Back To My Roots

I'm already late leaving so I'll be brief. The next leg of my barely-organised blogging tour of Britain is to take me down the M4 to the north Somerset town where I was born and grew up and where my elderly parents still live. It has a very pretty name, the first half of which must surely have inspired the title of a certain, richly implausible TV series. But neither the name nor the telly drama give an accurate impression of the place itself or its (vaguely Soviet-sounding) neighbour town, to which it is joined at the hip. That said, like anywhere else, its true character lies largely in the mind of the beholder. The local heritage industry majors on its lost railways and coal-mining past, yet these days it's often described as a dormitory town, while others regard it and its locals with derision. Me, I have mixed feelings about it. I was glad to escape its small town comformity and have no desire to live there again. Yet time and distance have nurtured a more rounded view. If my poor, dull brain can master the technology I'll file an on-the-spot report while I'm down there.