Recently I went to Sheffield in what was possibly the world’s first mini-break to the Steel City. It came about due to my desperate urge to run out of London for even just a day and go for a little explore somewhere else. My long-term crush on Sean Bean means I’ve always had a soft spot for Sheffield (That accent! Last time I was up there a guy giving me change said ‘There you go, lass’ and I nearly came in my pants!) and when I heard Othello was on at the Crucible with Dominic West as Iago, well, how could I resist that kind of lure? With tickets booked and hotel sorted I found a spa to spend the morning in and booked an appointment with them online. Perfect.
Sheffield did me the world of good. I wrote and wrote and wrote the whole time I was there and, inspired by my favourite travel writer, Pete McCarthy (If you’ve not read his Ireland travelogue, McCarthy’s Bar, DO! It once made my weep with laughter on a train and I ended up with the whole carriage to myself), here is my own travelogue below. It’s long but cut into bite-sized chunks that are vaguely amusing. Promise!
Wednesday 28th September 2011
4.15am Awake. Scrubbed self, grabbed stuff and now sitting in my front room taut with exhaustion and fear in case I miss hearing my taxi pull up. Don’t let me miss my taxi! I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks!
5.00am Taxi arrives. The driver (who looks like that pervert lawyer, The Walrus, from Ally McBeal) launches into a diatribe against all his customers, particularly ‘them Africans’. I’m snoozing and drooling against the back of the passenger seat but he’s unconcerned by my lack of response and I occasionally jolt awake to hear a choice nugget of vitriol. Just when I’m thinking he must have been a cert for attendance at that EDL demo in Eltham he comes out with; “And I said to ‘im, I said, how can I be racist? My wife’s black”.
Pause.
“My wife’s not black”.
5.45am Merciful arrival at St. Pancras. a station that for me is full of happy memories of visiting my grandparents when I was wee and our school history trip to Derby when I was 16. And the architecture! It’s so gorgeous; the first thing that struck me when I returned to London from Hong Kong was seeing all the amazing buildings that look like glorious Victorian gothic gateaux or pure white Georgian wedding cakes.
Speaking of cake- BREAKFAST NEEDED. Pop into AMT for coffee and a pain au choc. One staff member listlessly stocks the sandwich chiller and the other who serves me looks grey with exhaustion and on the verge of tears. Shudder with horror remembering my own stint in an early morning catering job. Thank God those days are gone.
Sip my coffee (Oh, energising blood of life!) and look at the destination boards, buzzing with that feeling you get when you’re at a station or an airport- I’m going somewhere! Anything could happen! This is LIFE! Off to a new life, even just for a day. Is it tragic that I’m feeling this excited about Sheffield?!
6.10am Train pulls out of St Pancras, the city is still dark but as the journey continues, dawn starts to creep up in apricot streaks across the horizon. It’s a hazy morning, the fields are cupping the mist and it’s taking a long time to lift. Everything looks impossibly beautiful and the dawn/rebirth/exhaustion/me-time metaphors could be endlessly scattered across here as the universe seems to be providing me with all the clichés I would need. Instead, I will leave the clichés to my Ipod, whose shuffle seems to have psychically synched with my brain and the morning outside. On comes a mystical Irish reel, Davy Spillane on the flute and thump-thumping feet pulsing in time with the train. Next I get ‘Clair de Lune’ and then “The Day We Caught The Train”. It’s almost as though my Ipod is composing it’s own ‘Exciting Adventure Train Journey’ playlist. Of course I could have made one myself but that takes the joy away when my Ipod surprises me with the perfect track. It’s the little things in life, right?
7.15am As the train gets further north I see and increasing number of fields with sheep and industrial landscapes with power station cooling towers. As a suburbs-dweller these things excite me greatly.
