Today, Autumn 2016
I’ve just come back from a gig in Burton Constable, 10 miles cycle from York, but the wind on the way there made the journey tough. But the client paid me well for the three hour gig, and the kiddies were so excited with being able to have a go at making balloon animals. I never cease to be overjoyed at their happy faces even after more than 20 years working as Professor Fiddlesticks.
I’ve got a huge amount of fruit to process, as it’s the season for me to be inundated with apples and pears, many of which I dry on my woodstove. It’s a good blackberry year so I’ve made quite a bit of blackberry and apple fruit leather. I’m pleased that my involvement with ‘Abundance’ means I can pick unwanted fruit, keep some (quite often the ones which fall on the ground) and donate the rest to organisations which can use them, like the homeless hostels, refugee centres and the Food Bank in Acomb. Some of the recent apples I’ll take to the Tang Hall Community Centre and the nearby primary school. But fruit preparation takes time and I’ve got a presentation to put together on ‘green funerals’ for the West Yorkshire Humanists. Fortunately I’ve a slide show which I can adapt and rename, but it will still take several hours to get it to how I want it. The amount of time I put into these presentations is not matched by the low fees I get for public speaking, but it might be laying the foundations for something bigger and more important in the future, who knows?
I’m worrying about my teenage children. Neither of them knows what they want to do with their lives, and both of them have absorbed some of my fears and worries about collapse and extinction, but haven’t got the busy social life I’ve got which gives me meaning and reason to keep going. However I’m pleased that Adrian from Biochar in York has offered to ask my eldest if he wants to use one of the biochar retorts to start a mini-production line, using some of the woody wastes I get from my gardening work. Maybe if society starts to take carbon sequestration seriously there might be some money in carbon negative activities.
10 years time, Autumn 2026
Today I’m excited to be heading off out to the UK’s first Composting Burial Service Opening Ceremony. The unit has taken 18 months to build and test, so as usual I’m cycling to the site in Bishopthorpe. But today’s special, and I’m wearing my suit, as Prime Minister Corbyn is officially opening it. Some people have joked that he ought to be the first body in it since he expressed his support for this low carbon technology half way through his first term, but we’ve had plenty of people already give their remains to the project, and we’ve put them through for free. But today we start operating commercially, and have a competitive price to standard burial and the obviously high-carbon cremation. My role has been part of the PR team and carbon flux advisor, drawing on my PhD, a detailed carbon footprint analysis of the methane emissions of standard deep burial compared to shallower woodland and meadow burials and some existing work on the emissions from composting fallen stock. My son ought to be there too, as he’s been developing the active carbon sequestration part of the system, using biochar. Working with this team has been a welcome change from my Professor Fiddlesticks activities, which have been getting increasingly tiring as I’ve got older. However, the income from the Composting Burial work has meant I have been able to fit a high capacity electric propulsion system to my bike and trailer, so I’m now not as hot and sweaty when I arrive at a gig. I can get about 10 hours assisted ride with it at about 15 mph, so I can easily do a gig 30 or 40 miles away, which is further than I used to be prepared to cycle.
Tonight is the fortnightly York Climate Change Support Group meeting. Although we started in 2015 following the scarily accurate talk given by Dr Guy McPherson, there was little interest until the Great Flood Of London in 2020, which devastated so much of the capital’s infrastructure, and forced the seat of government to be moved to temporary accommodation near Birmingham. That seemed to shock the nation into accepting that climate change was real, was affecting us in the UK, and triggered a wave of introspection about our lifestyles and fierce debate about policies to deal with the probably-too-late levels of CO2, which reached about 420ppm that year. Thank goodness that airlines are now having to pay for the damage they’re doing, and the number of flights is down another 11% after the punitive taxation was imposed in 2022. This was part of a suite of ‘equity’ measures brought in by the government who were elected during the immediate aftermath of the Great Flood, with the Prime Minister showing great leadership and refusing to fly, preferring to ‘attend’ international summits via video-link, or travelling by train if less than 24 hours transit time. Although the 1% are still bleating on about ‘natural cycles’ and ‘economic growth’, they are widely despised, and many have been victims of the Climate Riots which followed the rationing of high carbon foodstuffs such as meat and alcohol which the masses blamed on the Capitalist minority. Rationing was seen as a fairer way of reducing consumption, less regressive than taxation, but it still has it’s detractors, and there’s a thriving black market and significant home production. Guinea pigs have never been so popular!
