A long weekend...

With both Friday and Monday off work, last weekend was a lovely and relaxing one spent mooching in and around Manchester with Howard. I managed to squeeze in several long runs along the Rochdale Canal and around Milnrow, we camped it up on Canal St, we saw some theatre and enjoyed a lengthy walk on Sunday around the local network of reservoirs.

Following a long run along the Canal and back into Milnrow, Friday was a lazy day spent reading, drinking and eating. I've not read any fiction in a while so how wonderful to get lost in Robert Harris' book, Fatherland. It's totally compelling. The evening dissolved into lots of wine, a lovely risotto and some plums stewed in sherry with cinnamon. Who'd have thought that sitting on my arse all day could be such fun? Heaven.

Saturday was spent in Manchester itself. After a scamper past the Christmas Market tat, a quick lunch and a detour to Harvey Nichols, where we drowned each other in Terre d'Hermès, we made our way to Canal St for a drink or two (well, maybe three or four). The evening was spent watching Dickie Beau's one man show, Blackouts: Twilight of the Idols. We really didn't know what to expect but I'm so pleased we saw it. Time Out described it as, "the drag show at the end of the world". It was funny and moving and absolutely gorgeous; well worth a trip to the end of the world and certainly worth the cock stride to the Contact Theatre down Oxford Road.

After a substantial breakfast on Sunday, we headed East out of Milnrow, under the M62 and toward the string of reservoirs in the hills. The weather was clear, the skies were blue and we weren't the only ones enjoying the unseasonably good weather.

Despite being reasonably fit, after Sunday's walk I had legs like whips. You certainly use different muscles on a 4 hr walk in the hills than you do when running, cycling or swimming. Negotiating stairs on Monday morning was a painful and dangerous activity.

Monday was a mirror to Friday; after an early morning run, I spent most of the day in a chilled state of relaxation; reading, drinking and eating. In the late afternoon we set off into Manchester, for me to get my train home to Welsh Wales. We stopped for a drink or three on Canal St to toast a splendid weekend.

I'll leave you with this performance by Dickie Beau that I found on You Tube. Go see him if you get the chance.

1 Year Ago:

My inner demon...

Where in the world...?

I don't find it easy choosing holiday destinations. I don't mean those sun & sand holidays where one beach is much like another; they're easy to choose. No, I mean the city break type holiday where I try to go to somewhere that interests me, somewhere with plenty of exploring potential; somewhere that can keep me curious for at least a week.

In recent years I've been to New York, Rome, Lisbon, Madrid and Istanbul. As you might expect from that list, all of them held my attention for the entire stay and some I'd be more than happy to return to for further exploration. Usually, by early Spring, a city will suggest itself and after a little fact finding I'll book a flight and hotel. This year nothing has suggested itself.

I think the reason is because this year's holiday coincides with my 50th birthday and I've been under some pressure (all self generated) to find somewhere special. So in addition to satisfying all the usual criteria, this year's destination has to be somewhere worthy of a landmark birthday, somewhere that I can look back on fondly in my (anec)dotage.

Should I opt for a beach holiday and just let this landmark slip by in a haze of suntan spray and alcohol? Should I settle for a city that I've been to before? At least that way I know what to expect and where exactly I should spend my actual 50th? Should I choose one of those destinations that are sometimes referred to as the holiday of a lifetime? Tokyo, San Fransisco and Buenos Aires are three that have offered themselves up as contenders to bankrupt me as I slide into my sixth decade.

Last weekend I finally booked somewhere. This place has always been on the list but I've never quite managed to visit. Strange really why it didn't occur to me earlier in the year but within minutes of thinking about it, I'd checked out a few recommendations on Trip Advisor, booked the hotel and was researching flights from the UK.

This city has been fixed in my imagination since my teenage reading of Christopher Isherwood's early novels. A growing awareness of gay history and the liberal outlook of the Weimar Republic further rooted it in my mind. So where have I chosen to pass my half century? Berlin, of course, and I'm so excited!

1 Year Ago:

Infected...

København...

This weekend has seen me overcome with a wave of nostalgia for Copenhagen. You see, I've been watching the original Danish version of The Killing (Forbrydelsen, "The Crime"). Those of you who have watched it will know that it's a slow burning crime thriller set in the Danish capital, Copenhagen.

