So long, Leeds

unnamed (26)I’m leaving Leeds today and my emotions are far more mixed on the subject than I ever would have thought possible when I moved here eight years ago.

I came across the Pennines from Manchester where I’d lived, studied and partied hard for five years. I felt at home there and for good reason – it had been the big city in my life since even before my student days, when I spent my teenage Saturdays in Affleck’s Palace buying purple hair dye and baggy jeans that soaked the rain up to my knees.

It was the first city I sneaked, underage, into a disco night at the Ritz, back when bouncers looked the other way at the date of birth on your provisional driving licence. When I filled in my UCAS form, it was the University of Manchester at the top of my list and when I got offered a place, I couldn’t have been happier.

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When I finally arrived a deferred two years later (that’s a story for another day), I knew I could handle the hurdle of permanently leaving my parents’ home a few miles down the A34 in Cheshire. And for those few years, I loved Manchester – the way the sun hit the Victorian red bricks; the sticky dives sadly no more (RIP Roadhouse); my attic flat with the Velux windows that had views over the Northern Quarter’s roofs; the bars, the history, the swagger, the accent, the music, even the rain.

So I approached moving to Leeds in 2010 kicking and screaming. My friend Amy patiently kept me company during those bleak weeks when we went back and forth on the rattling Pacers to look at depressing basement flats in Headingley. When the time came to leave for the new job I packed a van, sobbed across the M62 and moved into a (much nicer) flat on North Street with a girl I’d met on Gumtree.

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The following year was a difficult one as I struggled cluelessly through my trainee reporter paces, and though I wasn’t altogether happy, I had started to try and make the best of things. I was lucky enough to have a gracious and relaxed roomie (thanks Carmen). I was introduced by a mutual bud to the positive life force that is Gemma. I reconnected with my best pal from university, Emily, who had moved to Leeds and whose support and friendship I am lucky enough to enjoy to this day. I started writing for a local blog and going to gigs, finding refuge in Nation of Shopkeepers and North Bar and spending weekends covering festivals like Live at Leeds and Constellations.

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But I still hadn’t entirely warmed to the place. I spent most weekends either going back to Manchester or escaping to my best mate’s house in London. It was only when my new flatmate moved in and tweeted about our housewarming party that things took a turn for the better, because who should turn up but the man who would bowl me over by throwing a record on to the NCP from my balcony.

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Ewan was (and still is) a big-time advocate for Leeds and its surroundings, and was a more than willing tour guide. We drove out to Ilkley, to Golden Acre Park and to Yorkshire Sculpture Park. We went to Otley car boot on Saturdays and took in the view from the Chevin.

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We picnicked in the grounds of Kirkstall Abbey, built snowmen in Horsforth, petted animals at Temple Newsom and visited the meerkats at Tropical World. We walked down the canal, saw the viaduct at Knaresborough, played on the beaches in Whitby, Robin Hood’s Bay and Staines.

We ate at the Man Behind the Curtain before it got its Michelin star, got really drunk at Cosmic Slop, went to Belgrave’s opening party, consumed delicious roasts at the Adelphi and the Reliance. We drank beer in Friends of Ham when it was the size of a cupboard, saw bands in a field near Skipton, and made a home for ourselves in Burley, where we were lucky enough to live a stone’s throw from literally all our friends.

It’s only as we are leaving for Birmingham I realise how much I will miss the latter and the ease of drunkenly stumbling a few hundred yards between our houses. I’ll miss the fact that in the summer we would sit in the park together on a random Wednesday evening, or on the stoops at one of our houses, and drink cans until it got cold. And that every Christmas we would set aside a date to celebrate our own December 25 by each bringing a dish to the table.

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In addition to the pals on my doorstep, I was also welcomed into the Armley fold – a warm and wonderful bunch of musicians and creatives who lived a few miles away. It meant I was doubly lucky because I had two crews to hang out with, all of them patient and funny people who taught me everything from yoga, to how to change a baby’s nappy, to how to party just that bit harder.

Our house was a gorgeous end terrace on the steep streets, with stripped floors, amazing afternoon light and views from the top room that allowed us to watch the fireworks at several different parks. Leaving the first home we made together makes me too sad to type.

Yesterday, as I walked around Leeds on my final day as a resident, I realise how much it has changed into this wonderful, creative city. Its independent scene has blossomed, to the point where it may even surpass Manchester’s.

I already know I’ll long for the food at Bundobust, the meat at Ox Club, the brunch at Layne’s and films at Hyde Park Picture House. Where I once missed the red bricks of Manchester, I will miss the bleached sandstone of Yorkshire. Also, &Other Stories. I will definitely miss that.