8.56am Pull into Sheffield. It is a BEAUTIFUL day, one of those days where hope is in your soul and the crisp air feels like it’s cleansing you with every breath. The awful estates on the hill above the station which I recall from my previous visit seem to have been modernised. I remember them looking like huge multi-dwelling hobbit houses, carved out of the slate grey hillside with tiny windows and an air of neglect. Now there seems to be some modernisation going on, lots more glass, much more chi-chi looking. Further modernisation is evident once I exit the station (no ticket gates, are people more honest up north?!). There are fountains EVERYWHERE. Shimmering steel walls of water nearly twice my height that wouldn’t shame a medium-sized shopping mall in Hong Kong. And as any of the HK posse will tell you, the Chinese take their mall decorations SERIOUS. All Sheffield needs is a 60ft Hello Kitty and then it might be a contender.
9.00am Like a good girl scout, I have a citymap marked with my first port of call, Spa 1877, a Victorian Turkish bath-style spa on the opposite side of the city centre. After a quick look at the map I decide to navigate using my natural geographic ability. I get lost almost immediately. Navigation decisions such as “I’ll just go that way a bit”, “Anything with a spire must be a cathedral” and “Oooh look! Follow the butterfly” don’t help matters.
9.45am After running across Sheffield rather flustered I find Spa 1877. I am very sweaty on account of my rushing with two heavy bags and being clad in a scarf, coat and jumper, all of which I removed en route due to this bastard hot, beautiful day.
Standing at reception, I gather that customer service in Sheffield is very friendly but not particularly efficient. I stand second in the queue for nearly ten minutes resisting the urge to shout “Me! ME! Stop being helpful and PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!!!!!!!”
10.00am So begins the spa experience. Slut my way round all the facilities, using the aromatherapy steam room (until I figure the oil in here is citrus, probably containing evil orange so leg it out quickly), ice cave, eucalyptus steam room (let’s see if I can shift this freaking viral bronchitis) and freezing cold plunge pool. Pop into the sauna briefly but leave after 5. Dry heat BAD.
Surrounded by people talking Sheffieldian but sadly they are all women. Have yet to hear a Sheffield man speak. No one has called me “lass” either. Most sad.
11.00am Lime and ginger body scrub and massage. Words cannot describe this HEAVEN. Feels very self-indulgent but I am important and deserve this me-time. Yes I do! Fuck it, I do!
12.30pm Lunch. Wolf down every scrap of my delish spinach, beetroot, goats cheese and pomegranate seed salad and all the free apple juice, tea and lemon water I can.
12.30pm- 1.30pm Almost continuous peeing.
1.30pm Facial- BLISSFUL, though if you’d said the words ‘facial’ and ‘Sheffield’ to me in my 20s, this is definately not what I would have imagined.
2.30pm Continued use of spa facilities. Sitting in the red-lit eucalyptus soup of the steam room. I have nothing to do today but enjoy these facilities, go for a yummy veggie dinner and go to the theatre. This is UTTER heaven. Another plunge in the 4 degree cold pool, taking my number of plunges up to 11. I am HARDCORE spa-ing now.
3.30pm MEN! Sheffield men! Ruling out the possibility that they are gay, I do the shagabilty equation which is hotness rating plus two points for the sexy accent minus my level of sobriety. These men end up scoring 8 which is perfectly acceptable but what is the etiquette for hitting on someone in a plunge pool? Or should I just grope them in the anonymous mists of the steam room?
4.00pm Decide I better leave the spa before I turn into a prune (and a pervert) but it is with great reluctance that I leave this little patch of heaven. It’s done me the world of good. Once I am showered, hair dried and straightened and make-up done I am looking HOT. Not Angelina Jolie hot, obviously (if the spa was capable of that I’d be moving in!) but as hot as it is possible for me to look which is all we can ask. Good work Spa 1887.
4.30pm Pounding the streets of Sheffield. Head for Division Street, a studenty area full of bars and boutiques. There’s a streetpark with skaters down one end and lots of little alleys leading off to more intriguing bars and shops. Down one of these turnings is Bang Bang Vintage, the shop I am hunting for.
