Author: oyster28catcher (JRA)

Platform 14.

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Unmoving floor, a walkway without tread.

Far away and far off.  Platform 14.

Almost to the horizon, beyond a travelator.

Up stairs and along a fair way. Platform 14.

The timezones crossed often lead your way.

Rammed carriages versus spacious misplaced trains. Platform 14.

Visit the world, a gateway to Blackpool.

Delays, delays, delays… and freight passing. Platform 14.

Is the moon closer or the sun further?

Pass through the bowels of Piccadilly. Platform 14.

Exposed to the elements: a wind tunnel or a sauna.

A detached island left hanging outside. Platform 14.

“STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE!”

Platform 14: visit Manchester some time.

Intrusive Thoughts

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Saturday was a tough day. Tough to get out of bed. Tough to put one leg in front of the other.

Heading to the ground, I suddenly felt the need to cry, and slip away somewhere alone. I’ve always found it easy to step back and find solace or pull myself up. Today felt different. It was as if some gremlin was hanging on my toes inviting me to slide under ground into a pool of blackness. I dropped my friend Nat a message and went for a refreshing wander. I thought about calling my best mate Dan and realised how much that I didn’t want to speak. I sat and stared at the bleak Ashton canal. Its uninviting tones warned away those beyond water. I peered at leaves and their array of colours. Autumn’s cooler breezes had arrived.

Motivation is limited. I feel energy levels have sapped. I don’t want to do anything. It seems like every day is a push against a wall that won’t budge. I have so much to live for. I have so much to be responsuible for. I am incredibly lucky. Yet, the coolness of autumn and the shedding leaves feel unwelcome right now. I know days and nights will improve. I believe things will get easier but today, like Saturday, it is okay not be okay. A cliche maybe. But, that is how I feel.

Negativity at football seemed magnified. Impatient fans failed to cloke their dislike for Nunes and Nico. Neither did much wrong. Both put in a shift. I felt like turning on fellow fans. Instead I applauded those players louder and more passionately. Armchair and stand managers should still back their team, no matter who wears the shirt. It didn’t improve my mood.  Then I pondered calling Dan again but realised I had no desire to talk. Sorry Dan, miss you matey.

I want to thank my friends at City, the ones I bumped into and nattered to, and remained with after the game for a while. Chatting to my mates, I happened upon a chance to talk to and get a programmed signed by the modest and splendid poet and author Lemn Sissay (OBE FRSL). His book Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist has always stood out in my mind. Rain is another example that I can’t forget. And Daz, for the lift to Gateshead to see City draw with Newcastle Utd in the Subway Butty League Cup – and win a bonus point 7-6 on penalties. Daz, Haguey, Alison, Hagred and co have kept me sane for the last few years of football. A great bunch that have distracted me. I love my friends and those I encounter at work, at football, and in my life. They make me stronger and I hope they feel my heart.

And back to Saturday morning, collecting Astrid at the newly opened North View mental health hospital at Crumpsall. It was opened by Ricky Hatton. I couldn’t help think about his departure from life. I was born in Crumpsall, and I caught my vision and thoughts about my own mortality. I fear death. I have too much left to do. I also know how close the fine line between here and the next life appears. That void or whatever you believe isn’t far away. And at Crumpsall as I waited for my sister. I found my overactive mind imagining the ripple effect of my death. It hurt. It shook me. I questioned my own mind. It scared me. I’m not ready. I have much to do.

I played football again tonight. I didn’t want to play. I felt numb. I went to clear my head and pull my socks up. So, what now? Think I’ll call Dan tomorrow.

Playground Blues.

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Winner stays on; bell has gone; looks like Champion is our John.

Clock is ticking; defender is nicking; choice of the picking.

Up steps Daz;

gives it to Gaz;

who crosses to Saz.

The goal is gaping; the truants vaping; all of a sudden net is shaking.

The cries are heard from afar; teacher shouts, “nul point”;

Damn – VAR.

Hunt’s Pot (by Pen-y-Ghent)

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Beneath the grasses: legs held dangling,
Soft earthly ledges of rich limestone with pure airflow.
The smooth voyage by rail no trouble at all
With striding pathways of steel, through vales of appeal,
across lands cast in green carpets. Beneath cloudless skies
Which beam light into deep crags, the cracked fragmented
Grounds of eternity. Dramatic streams fade from surface
To run a course beyond that of passing eyes, under
Forgotten routes beyond roots. From within the crack
Above life embraces opportunity and greenery reaches upwards
Tumbling automatically without consideration.
Its eagerness to devour air and grow stronger.
Survival of beasts under leafy drapes and salient
Canopies of loath shade across clumsy stacks of statuary shattered stone.
This emerald-laced cauldron sways with breezes lightly.
Winds have bombarded, ice has frozen the past, and much matter
has been dispelled. But today, in the soft sun, this Hunt’s Pot
is Heaven on Earth. Savage not now.

Glydwr Fach

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Suitable clothing essential; weather forecast doubtful.

Rise upward substantial; pathway gladly delightful.

Leisurely windproof defences; innocense heartfelt sails.

Purity overlooks consequences; understanding enormous fails.

Symbolic titular crests; hearing howling gales.

Passion references requests; waterproof wandering fairytales.

Vagrant.

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I see myself in the faces of the homelessness.

I see the long stares and uncertainty in their eyes.

They are we and we are them.

Treading a fine line between have and have not.

