BRADFORD-ON-AVON : IDYLLIC ENGLISH TOWN OR BORING SHITHOLE?
It’s a well-known fact that different people can experience the same thing in completely different ways. Remember the photo of the dress that some people saw as white and gold but most saw as black and purple?
Imagine my surprise when I recently came across a YouTube video of some Americans waxing lyrical about my home town, Bradford-on-Avon, a small historic settlement in West Wiltshire. Was this the most beautiful place in the UK, they mused? How wonderful it would be to live there! The comments on the video included many from people who like me, were born there. All of them agreed it was a great place and they loved it.
Well, I beg to differ. I fucking hate Bradford-on-Avon, or as we used to call it “Boredom-on-Avon.” Yes, I’m a contrarian, but let me make my case.
If you watch the video you will see that it is indeed a scenic and attractive-looking place on the surface. Even when I lived there I wasn’t unaware of the historical importance and beauty of the fabled Tithe Barn (14th century) and the Saxon Church (possibly 10th century), not to mention the rows of old weaver’s cottages on the hillside and the lock-up on the old town bridge. Throw in the houseboats leisurely navigating the Kennet and Avon canal and it might indeed seem idyllic.
AI’s interpretation of what small-town Britain was like in the 70s. I can almost smell the boredom…
But let’s go back in time. Imagine you are a teenager living there in the late 1970s. The place hasn’t been given its make-over yet. The buildings in the centre of the town are coated in black residue. There’s litter everywhere. No shopping centre, not even a decent supermarket. No cinema. The town is stuffy and conservative, and in those pre-internet days utterly lacking in things to do for youngsters. Britain was at its bleakest during these years. The cities were far uglier, but at least the burgeoning punk revolution in places like London and Manchester showed that breaking out of the stagnant impasse of the 70s was possible. But not if you were stuck in a place like Bradford-on-Avon, population ten thousand.
In those days there seemed to be two types of Bradfordian - the locals, with their strong regional accents, and the wealthy folk who had started moving in from other areas. I didn’t fit into either group, and as a consequence always felt alienated.
This is what AI thinks Bradford-on-Avon and its citizens look like…
The town is surrounded by farmland - those greedy farmers, when they’re not stopping you from your legal right to use the footpaths crossing the fields, they’re shooting at you with shotguns just because you stole a few apples from their orchard. Bastards! (OK, the latter only happened once, but picking lead shot out of your flesh isn’t a lot of fun, let me tell you).
The agricultural land around the town meant a living hell for me every summer as I was asthmatic and allergic to various grass pollens, so the beauty of the countryside was kind of lost on me.
OK, I’m not going to say that my eighteen years in Bradford-on-Avon were all bad (just mostly), and I did find salvation in the form of musical creativity with a few mates, but I couldn’t wait to leave when university beckoned. I chose Manchester, as far away as possible. Since then I’ve lived in London, Munich, Berlin, Kyoto and Hiroshima. Note that all of these places have populations of more than a million. That’s a direct reaction to spending my formative years in a tiny claustrophobic town like Bradford.
I was last there in 2018. I have rarely returned, and when I did it was a quick stop on the way to a more exciting European destination. When there I still feel bored after a day or two. It’s a beautiful town, I can’t deny that, and it’s been nicely cleaned up since the 70s. If you’re in the area it would make a nice day trip, but for me, that claustrophic feeling of confinement sets in quickly and I have to get out as soon as possible.