I flew over Greenland, landing in Manchester.
It was 21 degrees on the Manchester Piccadilly platform when I arrived from the airport. With the announcement of each train’s destination and subsequent stops, the rail employee reminded us about not smoking. The addicts ignored her, puffing away at the end of the platform while an attendant cleared garbage off the cement floor.
Near the station, once grand buildings lay abandon, even a majestic Art Deco. As I waited, the subdued crowd was over taken by a group of about a dozen men, bellowing like a soccer crowd. Silenced returned only when the rabble got on a train to Blackpool.
Along the route to Liverpool stood familiar mauve shrubs growing profusely along the train tracks — one growing out of a brick wall. Clusters of brick two story duplexes whizzed by. Fenced in yards littered with washing flapped in the breeze. Debris from backyard projects lay abandon. Greenery prevailed, enclosed by hedges with an occasional horse before the next cluster of houses and paved streets joined together like Siamese twins around the next station.