It's...Grand...Oop North

I always know when I’m home. That would be home in the place of my birth sense, not where I’ve purchased property, attempted to forge a career, make friends and influence people.

I’m from the North West of England and moved to the Home Counties when I was a mere 19 years old, so I visit home fairly frequently. Knowing I’m homeward bound is not gathered by the road signs telling me so nor is it the simple changes in lingo from southern drawl through brummie drone to northern patter but most noticeably by the change in volume of traffic, increase in motorcyclists and the sight of certain models of vehicle.

As I approach Cheshire on the M6 there is an almost comedy upturn in the frequency of practically new Bentley Continental GT’s, Porsche Cayenne’s, BMW X5’s, Jaguar XKR’s and Porsche 911’s. Every second or third car I saw yesterday had behind the wheel a freshly coiffured, designer outfit clad, bedecked with sunglasses driver, usually male and of a ‘sporting’ orientation.

I honestly expect one day to venture home to be greeted by a sign stating ‘you are now entering footballer country – Cheshire welcomes rich drivers’.

My old Saab shuddered in disgrace as I brought her Ooop North yesterday. I honestly believe this is why she has sprung an oil leak that has since soiled my mother’s freshly laid driveway.

My dishevelled Swedish chariot and I found ourselves choked by the familiar perfume of ‘new leather interior’, blinded by the patina autoglymmed within an inch of it’s life and were left in their wake with a swoosh as the posh automotive glitterati youth shot past us with barely a second look.

However these creatures aside the Saab and I are used to battling with the London traffic and M4 elevated section jams and found ourselves utterly bewildered by the courtesy shown when wanting to overtake the umpteenth caravan uphill on the M6 near Stoke, joining back onto the carriageway after a swift coffee stop or by the scooter rider moving to the left to enable us to pass by on the B road home from a typically northern birthday party last night (think Peter Kay monologue and you’re pretty much there, the image of my mother doing ‘oops upside your head’ and the ‘ymca’ will stay with me for some time).

Generally the pace of life in this part of the country to me seems so much slower and a little more idyllic. Natives of my hinterland seem to enjoy and take pride in driving their cars, love riding through the green vistas resplendent in leather on their motorcycles and drinking tea. The speeds on the roads seem more realistic, there are less Gatso’s, speed humps and the whole driving experience seems far less of a race.

Surely it can’t just be me, but the southern roads surrounding our capital and outlying counties are hellish. I don’t believe it’s purely down to the road traffic radio reports favourite excuse for jams of ‘sheer weight of traffic’. Coming home has become a holiday away from every single aspect of living in the south and I believe it’s all reliant upon attitudes. I’m not saying we should embrace our fellow road users in a 60’s love-in sense, but merely to take a leaf from the northerners’ books. Show some courtesy, put the competitive edge to good use and take up a sport if you must or enter a pub quiz. Don’t loiter in front of someone trying to get past you; seriously even if he only gets one car’s length in front of you – so what, I’m not going to loose any sleep over it. But on the whole and most importantly, relax and actually enjoy yourself, even going to work or dropping the kids off. It’s not going to make you go any faster maybe, but it might just decrease the points on your blood pressure, and your driving licence.