But along with the social unrest and disruption caused by the disasters, shortages and increasingly bad weather, there have been many positives come out of these tough times. There’s been an increase in expressions of solidarity and inclusivity, a sort of ‘we’re all in this together’ mentality. We’ve accepted a huge number of migrants, many from Bangladesh since most of that country became uninhabitable, and a significant number of Dutch, although many of them have been able to go home due to the successful drainage and restoration of their damaged dykes. This has added greatly to York’s diversity and culture, which I’m enjoying.
Contributed by Lord Mayor, Dave Taylor and Lady Mayoress, Susan Ridley
It is a Saturday in September and we have an amazingly wide range of things on the agenda today. In the morning we go up to Poppleton Community Railway Nursery. It is the last of its kind. It was set up in 1941 when nurseries were constructed next to railway stations as part of the Dig for Victory campaign to grow food and get it easily distributed. The Nursery is right next to Poppleton Station. After the war effort there was no long any need for food and instead they started to grow flowers for all the railway stations around the country. In 2009 it closed and now it is a charity and also commercial. The Railways buildings are part of York’s railway heritage. We were there for the 75th anniversary. The Sherriff, Jonathan Tyler, who came with us, is a railway man. We travelled up to Poppleton on the train from York Station. It was a lovely event. The lady who greeted us had made us a cake, with a beautiful green ribbon.
Then we came back to York for York Civic Trust walks ‘Know Your York’. Which also allowed some fundraising for the Lord Mayor’s charities, of which York Civic Trust is one. We spent some time giving out leaflets in St Helen’s Square. We raised £600 each day.
Then to St Sampson’s Square for the Festival of Traditional dance – Morris Dancing day – we were offered tea and cake by Brown’s as we watched the finale.
Then we had to dress up to go to the Goth Ball, a masked ball held at De Grey Rooms. The De Grey Rooms looks very beautiful following their restoration by York Conservation Trust. We were raising money again, doing a raffle. The LGBT Forum and York Racial Equality Network, two of my charities, were invited to have stalls. We were raffling two books about Sophie Lancaster, who was beaten up and killed for being dressed differently as a Goth. The authors had signed and donated them to me.
A day of four very different events in the life of the Lord Mayor of York 2016-17.
We get on a cable car from York Station to take us to the Knavesmire. It’s been great for tourists, race-goers, and the few commuters we still see. Traffic has radically reduced since petrol and diesel vehicles were banned from the city centre. Investment in electric cars, bikes, buses and taxis came quickly after that, although there is no longer any need for us to travel as much every day, since most people work from home. Houses are now built with office/work space and that has made it easier for tradespeople and visitors to get around.
We’ve developed a really positive relationship with our tourists. Visitors can find their way around easily with geo-positioning incorporated into everything and attractions and businesses contacting them directly when they are in the vicinity. York introduced a Tourist Tax as soon as Central Government permitted . I was always happy to pay this overseas and visitors to York feel the same as it supports the historic environment of the city. This has enabled the Art Gallery to open for free to York citizens once again.
An inspiring idea from York: City Beautiful has been developed. We’ve really started to make the green corridors approach happen, river banks link in with parks and strays and allotments to enable insects, birds, bees and mammals to migrate within those areas. At last York is starting to benefit from a strategic plan to include the development of open space and leisure space as well as providing better homes for lifetime use.
By the end of the day we are looking for something else to do. York is now a 24-hour city. The event notice-boards that we clamoured for ten years ago to overcome flyposting have become unnecessary with advances in communications. Events have started earlier in the evening and are regular and popular. At 5pm we headed for a chamber music concert in York Art Gallery. The example provided by Aesthetica of arts, music and film spilling out all over the city has been taken up by lots of different organisations.
As a 24h city, life also goes on later. We go to a one of the great York restaurants – Indonesian this evening – we’re so international as a city because of our visitors. On for a drink in the tiny basement bar Sotano and then much later we walk home. There are lots of people about but nothing threatening or violent. We’ve found a positive way of dealing with antisocial behaviour at night – people are drinking less or just spreading it out over a longer time, not having either the old closing time or 3am bottle-necks.
York has always been a lovely city and it’s through the international appreciation of it that we can keep it special.
As I walk down Gillygate I naturally find myself conducting a survey of car occupancy in the stacked up southbound phase. On average, thirty three vehicles fit between the lights at the Bootham end and those coming off Lord Mayor’s Walk including today five vans and two busses. On returning from Sainsbury’s Local I count 29 individuals in 20 cars before braving the oncoming Northbound cavalry charge to offer directions to a slightly baffled driver looking for Knaresborough. The way he was holding the street atlas told me that he would welcome some assistance.