I see the hunger, desperation, and worry.

I see the lost love, the failed support, and a state that has abandoned.

They are we and we are them.

The line so fine it hangs on a cliff edge.

I see the need for help and belonging.

I see the pathway to drowned dreams in pools of booze.

They are what we are and we are what they are.

The fine thread line dangling from a torn jacket.

I see the hope in your eyes when human kindness embraces.

I see the joy when words are heard.

You’re like me and I’m like you.

The line between have and have not closer than you know.

I hear your songs, your rants at pigeons, and your belly rumble.

I hear your tears near-silently fall to the floor.

You are me and I am you.

The damn line we crawl in life.

I feel it all.

But not as they do. Not yet.

Maybe soon.

And you’ll be like me, just like you.

And I’ll be you.

Lost in Nature

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Lost in nature, we forgot the time; Chasing mountain hares along a line; Admiring butterflies hanging on fine; This was a day where we forgot the time.

Let out until darkness, we lost our way; Plenty of words we could speak and say; Through flags full of colour we did pray; This was a day we could play our way.

Under stars that shone down on us; Hands in hands feeling the buzz; Taking the moments, each one a plus; Not one feeling deemed superfluous.

These were the places, the times, and the escapes; Swallowed within sprawled landscapes; Every connection spans and takes shapes; These moments, these memories: wonderful escapes.

Stop the boats.

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Stop the boats. Build a bridge.

Britain is full. Full of talent and welcoming.

Pull back the benefits. Make everything free.

They bomb the hospitals. With packages of flowers.

They desecrate values. Values added by workforce.

They disrepute our creation. Creation of meaningful multicultural love.

“Make Britain great again.” A great big hub of togetherness.

Too many seek asylum. Only lunatics seek asylum in these social conditions.

Our border security is compromised. Compromise: we have shores all around us.

Climate is displacing people. We’re an island and it could soon be us displaced.

They come here just to avoid detention. Didn’t we arrest you for more?

They impact the economy for wages, public services, and debt. A soap opera of lives before.

There is no social integration. Poverty, housing, and acculturation are new, right?

Humanitarian crises are not our responsibility. Are you human?

They create a labour shortage. Nobody wants to work anymore.

There is no political populism. See also: the Internet.

The backlogs are too big. Work smarter.

Irregular migration was caused by war. Stop selling bombs to bomber nations.

Migrants have vulnerabilities. Tell that to the victims of Operation Yew Tree

The journeys are dangerous. Make the journeys fair and simple.

Healthcare is strained. Stop underfunding and selling it off in the first place.

Social services are crippled. Perhaps the fraud cases in the system needs more tackling.

Our national identity is being lost. The identity imposed upon many has had hundreds of years of changes and adaptation.

Human rights prevent us doing the right thing. Until your Human Rights are breached.

Discrimination will rise. You’re doing a great job, already.

These refugees don’t understand us. Welcome and educate all.

They come to divide us. You DIVIDE us.

I didn’t put my right arm up. Yes, sure… Adolf.

Stop the boats. Build a bridge.

Summer ’25: VIII – “Hello A.C., my old friend…”

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Guangdong didn’t miss me. Nor I missed Guangdong. The mosquito feeding service resumed, probably, as the train doors slid open. “Attack! Attack! Attack!”

Luofushan is a big bulging expanse of subtropical mountain. Swallowed by managed parkland,  concrete and stone passages loop and weave its sides. Temples, museums, and a cable-car ropeway dot the landscape amongst entertainment options like a jungle chair ride and multiple fish food vending machines. Huizhou’s economy is further boosted by passionfruit and banana sales at the gate. Cold tofu desserts add other sweet options. Water is essential. The big expanse commands your appetite.

In regards of appetite, a giant chicken restaurant, for consumption of regular-sized roast chickens was the final stop of the day. The playground, climbing walls, balance wires, and swings afterwards tested hands and feet, and possibly full bellies too. A decent enough end to a day of bug-spotting (including bee eggs for sale – as food). The stadium-sized chicken restaurant was stupendously busy and barely a quarter of it was open. Must avoid a fully-booked attendance.

“No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, otrovert

Heated up, overly tired, and distracted, we headed up GaoBangShan again. My mood was odd, angry (and not just at City losing to Spurs), and I should not have gone out. The distant lightning storm to the west was not just a metaphor. I really was starting to feel upset that soon I’d be leaving to the U.K. My emotions and behaviour were inexcusable. Hot heads can’t cool in heat. I had to apologise for being petty and silly.

“When anger rises, think of the consequences.” – Confucius (孔子Kǒngzǐ)

Time slipped away fast and no sooner had I arrived back in Guangdong, it seemed I was on a plane heading for Manchester, via Cairo. Time really is precious.

“How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” – Dr. Seuss, controversial author.

Summer ’25: 37:13 of railway travels.

There:

0838 Huiyang > Guangzhou South 1:18
1057 GZ South > Yangshuo 2:34

1321 Yangshuo > Guiyang North 3:07

1533 Guiyang East > Chengdu East 3:45

0909 Chengdu East > Guangtong 6:24
1622 Guangtong > Dali 1:08

1147 Dali > Shangri-la 4:19

22:35

And back again:

1200 Shangri-la > Dali 2:15

1413 Dali > Nanning 6:34

1128 Nanning > Guangzhou South 2:45
1430 GZ South > Huiyang 1:20

14:38

Summer ’25: VII – Dali (again) x Nanning

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A cuddly panda left behind. It needed rescuing. A stop in Dali was a necessity. Between wanders to temples and another cable car ride, things were taken easy, in a way holidays should be taken. Slowly and steady.

