A wry smile plays on my lips as the ‘Angel of the North’- that behemoth that towers over the North East - comes into view. It is the one landmark that definitively asserts that I am back ‘home’. It is akin to a familiar tree ensconced at the junction of multiple roads whose stump - weather beaten, fire scarred, sometimes hacked for firewood - remains indelible, unmoved, an un-poured libation to the gods to whom we as restless travelers owe our protection. I consider this city a spiritual home of sorts for me - much like Bombay in Gregory David Roberts’ Shantaramis to his character. I came here at a time of great personal turmoil in several areas of my life - and I like to think the two great years I spent here set me on the path to redeeming my life.
The city still looks the same, still feels the same, still smells the same - still is the same actually. Fierce looking bikers - with tattoos emblazoned on every body part it seems - still stalk the streets of Benwell. The LIFE centre still operates, the rotisserie grill at Co-op still seeks to entice the loose change from my pockets into its tills, Greggs still reaches out for my soul and all. Its raining when I alight from the bus - the weather here is bipolar at best - I make the phone call to my friend Id, my host - it feels great to be home again…