4.35pm LOVE Bang Bang Vintage. For a start, all the gorgeous vintage clothes are about half the price they’d be in London. I end up buying a cool white ruffled blouse and a cameo ring. The girl behind the counter asks if I’ve got my NUS card for a discount. I reply that I haven’t, as though I’ve left it in my other bag or something. Love Bang Bang Vintage even more now and love Spa 1887 too as they seem to have taken 9 years off me.
4.50pm Cross through Sheffield city centre, lots of Victorian buildings and clattering supertrams. Pass ‘Embrace- Sheffield’s premier nightclub’. It looks like a 1980s Sainsbury’s crossed with a multi-storey carpark. Embrace- who are they kidding? Just go ahead and call it ‘Foreplay’.
5.00pm Check into my hotel, which is only the Premier Inn, nothing posh. It gains points for being central but loses them again for being above a pound shop. Also for having the kind of security measures that wouldn’t shame Guantanamo Bay. Room key has to be swiped in order to call the lift, again to get into the corridor leading to your room and again at your door. Make the journey to my room looking warily over my shoulder for crack-addicted zombie muggers.
5.05pm Make use of the free tea and coffee-making facilities because I am BRITISH and this is what we do. The day they put an end to free tea and coffee-making facilities in hotels is the day civilisation collapses.
5.10pm Slump on hotel bed watching Coach Trip and Come Dine With Me. Some things are sacred.
6.00pm Head out to the Blue Moon Cafe, a veggie restaurant allegedly by the cathedral. I seem to be getting eyed-up by lots of men. I do look pretty good, but then I also look very different to everyone else around here, in my red dress with tribal design, raspberry kimono cardigan, leggings and cameo ring. It’s all VERY boho chic (or at least that’s how we’d describe it if this was 2006) which is basically a euphemism for ‘4.15am dive for whatever clean clothes I could find in the half-light’. My make-up is full on smoky-eyed 1950s vamp with scarlet lipgloss as thick as tar and maybe it’s that attracting the attention. Sadly, none of these men look like they’d like to wine me, dine me and call me “Lass”. They look more like they’re eyeing me up for use in some kind of gang initiation.
6.05pm Where in name of arse is the bloody Blue Moon? As per my usual geographical philosophy I didn’t write the address of the cafe down, instead absorbing the essential clue ‘near the cathedral’. This may be annoying right now but will make it so much more rewarding when I do find it.
6.10pm Hate to stereotype but I see some hippie-esque sorts hanging round on the corner of a lane. All headscarves, batik and flaring linen trews that smell of dog and tabacco. Instinct tells me that this is the exact demographic group you’d expect to find outside a veggie restaurant. Head towards them- SUCCESS!
6.11pm Comparing my outfit with the dress of the Blue Moon clientele I realise I am finally amongst my own people. Order broccoli and cauliflower cheese which comes with two salads in a portion so large I may well miss my train tomorrow, never mind the play tonight. The girl behind the counter asks what I want to drink. Consider water as all that massage and steaming is quite dehydrating. Order a large glass of Chardonnay.
6.15pm Ploughing away at my dinner and occasionally scribbling in here. The restaurant is a large, airy Victorian room with a high white and blue ceiling. It looks like a grand station waiting room or an antechamber in the Brighton Pavilion. There are moon windchimes, paintings and stained glass dotted about and four clocks set to the times in Sheffield, Doncaster, Rotherham and Barnsley. I like a place with a theme and a sense of humour. Things get more amusing when I examine the long noticeboard that covers one wall. Posters and leaflets include “Buddhist Barn Dance”, “Save Steve Irwin”, “Being Hip- exercise classes for those recovering from hip injury” (one wonders if they saw that magazine created on The Apprentice, Hip Replacement?) and the poignant “Have you seen my polecat?”. I realise I have wandered into a quirky world where rules of normality seem not to apply. I like it.