Stomach bugs are horrid. Talking on the porcelain telephone to the Almight above between vomiting and laying liquid pooh at a dramatic rate is no fun. A day of rest and little else felt like a waste. Sometimes you have to stay still to move forwards. Such crappy days demand rest. And water. Lots and lots of water. No matter how much was drank and how much medicine, it didn’t seem to shift. Until it shifted. And then it took a day for an appetite to reappear.

Cable car ride two (Zhonghe ropeway) required dangling legs and the breeze in our hair. The climb upwards had close views of squirrels on treetops and butterflies drifting below. At the summit of the ride, midway up Cangshan’s slopes, the Zhonghe Temple spreads across, underneath a relatively level footpath stretching for miles in each direction. The Cloud Pass (or Jade Belt Road) pathway runs for 20km (12.5 miles). Crossing waterfalls, jutting views, and numerous pools of water make the walk through fresh air and greenery a pleasant one.

Yunnan is famous for its connection to Tibetan living, Buddhist beliefs, cats, and nature. The mountains, valleys, and produce of the region are all closer to nature than other Chinese provinces. Behind the commercial fronts, there is a more open conversation being had, and with that more freedoms. It is rare to see women smoking, same-sex relationships, or plentiful pet dogs and cats around China’s huge cities and metropolitan areas. In Yunnan’s Dali and Shangri-la, this is the norm. Old values and West met East refusing to let go. The attraction of Yunnan is visible and bold. Fresh air and nature invite tourism and migration. This Tibetan plateau is much more than a tourist spot. It makes you feel. Connection never switches off.

A journey to Nanning would break our return to Guangdong. A late night arrival and a late morning departure made finding a hotel close to the station essential to the plan. If you enjoy living underground like the Teenage Murant Ninja Turtles, then Geli hotel is for you. Located in the shiny expanse of the Nanning East Railway Station there is little reason to see daylight again. A choice of late nights foods, drinks, and delivery services help you to chill deeper underground.

The railway check in level is just above the lair, so be prepared for bright light when you choose to resurface. A decent room with an unusual view behind massive curtains. Expect comfortable beds and a decent rainforest effect shower. The toilet pumps are a tad loud, like the underground railway system, but sleep comes as easy as a fox in a den. With sleep in the bag our 1128 train to Guangzhou South was easy. The 17 minutes to transfer at the other end was a tad tight. All in all, we did it. We connected well. Job done.

From wanders on high to hours on trains, the pleasantries of travel made way for return.

Summer ’25: VI – Shangri-la III

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The slow ride on the altitude-gaining train involved various stops. Passing loops. Halts. Two stations. Sales pitches along the railway carriage. Glorious views sandwiched by lengthy tunnels. More tunnels. A relaxed pace ride through even more tunnels. The usual high speed of China’s modern rail network suddenly felt more sedate. The 304km (189 miles) Dali to Shangri-la train ride didn’t whiz by, but the views between the tunnels were nonetheless fascinating. 4 hours and 19 minutes later, we arrived. My third time to purposefully visit Shangrila.

Departing straight into a local taxi (Didi滴滴) the flats of Xiānggélǐlā 香格里拉 spread out. A wide valley of farmland amongst mountains and foothills. Picturesque didn’t fit the description well enough. Cattle crossed the narrow road. Horses in lines moved with passengers on their backs. Many visitors wore Tibetan attire for photographs. Vast colourful prayer pyramids rose from the ground. Much was geared for photographers and travellers. Between the lines, the real Tibetan vibes and cultures intertwined a rapidly growing western front of China.

3km to the west of the railway station, a lodging was booked. The Lodge, Shangri-la Lao Shay Youth Hostel [香格里拉老谢车马店] is a dated yet cosy wooden lodge of three floors on the Napahai grasslands of Xiānggélǐlā at [石卡雪山纳帕海景区石卡路吉奴古村]. The sharp roof, underlay by two floors with fully-covered balconies, and timber towered over a small open courtyard. A secondary building, like a letter-L, stood to its left, housing an internal courtyard. The hotel’s names stretched across the side. A small faded sign erected at the roadside broke up a field of emptiness. In Tibetan the name looks better [སེམས་ཀྱི་ཉི་ཟླ།]. The barley wooden frames scattered by roadside and along the grasslands

A trip to the Shangri-La Alpine Botanical Garden (香格里拉高山植物园) didn’t disappoint. Seeing wild hares, a plethora of birds and insects, and countless plants filled the majority of an afternoon. The high-altitude 7,247 hectare garden of flora overlooked the expansive Napa lake below. The world first low and high altitude garden happens to be the Tibetan plain’s sole dedicated botanical garden. 30RMB well spent. We exited the park at 1830, slightly after the 1700 closing time. On returning, we walked to Gongbi Village Stop (贡比村站) and admired the drones flying iver the farmland spraying whatever it is on whatever was growing. Over the road the traditional hand methods tended to wheat fields.

