Resident Traveller Sebastian Sayers visits the Celtic settlements of Bristol
It might not sound like much of an excursion for this esteemed travel section, but rest assured the idea of sampling the many attractions of Bristol - the S.S Great Britain, the Maritime museum, the Georgian and Celtic landmarks – set off a pulse of electricity, like a lit Catherine wheel, within my pronounced adrenal gland.
I had plenty of time to complete my task, so thought I’d reward the troops for sitting in the car quietly (and not smearing their own faeces all over the Sony DVD screens that reside in the back of the driver headrest) by taking a small side track to Cabot Circus - a new erection in Bristol City Centre. I remember with fondness the gracefulness of the acrobats and the beaten, toothless bears, walking the tightrope with such elegance elan; an image that surely would have sent a shiver down even the humourless spine of the illustrious John Cabot himself.
After parking the Jaguar and unloading the troops, we wandered futilely around a giant shopping centre for sometime, unable to find anything that even slightly resembled a circus. I concluded the best course of action for one’s sanity was to ask around, and decided to ask a couple of coloured, hooded young gentleman why I couldn’t see any performing monkeys.
When I came to, I found myself spread eagled in a hospital bed, with a cast on all but one of my limbs. It’s is no exaggeration to say that this self-containment certainly hinders one’s locomotion and should have left me in no fit state to continue my weekend in Bristol. A lesser man would have quit, but buoyed by our great nations forces in the Great War I dispensed with the casts using a found shard piece of metal and some good old fashioned stiff upper lip and escaped through the third floor window.
Although the Jaguar is certainly equipped with the most futuristic of appliances; satellite navigation, electric seats and air conditioning, it was sorely deficient of an autopilot when it was most wanton. It’s an arresting notion, and one one rarely considers, that one is not self sufficient when one has an unsupported, right angled tibia. After writhing around in some agony – and blacking out countless times – it became apparent that without the necessary medicines and pain-killers yours truly would be unable to continue his rich tradition of cutting edge reporting that has graced this column for so long.
After my ninth black-out I really got to thinking of how magnificent the human body is. I mean, one is truly at the mercy of its immune system. As much as my body had the desire and drive to bring the best reporting, I was always in with a shout, but my white cell rich blood would simply not comply to the electrical signals buzzing their way down my spinal column.
After the genial hospital staff had re-acquainted me with my wheelchair and casts, I was reluctantly pushed home. It seems that even the hardiest travel journalist cannot report in such a condition.
Bristol; sites; n/a,
Atmosphere; n/a,
Black youths; violent, uncompromising.
Hospital; clean.
1/5
