and I certainly did. It's now 8 am the day after, and I woke up with the 'Brighouse and Rastrick' brass band as my first thought of the day. I knew I was missing something, other than the usual five million brain cells. So, now I'm on the damn subject of brass bands and their association with the North, I'll give it up before I begin. As, aside from a cursory glance, I have as much interest in brass bands as I do in Castro's (Fidel, by the way) choice of socks.