But the sadness I feel about leaving Leeds is different to how I felt about leaving Manchester eight years ago. The desire to start again in a new city is similarly lacking, but whereas back then I couldn’t envisage anything living up to what I had left, I know now that Birmingham will be what we make it.  For Indian street food, we’ll go to Zindya; for films, The Electric. For excellent brunch, there’s a whole host of amazing looking places to try, and the Jewellery Quarter beckons. When we crave the countryside, we’ll drive to Warwickshire, or the Cotswolds.

And if it doesn’t work out, Leeds isn’t going anywhere.

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Travel review: Bologna, Italy

If you’re looking for a quick 48-hour jaunt look no further than Italy’s gastronomic heartland, where the buildings glow red, the gelato is plentiful and just a two hour flight stands between you and a stroll down Bologna’s 38km of intricate poritcoes – Aperol in one hand and phrasebook in the other.

Its reputation for melding history and belt-busting food has earned it not one but three nicknames – la dotta, la rossi and la grassi; or the learned, the red and the fat, for those without the language skills. But do its walls painted in sunset hues, mosaic walkways and riches of mortadella, cheese and Prosecco live up to the hype?


We made a quick pit-stop at the Art Hotel Novecento before hitting the main square, Piazza Maggiore, for the evening. Though Bologna is just a short train ride from nearby Florence, this is a city where the mood is unfailingly polite and even in its central courtyard, there are no pushy waiters on street corners trying to entice you into the nearest tourist trap.

In fact, on a Tuesday afternoon the streets were practically deserted, leaving us to pick an osteria – cafes serving wine and snacks – quite undisturbed. At Zerocinquantuno 051, we raised our first Spritzes and ate salty slithers of Parma ham, roast belly pork and sundried tomatoes tucked into tigella – small, round-shaped bread made with olive oil.


Then, to the first of many ice cream stops – the much-lauded La Sorbetteria Castiglione, where in keeping with tradition, gelato is stored under the counter to keep it the perfect temperature and texture. We chose velvety scoops of salted caramel, rich dark chocolate and vanilla before chasing them with strong coffees and venturing out in the unforeseen evening drizzle.


Winding our way back to the hotel through a gloom of alleyways, fresh fruit and veg stalls punctuated the darkness with bursts of colour. We paused at a cheering window display of loose tortellini at one of Bologna’s most famous pasta-makers, Paolo Atti and Figli, where signs promised their wares were so authentic it would “fool your husband you made them yourself”.  A nightcap at Mercato di Mezzo also saw us tick off the city’s first indoor market, a three-storey pavilion that dates back to the Middle Ages and now hosts a handful of vendors serving cocktails and street food.


With only 36 hours left, we were out early on day two with a hit-list of eateries, churches and backstreets to visit. Our first stop was Via de’ll Indipendenza, a wide avenue of high street shops bordering the former Jewish ghetto. Veering into its maze of passages, we stopped to read about the fascinating history which saw a community forced by the Papal State to live within borders that were opened at dawn and closed at dusk.

img_3348Now home to an artisan crowd of independent retailers, cafes and bars, one of its greatest features is the network of canals running through its core. The guidebooks suggest peering through the window of a graffitied wall on Via Piella, but perhaps the best view of this not-so-hidden stretch of the Canale delle Moline is over the road, where its deep green water looks all the more vibrant for the golden buildings at its edges.

Leaving the corner of the city known as Little Venice behind, we made our way to one of Bologna’s top sights, La Torre Asinelli. We fully intended to climb its spiral staircase of 498 steps to take in rooftop views but restoration work has closed the tower until the summer. Instead we got our cultural fix at the basillica of Santo Stefano – a cluster of seven churches with mysterious origins. Thought to date back to 430 AD, the complex houses a labyrinth of ancient graves and a Benedictine cloister fronted by a suntrap made for idling in the midday sun.


In keeping with the religious theme, we toasted a successful afternoon of sight-seeing in Le Stanze – a former converted chapel in the student quarter. With its impressive frescoes duly appreciated and wine imbibed, we stopped for pick-me-up espresso martinis at the Jukebox Café before making our reservation at top gluten-free restaurant, Franco Rossi, where the service was faultless and the wheat-free pasta as good as its glutinous parent. Dessert at Cremeria Santo Stefano hit peak gelato, with unspeakably delicious custard cream and speculoos flavours on offer for just a few euros.


Our final morning was spent ducking into delicatessens with hams hung high in the windows to pick up souvenirs. Wedges of Parmesan and aged bottles of balsamic vinegar were high on the list of take-home treats and were gelato airline friendly, the stracciatella flavour from our last parlour stop, Cremeria Funivia, would have made the cut too. Bidding farewell to a city brimming with beauty and history, we returned home no redder given the intermittent sunshine, but we did come back slightly more learned and quite a bit fatter.