Later, I’d research the longest tunnels and be shocked that a ten mile long tunnel we’d passed through didn’t even make China’s top 395 railway tunnels! The engineers of China have built incredible spans of bridges and underground tunnels, making it hard for you to comprehend or imagine the scale of the great nation of China. Its lands are 9.57 million km² (3.7 million miles). All of the land of Europe is 10.53 million km² (3.933 million miles²). And bigger than the USA. Only Russia (almost double) and Canada (by a smidgeon) are greater in size. Travelling in China really shows you how far and how diverse the landscape is, even if cities and towns take on a copy and paste feel. You’re never more than a mile from a Luckin Coffee (China’s equivalent to Starbucks or Costa Coffee). Other coffee shops are available.

Summer ’25: V – Dali

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Dali Lannatai Coffee Cute Pet Hotel [大理兰纳泰式咖啡萌宠美宿] located on人民路下段东玉街51号 has a rather girthy name. Coffee and pets. What more do you need?! Turned out to be such a cosy place that we stayed twice – and even extended the second stay for a few nights. It did help that our Mancunian Panda teddy was left behind on the first stay. A rescue mission return was required.

A steep cable car up Cangshan took us close to the highest summit. At the top end, Ganton ropeway has paths leading to a lake view at Ximatan (3920m up) and many, many stairs. The cloud cover, damp, thinner air, and gentle breezy movement made walking a tad slippy but doable. Dali-Cangshan UNESCO Global Geopark is gorgeous but treacherous at parts. Steep rocks, sudden drops, and streams slice through the vast landscape offering ample opportunities to test gravity.

The ancient old town of Dali dispersed with its modernity amongst many nooks and crannies is quaint and wild. Party life sits alongside the classic. It feels freer than most Chinese cities and towns. It howls and it barks. Yet, with hotels that have star-gazing rooftops and hidden parks with orange-bellied Hiamalyan squirrels chewing on dropped nuts, the old and new work well together. Its cosmopolitan heartbeat is loud and quiet at the same time. There’s adventure outside the walls and discovery within. Cafes, artists, independent dealers of novel fashion, and mass-produced and much-copied formulas work for space. This synergy is harmony in action. Yet, even having visited in 2021, I could sense that in 2025, the growth and change of Dali was unsustainable and yet another characterless city will emerge. I hope I am wrong!

The amount of disposable oxygen canisters for sale on the ropeway concourse and single-use rain jackets, hoods, hats and more is worrying. Yes, oxygen may be needed but surely adapting and slowing your wandering is much more sensible. Altitude is not to be played with and rising a kilometre in Yunnan can be fatal if rushed. Any dizziness, lightheaded feelings etc can be alarm bells. Take it at a more gentle pace and don’t race to the top. Or not: just buy oxygen canisters.

I can understand hiring big waterproof rain and winter jackets but far too much has been geared for waste. Nature needs harmony and help. The litter levels were low on the pathways at the top but it was clear that far too many people ignore waste bins. This is a global problem. Not just China. Not just Manchester. Scenic streams and lakes need that crispness and freshness that only Mother Nature can bring. We must reconnect to the air, water, and plants that bring us so much comfort and essential conditioning for life. With that the air around Dali and Cangshan is lush and comfortable. Next, Shangri-la calls once again.

Yunnan, of course, was great for fruits. The fertile soils and close proximity of Vietnam and other nations (for swift importing) gave numerous chances to try new fruits. Nothing stood out. Apart from local blueberries and raspberries. The sharp Salak or snake fruit wasn’t that tasty. Nor a fruit that looked like a purple banana. God bless the Silk Road.

Summer ’25: IV – Pandering

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Train G1756 darted from Guiyang in Guizhou to Sichuan’s capital Chengdu. 640km (397 miles) on a bullet-nosed train. It’s streamlined front glided rather than rattled like a British medium-speed train. This high speed travel in China doesn’t hold back.

Within the cauldron of Chengdu’s heat, we sizzled like steak straight off a barbecue. Greeted by 40°C heat at around 9pm, we suckered in deep breaths of fire, and wheeled our luggage beyond the great subway network. After finding our night dwelling, we grabbed food at a Dongbei restaurant. A friendly ginger tomcat the size of a small dog greeted us and with that we left the restaurant stuffed and sleepy. Every dish had spice, something Chengdu is famous for. We quickly noted that future meals will need better vetting.

中国人爱塑料袋 (Chinese loves plastic bags) should be a slogan. Bags for fruit with skins on. Bags for single pieces of shopping. Bags for life are out there. Bags for bags. Too many bags. The ocean, the parks, the mountains, and every nook and cranny, seem littered with bags. Those that are lucky make it to landfill or rubbish bins. Out of the system, only to be replaced by more plastic bags. Don’t get me wrong, the U.K. has had far too many plastic bags and is transitioning away from bags at a more sedate pace but plastic use is far lower for packaging. In fact, in China, it is evident from my travels, that disposable single-used plastic seems just as high as when I arrived in 2014. In a nation of a billion plus people, that has global implications. And it causes arguments. Too many plastic bags. Our daytime backpack featured several.

The lodgings chosen sat close to the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding (成都大熊猫繁育研究基地). We entered via the relatively quiet west gate, after boarding a 15RMB bus, that sling-shotted around the giant site. We were quickly dashing from enclosure for enclosure, enjoying every moment we could alongside giant black and white pandas. Due to the excessive and oppressive summer heat, every panda utilised their extensive indoor enclosures. Having visited the place in 2021, I was surprised at how big the expansion and refurbishment of the whole panda breeding centre was. It was truly inspiring to see such a delightful upgrade. Panda-labelled orange coffees and Italian-style hotdogs were needed, as well as copious amounts of water. Some walking was done. A day’s worth.

