A local voice

What was therapeutic for me at this time was to walk the four miles into York and then like a ghost haunt its confines until several hours later I vanished homeward. This total trip was approximately twelve miles. If you multiply that by six days a week (Sunday I rested my aching feet) that makes a weekly seventy-two miles. After wearing out four pairs of shoes and acquiring blistering sores, my mileage became over one thousand miles. However this experience upon life and change of this beautiful city and suburbs of ours was invaluable. In the normal work slave environment these opportunities are missed.

One of these treks took me into the village of Acomb. I could see that the modern day changes that have ultimately happened here have been good but also bad. My childhood memories of Acomb are of sandpits, rolling pastures and cricket played at the local club. The library was well stocked and held a fountain of knowledge for my thirsty mind. Dean, the family butcher was always relied upon to supply the Sunday joint. Not a drinking man at the tender age of six, I did however love the uniquely visual beauty of the Marcia pub. The post office friendly staff knew you by name.

Could this all change as I learnt from the locals recently that "the German are coming to pull down the library and Marcia." The latter must surely be a listed building? A massive car park and supermarket will replace these village icons. Under new government proposals the post office may also be under threat. Soon this village, like many others in our locality will rapidly lose their unique quality of individuality. On my travels I have witnessed a bleak dark side to York. Burnt out wrecked cars and motorbikes, cycles with obvious signs of unleashed vandalism, rotting and unsightly garbage, all within a stone throw of habitation. I have observed street fights and street changes. Where once was diversity of shopping, now there is bland abundance of sandwich bars, pizza places, banks of banks, hairdressers and connoisseur coffee shops.

Will we soon have to visit a museum to re-live our heritage?

When my legs finally gave way, I resorted to using buses for my daily routine. Bus drivers come in all shapes, sizes but more crucially to me, is there temperament. There have been drivers who love to ignore your shivering pleas to stop and those who enjoy arguing. Whether this is over accepting small change for tickets, giving you wrong or misleading information or more crucially for me, no compassion. With my painful arm, I attempted to put money into an automatic ticket dispenser whilst hanging on for dear life on a swaying No 4 bus. My complaint was brushed aside with the cavalier remark: "Complain to James Street." Are these buses for the future, I think not!

My more pleasant memories of these motorised journeys spill like golden shafts at sunset. Whilst travelling to Stamford Bridge, I was quite taken back by my bus driver who stopped to let an elderly lady cross the road and access his bus. She had wanted to board it but was on the wrong side of the road and visually was displaying distress at missing her trip to York. His cheerful wave and helpful nature as he assisted her onto the bus brought a beaming smile to this lady's face. I witnessed another display of thanks when an anxious American tourist, all freckles and strawberry blond hair, re-boarded. Her glasses were missing and she desperately wanted to search the seats for them. The driver was very tactful when he suggested that "her problem was all on the top of her head." She left ruefully and quietly!

Slices of human life and environment can leave you feeling full and empty, all at once. The emptiness comes from the sense of inadequacy at observing a rapidly changing York into one of blandness. A diamond, like diversity, must be multifaceted, if it is to retain its uniqueness. And it was precisely this quality in people and their environment, which has given me a fuller meaning to what it takes to be a Yorkie. Let us value and keep our York heritage.

Phil Shepherdson