I visited Copenhagen frequently between 1997 and 2007 and grew quite fond of the town. I say town because it doesn't feel like a city, not when you're on foot. Once in the centre, you can easily walk to most places. A lot of the architecture is beautiful and old. However, you regularly stumble upon new, functional architecture that has a beauty too. It's this mix that makes it a magical place (if only the critics of London's Shard would understand this). In my mind Copenhagen is a city of two halves.

There's the vibrant colours of places like Nyhavn, the tourist harbour area with its brightly coloured house fronts; its busy cafes and bars overlooking the canal. Copenhagen is dotted with such areas; they bustle with a vibrant warmth and friendliness. And then there's it's skyline, punctured by the copper-green spires of countless churches. In the summer, this makes Copenhagen one of the prettiest capitals I've ever been to.

Then there's the darker side to this city. I don't mean sinister; just darker, colder and greyer in feel as well as colour. And indeed, it is this dark quality that The Killing exploits; set during the month of November, there's a damp and gloomy quality to series. It's quite evocative, with many of the scenes being set at night. This darker aspect of Copenhagen lends itself quite well to this drama.

These darker quarters of the city seem drained of colour, almost monochrome. No gayly painted frontages here - just grey and angular. And this has a beauty too. No-one quite does grey and angular like the Danes. Pictured above is the Royal Library, nicknamed the Black Diamond because of its striking marble and glass exterior. It's used as a location in the series and it's an exquisitely beautiful building.

If you've not seen The Killing, give it a try; the cast and atmosphere are great. I could say the same about Copenhagen itself; why not give it a try; the cast and atmosphere are great!

1 Year Ago:

Land of my fathers. And mothers...

Run 09/07/2012 17:50
Distance	5:02 km	Time	28:17
Pace	5:38 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Sunshine but windy.

Run 06/07/2012 16:37
Distance	5:18 km	Time	28:57
Pace	5:36 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Showers.

Sometimes, no other word will do...

I was waiting for the Number 7 this afternoon, looking forward to getting home and enjoying this unseasonably good weather. The bus was running late and those waiting with me began tutting. It seemed that I wasn't the only one keen to escape the centre of Cardiff for the cool breeze of Cardiff Bay and beyond.

Just as we'd all but given up hope, a bus rounded the corner. Could this be the elusive Number 7, I thought. I squinted into the sunshine to see if I could read the number on the front panel but, as it drew closer, it became evident that the front panel was blank; no number and no destination.

The bus stopped and I tentatively walked forward to ask if this was, indeed, the Number 7. Other passengers seemed to have the same idea, as I wasn't the only one to move toward the bus. We'd none of us walked more than a step or two when the bus pulled off. Did he not see us?

As he began to round the next corner but before disappearing out of sight, the rear panel became illuminated with the elusive number 7.

What a cunt!

Today's run at 17:04
Distance	5.02 km	Time	28:39
Pace	5:42 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Bright and sunny.

Human suffering...

On waking this morning, I found that I had a blister on each of my heels from all the walking I did in Manchester in a spanking brand new pair of shoes on the weekend. These blisters were further irritated today by my work shoes. They haven't broken yet but it can only be a matter of time.

I also have a pain at the back of my leg, just above the knee. I can only describe the feeling as that sharp sort of pain you get when you damage a muscle. I have no idea how this happened. Throughout today it's felt, at best, uncomfortable and, at times, quite painful - like I've torn something.

The mad looking photo of me to the right was taken at a restaurant in Salford Quays on Sunday afternoon. Perhaps the face I'm pulling is as a result of the pain I'm suffering or maybe it's the cessation of it because I've just sat down, taken a glug of my wine and started to relax? Whatever the reason, I quite like it.

I very nearly didn't go running tonight because of my weekend war wounds. In the end, I decided to go for a short run only, promising myself that at the first sign of a twinge I would stop and return home. As it happened, my heels and my leg suffered less pain on my run than they had at any point throughout today. Isn't the body a wonderful thing?

I hurt like hell again now though...

Today's run at 17:26
Distance	5.01 km	Time	28:08
Pace	5:37 min/km	Cadence	79 spm
Comments: Sunshine and showers.

Caerdydd bound...

I'm jammed in a packed carriage of football fans returning from the Manchester United/Aston Villa game. I want a pee but getting to the loo is out of the question. I'd hoped that most would get out at Crewe; they didn't. At least I have a seat - a wet seat, if I can't have a pee very soon.