After exiting the red panda enclosures, we were hounded out of the park and departed for dinner and a rest. Many pandas seen. “Full mouths ate quiet mouths”, I uttered as we tucked into a buffet-style dinner. It had been a brilliant day out. The following day called for a visit to the Chengdu Natural History Museum, complete with many dinosaur fossils and stuffed animals. No stuffed pandas. People are funny about pandas and taxidermy. Seems every other animal is fair game but the national symbolised animal is prized too well for a stuffing. Cuddly toys, however, are everywhere. And huge sculptures. You name it and a panda is on it in Chengdu. Clothing: check. Cigarettes and alcohol: check. Umbrellas, magnets, books, and more: on it.

Summer ’25: III – Bamboozled

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Treated by family to a spot of travel and unwinding, we set off from a station nearly an hour from the place of residence.

In Guangdong, like many cities in China, you can drive by taxi for an hour and not leave the jurisdiction of that same city. Not even close. So, we arrived at station one, departed for station two, and arrived at station three in Yangshuo. 300 miles [482km] travelled across 2 hours and 42 minutes. Or further than London, and quicker than any British railway journey. Huizhou is massive at around 4,217 square miles [10,922 km²]. It is substantially large compared to neighbouring Dongguan, Shenzhen, and Guangzhou. A formidable region to navigate.

Badly Drawn Boy’s Everybody’s Stalking marked the train journey’s early moments through the tunnels of Guangxi. Through fine lyrics befitting the view out of train D1814’s window, the train rolled into the Karst-mountain surroundings of Yángshuò (阳朔). A quick lift from our hotel owner seen us dropped off at the digs, 阳朔源园饭店（20元人民币风景区店) 兴坪镇画山厄根底村76号, which is with Ergendi village. A bag of huángpí (黄皮) wampees (Clausena lansium) followed a delicious dinner. The grape-sized fragrant fruit, with a large seed core, sat well on a belly of bamboo-cooked sticky rice, some baby bamboo shoots, and pork sliced between taro. After seeing the cormorant fishing birds posing, the Li River (漓江Lí Jiāng) flower, and a multitude of tourist boats, nightfall followed a heavy storm. Bedtime soon followed.

Seems like many paradise regions become Piccadilly Gardens: that once flowery bowl of sunshine now covered in concrete and steel. The village of XingPing, near Yangshuo, has undertaken drastic growth in little over two decades, and really symbolised the idiom rén shān rén hǎi (人山人海) or people mountain, people sea. Allegedly the river Li below flows with over 215 cubic metres per sec9nd. The people on the shores seemed equally dense. Photographers, fashion people, tourists, local canvassers, and every manner of people seemed to congest the tiny footpaths of XingPing (兴坪) village.

We had a plastic bamboo raft trip upstream on the Li river, savouring the humongous Karst peaks and bends of the powerful river. More food, including a full chicken boiled in a soup within a bamboo tune followed. Plenty of wandering was had. Sadly, without speedy legs, the waterfall pond, Pubutang and Tiger Mountain Waterfall shall have to wait. Our train outwards to Guiyang was caught on time.

Guiyang straddles the eastern edge of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau and is apparently around 1100m [3600′] in altitude which may seem debatable as you traverse districts. The roads resemble Spaghetti Junction in Birmingham (England) with bridges crisscrossing lengthy tunnels and slopes throughout the surface routes. A decent subway and rail system serves the city and outer region. The Yelang valley was a pleasure to visit, a truly unique and hidden gem within China. Twenty years were taken for the recreation of an ancient culture. The stone sculptures and artwork are fantastic. Song Peilun’s vision is a highly recommended visit. Oh, and we saw a monkey at the Qianling Mountain Park, having clambered a large peak and being consumed by a passing storm. That was fun.

Summer ’25: II – Resurrection.

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Kitted out with 20kg of luggage, first a tram then a train before midnight allowed Manchester International Airport to be reached. After an evening and afternoon sleep from 1600-2300, I felt refreshed and raring to go. I pottered around with my Greggs breakfasts and waited to fly.

Even as the alloted 0300hr check-in desk opening came, I still had energy to burn. My bags would rejoin me at Brussels Airport, having flew with Brussels Airlines. The world’s longest lines at passport control and the outbound gate were troublesome. The sign reading “last call” for boarding came and went. Without doubt, being second to last on the Hainan Airlines flight was nerve-wracking and not one to recommend Trip.com’s self transfer routes! I had to plead to move up the queue many times. I begged. I pleaded. I reached a wall of negative responses but managed to get there. I hate queue-jumping but I had to force the movement. Needs must!

Mickey 17, Gladiator II, and a few episodes of David Attenborough’s Asia wildlife documentary sandwiched attempts at sleep. The former of the two movies comes highly recommended for reasons of originality within the sci-fi genre. Also, fine acting from numerous characters and a fair dollop of wit gave the movie a largely good rating in my eyes. I rested as much as possible.

Landing at Shenzhen around 0500hrs on the Saturday after departing Manchester at 0600hrs on the Friday remained a good move. The timezone difference of 7 hours, a delayed departure from Manchester, and all the stress of Brussels lifted. I had made it: much thanks to family and friends for helping me to get there. Better late than never. One small step for reunification, one giant leap for family-kind.

