A few weeks ago Maia and I took the train to Bristol to spend the weekend with my cousins.
These are the same cousins who saw Lizzo with us in Manchester last year. They’re good at getting us to various UK cities I’d never previously seen much of.
I’d been to Bristol twice before, once to visit my friend Beth, who took me to a glorious art fair then on a mini-tour of an area near the river, and years later to attend her 30th.
We went bowling, drank cocktails and sang karaoke; not a sightseeing trip.
“How many times have you been here?” I asked my cousin Rachel as we walked to the Airbnb.
“This will be our fifth,” she replied, chuckling to herself.
They’d arrived a couple of days earlier, trying out the best brunch spots and spending a day in Bath. (Another interesting city I haven’t been to in years, perhaps I should plan some kind of UK city tour, recommendations welcome.)
After settling into our Airbnb we headed for dinner at Caper & Cure, a nearby restaurant.
Maia had a crab butter dish which was more like a crab soup, served in a giant crab shell.
I had a margarita, which was divine.
Amid all the animated conversation, we managed to knock a wine glass and a single bottle of water onto the floor.
Saturday was spent browsing the independent shops on Gloucester Road and Stokes Croft.
We had a delicious brunch in FED, then, struggling indecisively over which cakes to take away, bought half the options.
Between Rachel and I, we purchased a total of five flavours, totalling a ridiculous £20 worth of cake. Good going.
We wandered in and out of quirky colourful shops, pouring over art and greetings cards by local artists. I must have grown fond of the free-spirited, non-conformist vibes, as I left Cancer Research with a rather whacky purple and gold vintage jacket I’d never normally wear.
It was £6 and had holes in the lining, but for some reason this did not bother me and I decided it had to be mine.
Though I obviously harboured reservations as when Maia asked if I’d try it on in a cafe, I refused, suddenly thinking it might actually be hideous.
I’ve since decided it’s not.
It is however “dry clean only” which is both a hassle and evidence of an excellent find.
I’ve yet to get it dry-cleaned.
We admired the incredible street art, which is everywhere, and spotted Banksy’s work. At one point I stopped to take a photo of a particularly impressive mural, just as a group of boys decided to urinate beside the building. I did not notice them. Everyone was laughing. I had no idea why.
Train strikes meant we had to return home earlier than planned, which meant a 5pm dinner.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Maia asked as we trekked through the city to Cotto, a small Italian restaurant 20 minutes walk from where we’d just had coffee.
“Nearly. It’ll be worth it,” we said, willing her little legs to keep going. (It was.)
We walked nearly six miles that day, and Maia’s not a huge fan of the activity.
I wore boots and had sore feet by dinner, which I decided was a good sign.
Now, when I think of Bristol, I think of the colourful buildings, the epic street-art and the fascinating cultural and artistic hub that is Stokes Croft. Of course, our exploring merely scratched the surface; we’ll be going back next year.
Angela blogs at The Colourful Kind