29 individuals in 20 cars: that’s an occupancy rate of 1.45 per car. Assuming an average of 4½ seats per car gives us a load factor 32.2%, or a big waste of space and fossil fuel, and an entire Gillygate-ful of cars could be carried on a single bus, though its route would be of necessity a little circuitous to drop everyone off at their final destinations.
Counting, too the number of “tailgate” cars crashing the red light I can’t help thinking that the chronic shortage of housing could be alleviated somewhat by the re-introduction of the death penalty for bad manners.
As a red meat eating functioning alcoholic male aged 57 I am constantly too hot so naturally when I get back home my thoughts turn to a nice bacon sandwich & a cup of tea. Postie, on spotting through my front-room window that I am actually at home and staring right at him is sadly obliged to “ring the doorbell loud and long: resident deaf” and “please allow a few minutes for the door to be answered: very large and complicated house” as is clearly written in LARGE LETTERS on the package . This contrasts with his usual practice of shoving a card through the door then quickly rushing away in order to avoid his rudimentary duty of actually delivering stuff to us.
Ah, clove cigarettes: in the Government’s seemingly never-ending vendetta against grumpy old Goths, I now have to have them delivered from Indonesia as Choice Select of Coppergate are now no longer allowed to sell them tom me. Now my tobacco duty no longer supports the NHS in England but that in Indonesia instead.
Heading back into town I spot yet another tourist walking down High Petergate with his selfie-stick stretched out in front of him. On the screen he is watching the way in front of him through the camera on his smartphone. I wonder how long it will be before people will be unable to comprehend a reality that is not bounded by an arbitrary rectangular frame? And indeed how long will it be before shop windows are all 2 inches by 3¼ inches in size…
Archaeologists searching for evidence of the Roman remains at Monks Cross are disappointed to unearth the foundations of the long forgotten football stadium which, unlike the recently opened Stonebow Two, was never completed. To think that there was a time before intelligent robots and smart computers when jobs like hairdressers, marketing consultants and professional footballers were almost exclusively the preserve of humans.
After much debate and controversy the Communist majority City of York Council have finally approved the plan to move its headquarters into more fit-for-purpose accommodation. The plan to de-centralise operations into a diverse set of premises throughout the City, has been described variously as “progressive”, “bold” and “bonkers”. The Council has, however identified an ideal main hub in the shape of the smart Crescent Building in St. Leonard’s place which has stood empty for nine years after nobody could afford to live there.
The former West Offices Complex has been sold to the Netherlands State Railway to form the North Yorkshire terminus of their international trail network: it could’ve almost been purpose-built for such a station. No need for an extension northwards now, neither after the rest of the North East of England was sold to Ant and Dec in 2019 in an attempt to ensure that the rump of England remained condemned to Tory rule indefinitely
It’s hard to believe, too that a mere ten years ago, in 2016 the idea of every house having its own inner ring road was the stuff of a mad man’s dream. Like foot streets and bus-only bridges before it I am proud to think that York pioneered this now common feature in every home in the country.
Today I took my customary constitutional around the derelict student castles, taking care, of course to avoid the colonies of feral self-replicating 3D printers that survived the digital zombie apocalypse of the Theresa May premiership. Such a good job all those house building schemes petered out before the student body all succumbed to the antibiotic-resistant superbug that we all know too well as “Taylor Swift’s Palsy”. Like many people I wonder who, if anyone “Taylor Swift” actually was.
I am old enough to remember when antibiotics actually worked but I guess they didn’t see this superbug, the first to be spread through social media, coming. It seems that those arguing that “it’s not more houses we need: it’s fewer people” were proved, tragically to be altogether right. And indeed: who would’ve thought that the obesity epidemic of a decade ago would’ve ended so horribly?
It started forty years ago, now, with mobile phones for yuppies. Thirty years ago it was downloading ringtones for chavs, Twenty years ago and it was “Friends Reunited” for thirty-somethings and ten years ago it was “apps” for airheads with beards made out of bees. Now that we are all linked telepathically, don’t those archaic technologies seem so quaint? I guess we must be very grateful to the recently re-animated corpse of Rupert Murdoch for his selfless philanthropic pursuit of the technology that means we can now take reading each other’s minds for granted.