Heroes.

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Liam Gallagher uttered a typed racial slur on Twitter/X. The late great wrestler Terry “Hulk Hogan” Bollea wasn’t shy of controversy. Meat Loaf was anti-vaccination. Never before has it been clearer that heroes are just like you and I: flawed.

“Yeah, and he’s not even a very good one… But he’s out there alone, and he’s probably scared” – lead character of Superman (2025) about the dog Krypto

Heroes are hard to find. That is, of course, the reality. For every Lance Armstrong cheating the system, there are an army of unsung volunteers, health professionals, RNLI boat crews and support staff, and countless other examples of putting others ahead of themselves. Those who deliver aid to Palestine, operate health clinics in Ukraine, or pluck refugees from the deadly English Channel go above and beyond their calling. And not all heroes wear capes: see also, Mam.

“Any sort of bullying is a terrible thing, but I think online bullying is so much worse because it’s psychological bullying” – Dean Cain, actor

And that leads me neatly to the recent fictional superhero, the one of my many childhood dreams, and many play sessions: Superman. The recent movie of the same name has earned plaudits and created a strange debate. Labelled as ‘woke’ by, the lycra-wearing superhero was the creation of children of immigrants that headed to U.S.A. Joe Shuster (artist) and Jerry Siegel (writer) would have been all too aware of the atrocities facing their fellow Jewish people. Their empathy shone through one of fiction’s greatest assets. The latest movie incarnation left me spellbound. I left the cinema with a smile, for the first time in many years. It was a joyous love letter of a movie, by James Gunn and his production team. Absolutely full of geeky details and hope.

“Knock the ‘t’ off the ‘can’t'” – George Reeves, actor

Being from elsewhere and existing in an unfamiliar landscape was my choice when I moved to China in 2014. Unlike many who seek better places to live and survive, I had the choice. That choice took me back to Britain, a new Britain, less Great, more lost. One that had departed the European Union and seemed to be having (and still is) more internal battles than a U.S. civil war. Religion, race, nationality, and gender fill newspaper covers daily. Social media, seemingly unchecked, spouts mistrust, counter-science, and conspiracy theory. The consequences lead to a broken Britain.

“A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”- Christopher Reeve, actor and activist

If being woke is to champion the smaller person, to puff your chest out at bullies, and to want a better world, then count me in on Team Superman. #SupermanIsAnImmigrant (coined in 2013 by Define America and the Harry Potter Alliance) who now deny that ideal are an example of flip-flopping u-turns that former Prime Minister Liz “Lettuce” Truss would be proud of. Much alike the latest version of Lex Luthor, excellently portrayed by Nicholas Hoult, there lies a smudge of grey amongst the confused right wing views. Those contradictions make us human. Much like the David Corenswet version of Superman. Where Christopher Reeve made generations believe a man could fly, David Corenswet has restored belief in hope once again.

“Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.” –
Christopher Reeve

Sadly, every hero stands to fall on their sword, so choose your heroes wisely. I chose my Mam as my hero for good reason (and her supply of fig biscuits).

Summer ’25: I – A Quest for Hope

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Manchester rain made a welcome return on Saturday morning. The sky cried for my departure. The greyness of overhead lines, concrete, and new high rise towers did not clash with the constant matt grey of the leaking vast sky. Blue skies and sunshine had greeted Manchester for months on end. The summer school holidays had now arrived.

Getting to Manchester International Airport’s Terminal 2 early required a 05:25am wake up, an early bus, and the 07:18 train. Kitted with a 20kg rucksack and a lighter 8kg daysack, I ran through my head the things that I may or may have not forgotten. Despite attentive planning and packing, a snag of doubt sat firmly on my shoulder.

Juneyao Airlines, complete with cluttered and near unworkable website for check-in, would be my carrier. Other airlines are available. However, on arrival, my world fell apart. Blood emptied my face my legs became jelly, and the shock of being told my visa had expired hit me like a freight train. It was not a good day.

On the train back to Manchester, I shook in rage qnd worry. I trembled. I vomited. I went to the toilet in other ways. I was empty. Panic battled with sensibility. I struggled home in a zombie-like trance. I entered the house, dropped my rucksack and backpack, and crumpled up into a bawling sack of self-hate, anger, and shame.

On telling the family, I set about rebooting myself and explored resurrection for summer plans. I immediately logged onto Chinese Visa Application Service Centre Manchester’s website and lodged my visa application. A trip to the library was necessary to gain scanned electronic copies of every passport page. And everything seemed to upload.

Sunday:

A day in the garden digging up vineweed and Himalayan-barbed-wire-bramble, with plenty of worrying and questioning of myself. A few video calls and some Bosch Legacy on the telebox. A day of limbo sandwiched by buying some Lego Duplo at a charity shop in Failsworth and an evening of cheese, sauerkraut, and bacon Polish dumplings. That all followed noticing my visa application as not being present. However, it would not allow me to apply due to a previous application. I wondered if it would go well.

Monday:

08:00 – Visa application appear online at Manchester Chinese Visa Centre website.

10:00 –  query visa at Manchester Chinese Visa Centre. Visa application received.

11:46 – email request for further information.

12:00 – further information sent.

Pottering around town. Waiting. Limbo.

15:08 – application approved. Email to print with code and hand passport in.
I legged it from the book and coffee shop.

15:24 – printed documents at Manchester Central library.

