A MAd dash to Manchester

I wore my bee earrings to my graduation ceremony in Manchester, as Chris Palmer and Jinny Peberday of Skyravenwolf had given them to me and I probably wouldn't have even enrolled for my MA at Manchester Writing School without Jinny's insistence I'd regret it if I didn't. So it was important they - Chris and Jinny - were there with me in some form yesterday (along with The Satchel of Poetry, which they also made and which was carrying a pair of comfier shoes for when the Northerner and I got lost walking back to the car park, which we did, hopelessly, despite the Northerner being Northern and having lived in Manchester for several years in the late 90s and early 00s). (It's changed a lot, apparently.)

Deborah means 'bee', of course, and when I'd put them on, I wasn't thinking of the fact that bees are important for Manchester too. In fact, they're everywhere as a symbols of defiance post the 2017 Manchester Arena bombing, and it's good to see them.

Rochdale Canal

Canal Street

Manchester looking simultaneously like its 21st-century self and 1920s Berlin

First stop, the Midland Hotel to enrol and get togged up. It was great seeing my fellow-students, Tina, Liz and Cherry, in the queue as I'd never met them in person, having followed a distance learning course via Teams. (Although it was all distance learning anyway during the worst of Covid.)

Then we proceeded across the concourse to the Bridgewater Hall, where the ceremony was taking place.

There was a lot of clapping to be done, of course; important to keep clapping as you yourself have been clapped across the stage for that brief don't-fall-over moment in the bright lights. (The Northerner did some whooping too, which proves you can't take him anywhere, not even up North.) As a bonus, the speeches were pretty good, as these things go, especially the one by Letitia Jones, President of the Student Union, whose mum got a clap as she was simultaneously getting her PhD 'somewhere down the road'.)  

Oh and at the end of the row behind, a glimpse of Mohammed, who was also on our course, and the swish of our superlative tutor Kim Moore in passing as she exited the stage, all very pleasing.

(I'm really quite proud of both of us for getting all this studying done in our old age.)

Unfortunately we couldn't hang about and socialise afterwards, as we'd been up since 3am in order to get to Manchester comfortably by 8am, and despite a marathon dog-sitting session in the middle of the day by Son the Elder, Cwtch the Collie was waiting patiently for us in her crate back home. (Although since there was someone getting her doctorate with her dog in her shoulder bag, I could have tried stuffing her in The Satchel of Poetry, I suppose.)

A lovely, if exhausting, day ... and meanwhile the poems I wrote during the course continue to make their way in the world, with one of them being shortlisted for this year's Plough Prize and another being Ink Sweat & Tears' pick of the month in April. Thank you, Manchester and the Manchester Writing School. 

A Streetcar Named Desire at Manchester Royal Exchange

After a reading at Poetry Cafe - Refreshed in Cheltenham last Wednesday night, followed by a poetry brochure delivery run to Weston-Super-Mare after work on Thursday, Friday saw me driving up to Leeds to stay with my elder daughter, before heading across to Manchester the next day to see 'A Streetcar Named Desire' at the Royal Exchange.  

Saturday was also Labour Leadership Election Mark II day. This felt inauspicious for two reasons, for as my daughter reminded me, the day after the last General Election we had travelled together to Liverpool to see the Leonora Carrington exhibition, our only solace on a murky day when the sun didn't even rise. And the day after the disaster that was the EU Referendum, which has given rise to such a surge in hate crime, my partner and I had picked her up in Leeds and taken her to North Yorkshire for a few days' break.  Things come in threes, we decided. Were we going to be treated to another major political disappointment at the hands of a deeply undemocratic Labour Party, which had removed her and her siblings' right to vote - despite pocketing their money? 

Happily, the answer was No. And the play, starring another Corbyn supporter, Maxine Peake, as Blanche DuBois, was superb. I have to admit, I couldn't quite envisage the forthright, no nonsense Boltonian as the vulnerable yet manipulative mistress of self-delusion beforehand, but she embodied her brilliantly, a portrayal which was complemented by the rest of the excellent cast.   

Photograph: Manuel Harlan

But above all, I was struck by Tennessee Williams' gift for writing such fascinating, flawed and utterly believable characters, in works which address what we tend to think of as the most current of themes - poverty, sanity, sexism, class prejudice, racism, domestic violence, sexuality, grief. I left the theatre itching to revisit his plays, on page and stage. 

The Last Days of Troy, the First Day of Manchester

Frazzled and stiff from the purgatory of a five and a half hour drive north through endless M5/M6 roadworks, we hobbled into our seats at Manchester Royal Exchange with moments to spare.  The play we had travelled for so long to see was Simon Armitage's 'The Last Days of Troy', in which he reworks - and fills the gaps in - the conclusion of 'The Iliad'.   

It's a stunning interpretation, well worth seeing and also at the top of my books to read next pile.  One thing that struck me was the number of strong roles for women in a story that stinks of war.   I particularly admired the portrayal of Thetis, goddess-mother of Achilles,  and Andromache, the wife of Hector, by Clare Calbraith.  Also, in the difficult role of Helen, Lily Cole.  Of course, it helps that the actress has an extraordinary physical presence, but to suggest that her portrayal relies on that is to do her an injustice.  She is convincing as a woman who is constantly reflected and refracted through the eyes of men, but who has more intense relationships with women. 

From the Victorian splendour of the Palace Hotel, we stepped out the next day into a bright Mancunian morning. Apart from the odd half hour spent on the platform at Manchester Piccadilly thirty years ago, whilst en route from Lancaster, where I was a fourth year student, to Bolton where my future ex-husband was working, I had never visited Manchester before. My escort, on the other hand, has lived there before moving to Bristol, but prefers our next destination, Liverpool, so I had but an hour on Saturday morning to get a feel for the place.  This I failed to do, although I suspect it's because I didn't get to see Salford Quays.  Somehow my idea of a living, breathing city involves water and a waterfront.  

I did catch a glimpse of Bridgewater canal through this railing. No sign of Dru and NB Eve, however. 

I liked the reading room in the Central Library with the following quotation from Proverbs:  

'Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding. Exalt her, and she shall promote thee: she shall bring thee to honour, when thou dost embrace her. She shall give to thine head an ornament of grace: a crown of glory shall she deliver to thee.'

If only wisdom could be learnt from books.

I also really liked the Town Hall extension, built in a modern Gothic style in 1938.  The same architect, E Vincent Harris, designed the neighbouring library and Bristol's Council House (or 'City Hall' as we are now supposed to call it) but I much prefer this to neo-Classicism.

There were surely lots of other places to explore, had we had time, but Liverpool was calling loud and clear and so my first proper visit to Manchester ended after just a few hours.  Maybe I'll be back some time, though best not to leave it another 30 years ...