And indeed it was just ten years ago that I was called a madman for proposing the now well established zip-wire crossing of the Ouse between the ruins of the Guildhall and the proudly resurrected Armstrong Oilers and the Horse Repository. Yes: look who’s laughing now. . . !
My irritatingly cheerful alarm rouses me at 8.30. I sit up and look around my room – a box room no larger than a double bed; the best I can afford on my endless string of zero-hours contracts. The house smells damp (because it is damp) so I leave quickly, walk across Little Hob Moor and out onto Tadcaster Road, where there’s a dense chain of traffic leading all the way down the hill and up the other side. I call Henry to arrange to meet him in town, but have to strain to hear his voice over the cacophony of traffic. Beyond my nostalgic fondness for the smell of exhaust, I contemplate the damage the fumes likely does to my throat and lungs.
Once I reach the junction between Blossom Street and Micklegate, I’m obstructed by a cackling pack of hyperactive men in shiny suits, who seem oblivious to both the size of their group and the disruption they’re causing to the commuters struggling around them. With difficulty, I squirm amongst them and emerge on the other side, cursing them and the whole world of horseracing under my breath. I bob and weave my way down Micklegate and across the bridge, sometimes having to step precariously onto the busy road in order to pass the dense clumps of tourists. From up on the bridge I glance down at the swollen river below – the Ousewaves licking at the doorstep of the marooned King’s Arms.
At the other side of the bridge, leaning against a traffic barrier, I see Jim; a homeless guy I speak to on my commute in and out of town. Ripper, his dog, sits beside him as he explains his recent issues with angina, and the difficulty of getting regular medical attention while living on the streets. I walk with him around the corner to see his friend, another homeless man called Sam, who stares into the distance as we talk. Checking my phone, I realise I’m late to meet Henry. I hurriedly tell them I’ll see them later and dash off.
I wait a while before I can cross the main road – the traffic is even heavier in the centre. The air, here too, feels noxious. Henry is waiting for me beside the fountain in the centre of town, looking a little exasperated. I hug him and ask where he wants to go. He shrugs. I check my pockets and unearth a grand fortune of £3.45. We sit down on the unaccommodatingly-tilted edge of the fountain (the sparse benches are full) to decide where to eat. Being vegan doesn’t help our choices. We eventually relent and go to Sainsbury’s to buy the familiar resignatory choice- a baguette and a tub of houmous.
We walk over to Minster Gardens and sit down to eat in its great shadow but, before long, it starts to rain – I scan my brain for an indoor alternative but can’t think of anything that doesn’t involve spending what meagre money I have. We walk around a little and take shelter down a narrow alley. The rain worsens, forcing us to consider something more permanent. I call around a few people and get hold of Ben, who invites me out of the rain and into his flat. He lives in a modest one-room flat above a cafe. The landlords, with whom he has no formal contract, have just jacked up the price of the room by an extra £100 a month; and unable to muster the extra fortune required to move house, he has accepted his fate stoically. We drink a cheap version of Lambrini and talk intermittently about the Roman Empire. Henry leaves, citing his 6am cleaning job and sighing.
Around midnight, I leave and walk strategically to avoid the thoroughfares of the drunken masses by arcing around the train station. The streets, though mostly vacant now, are strewn with all kinds of alcohol and takeaway waste. A distended kebab box filled with rainwater makes me retch. I pick up some waste – bottles, cans etc, and take them with me, but am burdened for a long while, stunned by the paucity of bins. No wonder there was so much litter. I walk home slowly, smelling the sweet ripeness of the full trees and sensing the imminent arrival of autumn.
My exquisite alarm clock (a Chopin crescendo) gently rouses me at 9.00am. I look around my room, a wood-panelled studio flat – one wall entirely a window. There’s no rush to leave the house (it’s one of my three days off a week), so I listen to the news – a wash of natural disasters in the third-world – and gaze out at the the hypnotic forest of small wind turbines adorning the roofs of my neighbourhood; a charming microcity of new build “eco-homes” I moved into a few years ago.
On my way out of the house, I greet my neighbour de-weeding a patch of onions in his front-garden, which functions as an allotment. In this area, and indeed much of the city, many gardens have been converted to semi-agricultural use through a government incentive scheme. My runner beans are looking scarce, but my kale is thriving, and I can see the beginnings of a raspberry beginning to bulge. The neighbour is laughing and talking about the American election: Kardashian is surging in the polls. I laugh with him, then mount my bike and start cycling towards the centre. On the corner of my street, I stop and throw the previous day’s recycling into its respective chutes in the pavement, then listen to it clunking into the ample containers below.
