For the short flight from London to Manchester, I sat by the rearmost window on the east side of the plane. I'd negotiated this seat with a British Airways gate agent, who was incredulous that I'd rather have a window than the ability to recline. That small, oval porthole provided a great survey of the countryside.
The patterned layout of subdivisions always stand out from the air. Dense English-style suburbs--familiar from Doctor Who episodes--lacked the huge lawns and garages that are a feature of suburbs in the Western US. Heading north out of London, the urban landscape soon gave over to rural pastures. Mature hedgerows of full-grown trees traced property boundaries and split the land into a puzzle of improbable polygons. Farmland nosed right into towns, small villages appeared every few miles, and canals traced out subtle elevation contours. As we approached the industrial north, the topography was cut by occasional bluffs and rocky gorges. Ever optimistic, I fruitlessly scanned the landscape for castles.
Landing in north-England Manchester, I would travel by ground to Leeds. The train line from Manchester to Leeds was out of service, and I instead navigated a patched-together system of bus and rail. In one highlight, the bus passed near a spectacular 1000-foot long brick rail trestle. To save on shipping costs, I had instead chose to carry a good deal of luggage: I was wearing a backpack and messenger bag, and pulling a big duffel strapped atop a garish pink wheelie bag. I was really struck by the helpfulness of a rail station attendant, who, carrying the god-awful pink bag, led me through a labyrinth of walkways in Huddersfield to catch my train with moments to spare. In another demonstration of Yorkshire character, Rob, a young graphic designer, loaned me his phone to call Kelly then generously lugged my duffle across the Leeds rail station. I met Kelly's warm embrace outside a row of turnstiles, and we stepped out into the Saturday evening bustle of Leeds. I was still had my wits about me when I disembarked onto the platform under the grand steel-and-glass hall of the Leeds rail terminal, but in the evening darkness, walking the stone-paved streets under ancient brick and slate structures, our neighborhood had a surreal edge and seemed lost in time. Long haul!
My grasp on time had been shaken by our walk through a 200-year old neighborhood, but my mind was completely blown when I opened the apartment window at Dewhirst, leaned out to survey the view, and watched a steam locomotive race past on the elevated rail line down the block. As the classic lines of the Pullman cars swept under the wake of steam, Kelly and I spotted folks dining in the soft glow of oil lamps.