15:27 – arrive to Manchester China Visa Centre. Attempt to hand off passport and documents. Man at desk, “I’m sorry we don’t accept applications after 15:00.”
I said, “It says 10:00 – 16:00.” He replies, “That’s wrong. We open again for application drop offs at 09:00 tomorrow.” Thanked man at desk.

I’ll be back. The quest goes on. 🐝

Wednesday:

Using the mandatory bonus free day, I headed to Warrington and met Little Big Sis’ Astrid for noodles and a movie. A good switch off from recent tension.

Tuesday:

08:35 – arrival at Chinese Visa Application Service Centre, Manchester. 5th in the queue.

09:00 – Service commences.

Thursday:

08:40 collection queue, position 2.

09:05 visa in hand, all grand.

Go to bed early (16:00/17:00), wake around 22:00/23:00.

Friday’s plan:

Depart for Manchester International Airport around midnight.

03:00 – Check in.

06:00 board flight to Brussels, Belgium. Sing a Vincent Kompany song and wobble my backside like Jeremy Doku skipping past defenders. Look out for former City player Émile Mpenza.

11:40 – board flight to China, in Brussels.

Let’s be fair, I’m not so sure U.K. leisure or family visit visas are as fast.

IBE

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Sometimes you have to leave to thrive;

Your pathway takes a new direction.

Don’t worry, we’ll survive!

Take the steps away and feel satisfaction.

You leave behind smiles, confidence, and joy;

Little faces and heads crammed with more.

Systems you have fixed that once did annoy;

You did something many did adore.

You made a difference and thanks for that;

Many things changed, this much I know.

No farewell gift, leaving card, but one caveat:

Here you’re living in your Mum’s shadow.

All the best for the future!

Battle.

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Read my eyes. Read them carefully.
I heard you. I really got your gist.
I’m not talking. My words are silent.
I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.

I heard every little thing. I am not deaf.
Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me?
Look at my face. Read the expression.
A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.

Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me.
Look closer. See my body raging.
See that deep upset. I won’t speak.
I don’t want to erupt. I am close.

I have plenty to say. I hold back.
You push me and push me. And some more.
Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate.
Nothing positive to say? Thought not.

Can’t you shut up? Think of better words.
Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me.
You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry.
I count. Don’t I?

H.P. one

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Didn’t drive there; took the train. Cleaner.
Fare was fair; a voyage to fresh air. Dreamer.
Book in hand; sat in the land. Concealer.
Hull Pot is known; Hunt’s Pot unshown. Revealer.

From within the cracked crevice; a crag distant. Dramatic.
Layers of limestone; collapsed downward. Fantastic.
Roots draped low; light reflecting glow. Unsystematic.
Flowers tumble outwards; water plummets loudly. Automatic.

Spikes protruding seats; stream into ground eats. Entice.
Stacked clumsy ledges; tufted lonely shrubs. Imprecise.
Solid without flow; frozen is the mass. Shelf ice.
Emerald filled cauldron; grasses swaying lightly. Paradise.

Bugged by a musical war.

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There are cries of “keep politics out of music” by the same crowd who backed Live Aid in 1985 and its sequel in 2005. As those treated by nurses and doctors who have fled conflicts demand an NHS service at top performance. And Liam Gallagher, tweeting the untweetable on hate platform, X. What a weird time to exist.

“You can’t trust politicians. It doesn’t matter who makes a political speech. It’s all lies – and it applies to any rock star who wants to make a political speech as well.” – Bob Geldof

Bob Vylan by name, by character one who gets flack for drawing attention to a military force that kills kids and women indiscriminately. The cowardly IDF should go toe to toe with Hamas and stop the murder of the innocence. As for Hamas, they’re all nasty and need to give their head a wobble. Should we be getting worked up over Bob Vylan, Kneecap, et al? No. The sooner this war ends, the better, bur let’s be fair, this was a conflict of Britain’s creation, one that is bitter and historical, and no end appears in sight. The more bombing, the more it will drag through the next century. Hate breeds hate. Not a musician.

“Populism is dangerous.” – enjamin Netanyahu

Yet the media focuses on Ipswich duo Bob Vylan and Bobbie Vylan. The Bobs may have said their message in the wrong way and I’m sure they wouldn’t wish death on the I.D.F.’s individual members but as for an entire organisation, perhaps the downfall and end of the I.D.F. was their message. Backed by Massive Attack, Fontaines D.C., Irish soft-pop group Kneecap, Inhaler, and CMAT, it could be said that Bob Vylan were just doing what Jarvis Cocker has been doing for years: getting people talking. Anyone who thinks a musician was preaching to glamorous camping fans to uproot and take aim at the attack-minded Israel Defense Force is stupid. Surely?

“…slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared.” H.G. Wells. War of the Worlds.

And war, what exactly is it good for? Edwin Starr said, “absolutely nothing”, and I agree wholeheartedly. It divides, it displaces, it distresses, it decimates cultures and people and humanity. It leaves gaping gaps, chasms of pain, and heartbreaking weaknesses. It is exploited and manipulated to the needs of the powers, dictatorship-like leaderships, and turns neighbours on each other. So, should we all stay silent about the United Nations-labelled genocide of Gaza and Palestine? Should we cheer as U.S. and Israel jets pass into Iranian skies and decorate the ground with a blanket of fireballs?

