So I ponder this paradox: that I don’t love this city, find little beauty or joy in its many faces, and yet so many places in it remind me of love.
I wrote this a year ago today, two days before leaving Manchester.
These themes, of connection to place and connection to people have continued to preoccupy me in the past year while I have been writing this blog. Many people, I guess, though definitely not everyone will have a time in their life when they face this kind of split; when the people they love and the place where they feel at home are far apart.
As I have approached the anniversary of us moving here, I have been missing Manchester friends and family very much, both a wider group of people we had known over many years and a few, very close friends, and my daughter and grandchildren, whose company I miss every day.
And yet I wouldn’t go back. There has not been one minute, one time since arriving here when I wished myself living in Manchester again.
In Manchester I used to try to summon up a sense of homecoming as I approached my house, my street after being away; but my pleasure at coming home to my loved ones, my familiar surroundings, was always tinged with nelancholy. How odd to have lived in a place for so long and never loved it. Is it something wrong with me or just that we didn’t fit?
If I left here and came back, I imagine myself falling on my knees, digging my hands in the earth like an exile coming home.
In fact sometimes I want to do just that, even now: the earth looks so luscious in the bare, ploughed winter fields.