Re-mounting my bike, I swerve nonchalantly to and fro about the road. It’s a Thursday, which means it’s a no-car day within two miles of the city centre. The success of the Tuesday no-car day prompted its expansion, until the whole mid-week (inc. Wednesday) became almost entirely car free. Of course, some vehicles are still allowed, but a sufficiently useful reason must be provided, and the fines for infringement are deterringly tough. I breathe in the clean air, and the familiar smell of some tree that grew in my garden when I was a child.
I’m planning to meet Henry in the centre, but he’s not around when I arrive at the fountain. I sit on one of the new ergonomic bench-couches that are dotted around the square while I wait. He turns up before long, and we stroll around admiring the plentiful flowerbeds which border most of the buildings. We walk in and out of a few historical and artistic exhibitions that are sprinkled around the centre, particularly enjoying one which is lined with panes of coloured glass. The humidity of midday breaks with an abrupt rain which catalyses our stroll. We deliberate on where to go for some lunch – I’m paralysed by choice. He suggests the community centre on Goodramgate. I haven’t been there in a while, so I agree and we make towards it, following a line of automatic rain shelters which are unfurling themselves out from the sides of the buildings to create a sheltered strip.
The community centre, housed inside a huge and attractively simple building, welcomes us in from a brisk wind that slants the rain. To the right is an open plan food court stocked with a small bar and a community kitchen. The latter is one of my most valued enterprises in the city, and a place I try to work whenever I have spare time. All food is sold at the cheapest possible price, and all profits are thrown back into either expanded food services, or the community centre as a whole. As we make our way between the rows of long tables (designed so that strangers may meet and talk more easily) towards the counter, I meet Jim and Ripper sitting in a group of friends and eating what I assume is paella. He greets me with his distinctive laugh and starts talking excitedly about his reunion with his brother. Jim’s living in one of the rooms upstairs; the community centre accommodates a hundred or so people when they’re hard-up, combined with an optional rehabilitation program and a life/career support programme. I smile as I think of the advances made by Jim and the many of the people who were formerly living destitute on the streets. When I’m done talking to him, I sidle off to check out the options on the menu. It is indeed paella, made from ten or so seasonal vegetables. The portion is massive, but it’s delicious so I demolish it unhesitatingly.
Stuffed, I sit in silence and think about bees. Henry starts humming a familiar tune, and I’m reminded that I intended to rent a keyboard today. One of the major functions of the community centre is a resource library, in which is contained a broad array of items – tools, instruments, media, cameras, kitchen equipment, and of course books. Renting is free of charge (though for some items a deposit is needed), and loans typically last around two or three weeks. I couldn’t reliably estimate how much money I’ve saved over the years on temporarily required items, but I would guess it to be upwards of £1000. I muse gratefully on this as I carry a beautiful (and seemingly brand-new) Casio keyboard under my arm and down the street. I call Ben and swing over to his to show him a strange Bowie-esque riff I hope to develop – he’s living in a large flat a few streets away, where he’s working on a book about animal rights. We chat a little and drink some beers while the sun’s friendly orange glow fades.
Around midnight I leave and meander contentedly towards home. I don’t mind leaving my bike in town; the walk back to my house is flanked with a plethora of tree species. Their diverse leaves are just beginning to proclaim their sublime Autumn spectra.
My normal day consists of getting up early, doing my exercises, having breakfast, then getting on my bike (between 7:30 and 9, depending on the day) and cycling along the mess that is Piccadilly on my way to work in Museum Street. I work in a 140 year old listed building which has damp issues due to blocked drains (because the council hasn’t got the money to spend on regular clearing of drains, so they only go out to those who shout the loudest or are in the most urgent need). Parts of the building are not accessible to people with mobility issues, which makes every day a challenge as we need to work round this. We are trying to find a better premises to move to soon. I usually need to stay at work until about 7pm, and then I hop on my bike and shake my head in exasperation at the car drivers who insist on turning right from Lendal into Museum Street, even though there is a sign clearly saying no right turn…Then I dash home to potter in my back yard (if there is still daylight / no rain) and have some supper and get on with evening jobs to do with my voluntary work. Some days I have meetings at different parts of the city, and I usually cycle – worrying about the amount of fumes I am breathing in and trying not to get hit by car drivers who are oblivious to bikes and may very well knock me over at any point (has happened twice now in the past few years)
In 10 years’ time, I imagine that I am living in a carbon neutral home in a community setting, where some people work from home, there are some local shops and services, but we are still a part of the city of York, which has had many many more trees planted so we can breathe again in the city centre, and there are streets that have trams, buses and bikes but very few cars, with traffic flowing freely and smoothly. People are healthier, happier and less aggressive on the roads. My workplace has moved to a ground floor, accessible city centre location and I can still cycle or walk to work as I choose, but Piccadilly is now a tree-lined boulevard with beautiful buildings on each side, that are constructed in an environmentally sensitive way and include some lovely homes for people on low incomes / retired people and people with young families. I could go on but have run out of time – in 10 years’ time, I will have all the time I need to do the things I want to do!