“Any story hits you harder if the person delivering it doesn’t sound like some news robot but in fact sounds like a real person having the reactions a real person would.” – journalist, Ira Glass

Every war and conflict displaces people. And where do they go? To the first people that welcome them. Be that Norway, Sweden, or the U.K., desperate people seek safety and sanctuary, even if their religion or ideals conflict with their place of refuge. And then, most people adapt, they blend in, and they thrive under conditions of opportunity. Or not. I recently was lucky enough to meet a Kurdish nurse who works for the N.H.S. in Greater Manchester. I felt privileged to be treated by her, a doctor, and a multinational team of workers there to improve the lives and health of many. My infected bites, like racism and xenophobia, an irritation that life does not need.

“I do not discriminate.” – Liam Gallagher, via X.

As I sit on the train, I am once again reminded of the lyrics, “in this world where we lice, there should be more happiness”. Spot on. Silence the bullets and bombs, let voices of love speak clearer and with more weight than a tweet or misguided message on stage. The time for talking is always. The time for action over inaction is always. So, what now? Are we as a species of humanity to be slain by the small-minded delivery methods of stage and social media?

“The first step to achieve something is to believe.” – Diogo Jota 4/12/1996-3/7/2025 [footballer (Liverpool, Portugal, Paços de Ferreira, Gondomar)]

The Fog Of Guilt.

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Are there many novels that celebrate and champion persistence? Do all cops in novels ignore authority and tackle the weight of bureaucracy through ignorance? Early reviews pointed me to a challenge.

Inspector Imanishi Investigates by Seichō Matsumoto is a post-World War II novel originally penned in 1989. The lead protagonist, unsurprisingly, is Inspector Imanishi. He is a world apart from the rebellious bulldozing Harry Bosch found in Michael Connelly’s novel series. Instead, Imanishi is methodical, modest, and clinically human in his approach. He persists without need of a lightbulb moment or an act of genius. At every turn Inspector Imanishi displays empathy. He listens. He feels the victims’ lives. He endures whilst remaining ethical and responsible. The fog of guilt lurks. Grief and shame wallow. The good Inspector appears to put himself in others’ shoes.

What happens when guilt becomes unbearable? Drawing on a contrast of a post-war reshaping metropolitan Tokyo and that of rural provincial Japan, this book uses geography, culture, and traditional etiquette to deliver the truth. Themes of memory and recollection, urban alienation, interconnectedness, societal and historical tensions. The slow movement of justice’s machine underlines the need for structure and hierarchy but appears to comment on a lack of urgency. What secrets live between city lights and village shadows? Can you bury a crime in a country still healing?

How well can you really hide from who you were? The plot features new names, misdirection, reinvented pasts to escape guilt, shame, and consequences shows disguise as social-cultural adaptation. In an ambiguous world, the detective is a constant: deeply moral. Rarely does a slow-burn of a book stand out, yet from the opening chapter to the conclusion, I was hooked. The jigsaw was essentially a lesson in the importance of detail. Like a cold-poured Guinness, “Good things come to those who…. wait.” The novel’s ending seemed more reflective than triumphant yet left me wanting more. Was reluctant justice enough? Does empathy make the best detective?

Matsumoto’s Inspector Imanishi Investigates is a novel celebrating persistence and realism. It is the antidote to flashy books filled with spectacle and glamour. The notes of fading traditional values give hints at a nation’s people suffering an identity crisis – or at least instability causing a social flux. I found myself pondering, how much of our world’s remembered reality was misremembered? Can patience solve what brilliance cannot? Is closure enough when lives have already been lost?

The Best Mam In The Land & All The World

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Today is the eve of Shaun Goater Day, but it is also a celebration of something equally important. Whilst the title may appear like a click bait piece for a major newspaper publication, this is a message of hope and love. Happy Birthday to my Mam. The best of the best, and the only one to spend a day in 1982 forcing me out into the world like a long skriking jobby.

Homework: Interview with my Mum: 1

Go relax, enjoy, and spend quality time in York. Hux is with you eternally. Revisit memories with warmth, eat copious amounts of cake, wander the pathways, and drop into the churches and walled parts that both capture hearts and offer solace. In your absence, think about the strawberries as a large snail attacks them. Leave a birthday offering of chocolate biscuits before you exit the house.

Refer to: Mams, moms, mums… 妈妈

This has been a tough bloody year but you have been tougher. Find youth in your power and potential to deal with anything. Find hope in knowing your grandchild shall arrive here one day soon, no matter what. Find joy in the tenderness of the luck to share fantastic experiences with someone you love. Forget the garden that needs gardening. Remember to buy fig biscuits for a birthday treat to share.

See also: Dear Mum…

I’m sure that I speak on behalf of Astrid and Paul Jr., in saying that you are loved by us all, and it is unconditional. Happy birthday. Love from us all. Peace and love. 🐝

Previously: “OK, mum’s the word!”

2019 edition. Other Mummy bits.

Outside in.

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How do you find yourself when part of you seems lost or missing?

What if being different is the thing you ignore: your greatest strength?

How far into the abyss would you go to protect someone you love?

What if the world doesn’t make sense, would you still abide by the conventional rules?

What if the bravest thing you can be is yourself and no-one else?

Can your gentlest whisper say more than your loudest shout?

Where do you turn when you feel that you don’t fit in anywhere?

Who said being a mature grown-up had to be anything like perfect?

When everything feels torn and twisted, can you still believe in hope?

Is there only one way of life (that’s your own)?