New York you’re perfect, don’t change a thing

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I wrote this blog post weeks ago in the darkest hour of a sleepless night and left it, unsure whether it would ever see the light of day. Publishing it today is a reminder to myself of my love for America, at a time when many are feeling shaken and confused about the country’s future. 

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A lot has changed since I first stood, wide-eyed, outside Port Authority at 19 years old. I had just stepped off my first flight and until that point, only ever experienced the bustle of Manhattan’s streets through cinema’s lens. Though that initial visit was only long enough for me to buy a Schnapple and gawp at Times Square before heading upstate for the summer, it set in motion a decade-long love of the city that never sleeps.

Since clapping eyes on that famous skyline in 2004, I’ve returned a further three times – an homage to how fond I’ve become of the Big Apple and how lucky I’ve been to have natives who have been generous enough to blow up the air mattress whenever I’ve been in town.

My second visit in 2005 ticked off the typical tourist haunts – the Empire State, the Chrysler Building and the Rockerfeller Center. I walked up and down Fifth Avenue, wishing I had more dollars in my pocket. I took the Staten Island ferry and said hello to Lady Liberty as we sailed past. I snapped a picture of the former Domino sugar factory – sadly no more.  

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During the freak heatwave of 2012, I sat in Central Park and melted like a true English Rose. I walked along the High Line, sharing it with just a handful of people because the secret wasn’t yet out. I lingered over coffee in Williamsburg’s cafes, half expecting to bump into the cast of Girls. I went to flea markets, used the toilet in Katz’s and went to a record launch attended by some of the coolest kids in the LGBTQ scene. I was very uncool by comparison.

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Four years later and I was back again. Having been fortunate enough to have seen so many of New York’s popular attractions already, my trip in September gave me the chance to explore even more corners of the city, punctuated at timely intervals with eating and drinking in places the guidebooks try to keep quiet.

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Day one saw us take in an unobstructed view of Manhattan’s skyscrapers at Brooklyn Heights before hopping on a ferry and taking a waterside tour of the island’s neighbourhoods. At Greenpoint we took a punt on lunch at an unassuming taqueria, where I rediscovered frozen magaritas for the first time since the tequila-riddled Spring Break of 2007.

Stuffed with black beans and avocado, we ambled into Williamsburg where we bought thyme and olive oil chocolate from Mast Bros, made like magpies in Catbird and ran our hands through racks of $100 shirts in high-end boutiques. Later, our 90-minute commitment to the line at Pies and Thighs was rewarded with juicy chicken pieces and smoky pulled pork served with a side of creamy, cheesy grits.nyc3

Day two began with breakfast cocktails at brunch spot Rose Water in Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighbourhood, which were the perfect accompaniment to our poached eggs and sweet potato falafel combo. We then headed into the city, passing through Grand Central station and its whispering walls, before embarking on some much required retail therapy.

Laden with bags and giddy after spotting Kim Sears and Baby Murray in Bryant Park, we headed to La Esquina, where I had made reservations the required month in advance. The darkened bodega basement stole our hearts with its tapas-style plates and Mezcal drinks in a variety of sweet and sour flavours, but it was the rich and sticky heap of rib meat which left us raving.

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With room for dessert, we found ourselves at Morgenstern’s indulging in salted chocolate ice cream garnished with shards of sesame honeycomb. We leisurely ate as we walked towards the Woolworth Building, where we had secret access not only to one of the sets of Ugly Betty, but views of the city’s countless flickering lights. 

The evening’s finale came in the form of a wildcard trip to the night courts, where the wheels of justice creaked into the early hours. We watched as a trickle of defendants were casually dealt with by a judge who waved them away with court dates and fines – a far cry from the stuffy tradition and procedure of England’s magistrates’ courts. nyc7

A final day wandering the streets of the Lower East Side saw us lazily pinball between cafes, bars and shops. In need of culture, we took in a tour of the Tenement Museum to learn about some of the neighbourhood’s former residents, before heading back to Williamsburg. A goodbye dinner at The Four Horseman – brainchild of LCD Soundsytem frontman, James Murphy – left us all crossing forks over the last mouthful of a sublime sugarsnap and cashew salad. 

On the way home, the remenants of Hurricane Hermine – which had threaten to rain down the whole weekend – finally rattled through the night, as if it had politely waited for my trip to end. I dozed off, wondering how soon I could impinge upon my friend’s kindness again and whether it was possible to every really be ‘done’ with New York. I decided not and went about plotting my return.