As we pull into Shrewsbury, the clouds that fleck the sky are aflame with the dying rays of a blood red setting sun. A child across the aisle has farted and the sickly sweet stench permeates the entire carriage. He giggles with his friend. I am not giggling.

I close my eyes and try to relax. It's been a lovely, spur of the moment, surprise of a weekend. Manchester has certainly changed a lot since I was properly there last. I've passed through it a few times in the last couple of years but you can't gauge a town from passing through it. One thing that hasn't changed is the relaxing welcome it has always extended toward me.

The aisle seems a little more navigable and so I squeeze my way to loo but when I get there a passenger tells me that it's out of order. I press forward to the next carriage and after an agonising wait, enter the vacated loo. It stinks of an acrid and eye watering ammonia. At last I manage to have a pee. The relief almost moves me to tears, or is it the ammonia?

The sun has now disappeared and the sky moves from the palest icy blue in the west to the deepest inky indigo in the east. On returning to my seat, the children are giggling again. I suspect the worst and my suspicions are well founded; that sweet sickly wave envelops me again.

I close my eyes again and the carriage babble melts into a fuzz. I have enjoyed seeing Manchester again; the beautiful Town Hall and Albert Square, Salford Quays, the new MediaCityUK and (is the Pope a Catholic?) Canal St. In addition to this was the introduction to Milnrow and a 70s themed evening in the local pub, complete with a snake-skinned, cat-suited lounge singer. The whole weekend was made even more pleasurable by some lovely meals and, of course, the company of my friend, Howard.

This train journey is irritating me now. I want stretch out but can't. My new shoes have rubbed my heels and they feel a bit sore. I am tired and I feel a bit tetchy. I want to be home and in bed now. I close my eyes and start to day dream. I am awoken by children's giggles again...

Manchesterford bound...

I'm off to Manchester to visit a mate for the weekend. A last minute decision and a welcome diversion. I used to catch this train every day once, when I worked in Abergavenny. The three and a half hour train journey feels interminably longer as it winds through the Welsh Marches.

After 45 minutes or so, a recorded voice announces that we will shortly arrive in Abergavenny. A ripple of chatter passes through the carriage as it's clear to most that the last station was Abergavenny and we are now on the outskirts of Hereford.

The mix of accents changes as the journey progresses. The sing song Welsh accents interspersed with a couple of broad flat Manchester accents become tempered with the modulations of Standard English as we move north and take on more of a border market town middle class mix.

The conductor picks his way through the carriages. He is tall and slim with buzzed salt n pepper hair. He's in his late thirties and wears an earring. He is confident and has a broad smile. Handsome. The woman pushing the refreshment trolley is more squat and less confident. Not so handsome in her nylon tabard and Deirdre Barlow glasses.

Looking out of the carriage windows, one side is flat and English; the other side is hilly and Welsh. Everywhere is shrouded in a dank dampness that blankets us from any April sunshine. Although, this begins to lift and look a lot brighter as we snake our way northward.

The architecture of domestic housing changes; gone is that South Wales dark stone and whitewash, replaced by a Victorian red brick build. A few properties boast St George's Cross or Union flags. Y Ddraig Goch is noticeable only by its absence.

A man takes the seat opposite me. He types furiously on his Apple laptop. He's in his late twenties. He wears a dull green t-shirt and a fawn corduroy flat cap. He's short and his plump legs are poured into that fashion must have, skinny leg sand coloured chinos. The folly of youth.

Blue sky is now visible between the monumental stacks of cumulus clouds. I continue reading my book, The Two of Us, Sheila Hancock's account of her life with John Thaw. I'm impressed by her honesty and envious of the happiness she found with this man.

Across the aisle sit a fat girl and her male friend. They're students. I know this because they've just been discussing their exams in May. The carriage becomes filled with a strange stench that emanates from them; cheese and onion from the crisps he's eating and a heady chemical mix from the black nail varnish she's applying. I feel sick.

The train is now quite full, as it crawls through the suburbs of Manchester. People are laughing and children are yelling and babies are gurgling and grunting. I shall be glad to get off; to escape this carriage and these people, to stretch my cramped legs, to soak up Manchester and, of course, to meet my mate.