Back From Greater Manchester

There's a shadow that lies over Greater Manchester. I feel it descend whenever I visit the region and lift again as I leave. I think the Southern part of Lancashire- between the Pennine hills and the Irish sea- was always a hard-scrabble place- as the county's rural northern part still is- but that the industrial revolution turned it from a characterful, secret, boggart-haunted landscape into a network of hell towns- where people died in their thousands- millions even- from the effects of poverty, pollution, disease and overwork. To thrive in such an atmosphere you had to be made of brass (in any sense of the word you like) and it's no wonder so many comedians came out of it. I lived in Greater Manchester for something like forty years and tried very hard to make it my home- but never quite succeeded. The grandiose 19th century buildings- churches, mills and town halls- with their snooty, sooty faces- repelled me- and stirred up an anger I couldn't entirely suppress- and now don't have to. The chimneys have long since given up smoking- and most of them have been felled- but the psychic miasma lingers on...