A trip up memory lane (aka the M6)

When I was younger, every Summer a trip up to the little village of Bunbury in Cheshire was practically guaranteed to spend some time with my Gran and the rest of my mother's family. Unfortunately in 2001 my Gran died, and so did the tradition. But this year I decided that it was time to go back and so embarked upon a rather tortuous 10 hour journey with an average speed of about 36mph to revisit (note, don't try and drive out of Cornwall on a Saturday in August).


I've always had something of a fascination with the family, and I think living close to everyone in my dad's family, along with having an unusual surname helps that, but I've also felt a little neglectful of my mother's side of the tree.

Going back to a place you haven't been too for a while is always a little odd, but it can be fascinating what you remember. Obviously I wasn't that young the last time I went up, but six years is enough time to see things differently. For me, it was the little white metal fences around the fields, the signs designating the different cattle herds, and rather peculiarly (and a little scarily) my aunt's TV remote control that triggered memories.

But Cheshire really is a lovely place, full of rolling hills and lovely little towns. It really does feel a world away from the place I live in down here, and I guess with it being so far away, it could be. Chester for instance is a really beautiful city, and Tarporley is such a tranquil and friendly little village that I wonder why I'm not living there now.



In fact, even the wildlife in Cheshire seems tame. I drew open the curtains on the first morning to be greeted by a family of rabbits looking at me from the garden, all of whom seemed entirely unmoved by my appearence in my boxer shorts. Squirrels would have eaten out of my hand had I had anything to feed them with, and even flies posed for their photo to be taken. A far cry from the seagulls in Cornwall.


There's one sentiment that seems ubiquitous when meeting people you haven't seen for some time, namely "Oh, haven't you grown!" And there's no proper answer, but an encounter with my 43 year old cousin got me thinking. While he remarked that he wouldn't have recognised me, I spotted him from some distance off. This leads to the worrying conclusion that at some point in the next 22 years I'll reach the stage where I won't have grown and altered when people see me again, which also means that I'm approaching the stage where my adult features are set - leaving precious little time for the bits I don't like to ebb away!

In fact, while I was there I felt oddly compelled to engage in the sort of activities that my younger self would have done - from visiting the local ice cream parlour, to buying gingerbreadmen from the bakery, and waving to passing trains. In fact, I did engage in such activities in what I can only assume was some sort of nostalgic desire to regress to my childhood for I think that I will forever associate Cheshire with childhood holidays, no matter how long ago they were.