6.35pm Halfway through my plate of food, a cold glass of white wine on the table, a view of the cathedral courtyard in the evening sun and an the expectation of a great evening ahead. Perfect little moment.
6.50pm Othello starts in 25 mins so I better get a freaking move on. Start touching up my makeup at the table whilst eating, drinking the wine and writing. Strewn across the table are my powder compact, leopardprint powder puff, wine glass with red lipgloss print, plate of veggies in cheese sauce and notepad and pen. These are pretty much the primary elements of my life. If I ever get a coat of arms, this is what will be on it.
7.05pm Having legged it to the theatre on a very full stomach I’ve managed to get here in time and join the queue to pick up my tickets. Once again, Sheffield’s pleasant but SLOW customer service gets me agitated. The box office assistant seems to be intent on treating the couple in front of me as human beings! WASTE OF MY TIME!
7.14pm Take my seat for Othello, relishing that pre-show buzz of excitement that always runs around a theatre. Realise I’m slap bang in the middle of a school group. The 16 year old boy I’m next to sneaks a sideways peek at me and looks terrified. It’s that lipgloss.
7.15pm THE PLAY; Octagonal set design, thrust stage, heavy oak doors- interesting but you cannot establish something as a door throughout the entire play and then have it open magically as though it is not there later on- this gets a laugh from the audience at what should have been a serious moment.. I’m undecided as to whether Dominic West’s shaved head makes him look like a hottie or a nits-infested simpleton. Or a hot, nits-infested simpleton. His Iago isn’t convincing me he has the capacity for true evil but his looks to Emilia are full of unspoken menace. Clarke Peters’ Othello seems to be American which is jarring when Iago is doing Yorkshire with a hint of West Country. Desdemona is screechy and annoying.
9.00pm Interval. Lucozade and a bag of minstrels is a fiver. Nice to see that even though spas, vintage clothing and theatre tickets are much cheaper up north, interval food still remains ri-COCK-ulously expensive.
9.30pm Second half. I think the Globe has ruined other theatres for me. There are so many sound and light effects in this production I find myself longing for stillness and silence. Just let the words and the actors do the work, stop undercutting dramatic tension by flashing a sodding light!
10.00pm Totally gratuitous shirt-removing scene as Iago whips it off and uses it to bind Cassio’s wounds. I don’t remember Tim MacInnerny doing this at the Globe. The schoolgirls ‘Ooooh’ at this flash of West chest and really, I’m not complaining either.
10.10pm Othello finally strangles Desdemona and shuts her up. Thank God for that.
10.25pm Hmmm. All over. It’d give it a C plus overall; enjoyable but could do better. The schoolgirls give Dominic West a standing ovation but I’m sorry Westie, you have to do better than that to get me on my feet. The evilness of Iago usually gives me a total wide-on but tonight my pants are barely dampened.
10.30pm Had planned on having a drink at the Crucible bar but it’s all open-plan and very 70s. Head into the square outside and but don’t see any bars here either. Remember the cute cafe bar by my hotel but when I get there I find that’s closed too! At 10.30pm! Next door there’s a Wetherspoons open. Briefly consider it but drinking at a near-empty Wetherspoons at 10.30pm on a Wednesday in a town where no one knows you seems to be the first step on a path that leads to working in animal porn to pay off a meth addiction. NO NO NO.
10.35pm Safely back in my room at Guantanamo, having cleared customs, retina scan and body cavity search (I wish!). I reckon I can take advantage of the fact the Wetherspoons opens at 7am and go and have a dirty cheap breakfast tomorrow, then hop on a supertram to the huge Meadowhall Shopping Centre and go to the fish spa, head back for a walk along the River Don, then lunch in the cafe bar before catching my train at ten past 2. Set alarm for 6.30am. Sorted.
The thrills of day two to follow... later...
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