York is a walkable city, so why do I have to get in my car to go out-of-town shopping because the decreasing number of retail outlets means I can’t find what I want at a price I can afford? Shopping on-line is definitely not the answer. I could eat and drink myself silly all day, but is this what residents want? Not to mention the street disturbances on Friday and Saturday evenings.
So here I am stuck on the A1237, having picked just the wrong time of day. Mind you the Council still allows disabled parking in the city centre, but how long this will continue is anyone’s guess.
As for the market, apparently not thriving, even after consultants’ fees and an inappropriate new look are factored in. No-one knows where it is because of totally inadequate signage and pathetic ‘heritage” colour scheme. Markets used to be fun places, full of colour and interest, and I like to shop there. But it needs a rethink and proper “marketing”. I must say I haven’t a lot of time tor the constantly congested Parliament Street scene – to get to M&S front door often needs a great effort of will.
Cuts in the public realm maintenance are really beginning to show. The road drains in Davygate haven’t been cleaned out for months, and last time I went after a heavy shower the road was almost impassable.
I do wish they would get on and sort out the development along Piccadilly – why does it have to take so long? I always thought that an offshoot of the Air Museum was a good idea.
But it is not all doom and gloom. “Events, dear boy, events” – we can’t get enough of them, which is surely a good thing, and the Council does its best to set the scene with its flower displays.
My message would be -“keep it clean”. York is still a great place, if you would only stop rushing about, dropping litter, and perhaps indulge in a bit of ‘mindfulness” instead.
Making my slow way round the centre of York I notice how well kept our parks and public open spaces are now – city centre streets clearly pressure washed and cleared of litter; risky uneven slabs relaid; pedestrian Petergate sparkling in its new block paving; flower beds to rival those of Harrogate!
All the noxious alleyways are now clean and cleared of obstructions, so that to explore the often unseen secrets of the city has become a pleasure, rather than an ordeal, and the “GOOSE PROBLEM” has been finally resolved (ask no questions!). Even the Foss is kept much cleaner now – fish galore, and more wildlife too.
It is good to see many more substantial trees planted, with helpful seats for those needing a rest from the increasing heat or torrential showers, which are such a feature of our new climate.
It is clear that the bicycle is finally accepted as a legitimate way of getting about, with more secure storage, despite rumbles of objection from those who can’t bear to share road space, and even the bus services are more user-friendly and reliable, now that measures to reduce car use and inner city congestion are beginning to take effect.
Those advocating dualling the ring road gave up years ago, I am glad to say, while the much-vaunted York Central ‘business district” was similarly put to rest, and we now have a delightful mix of housing and well-wooded parkland, much enjoyed by our residents and visitors, with the expanded world-class Railway Museum on its doorstep.
Best of all has been the transformation of the area round Clifford’s Tower, banishing the cars to an underground car-park, and giving us a fine city-centre park complementing the fabulous Museum Gardens on the other side of town.
More people live in town now, after the conversion of many uneconomic hotels into flats, and more living “over the shop”. I wouldn’t mind living in town myself.
My son wanted a new phone. It’s a weekday and I’m not working so I offer to go and help him ask the right questions. We walk in to the city centre, It’s pleasant weather and we take a direct route with interesting views all the way – the river, Cliffords Tower, green space and the pedestrian square in Coppergate. There’s a plethora of phone shops to choose from, both new and second hand. What will these shops become in ten years time? They weren’t here ten years ago. We open a new bank account now he’s earning from his brass band gigs. The staff are helpful. I walk to my in laws via Micklegate and think how lucky we are to have such varied architecture, small scale independent shops, and memorable streetscapes. I could look at a picture of any street in this city and I could tell where it was. I’m not sure you could do that in any other city. Every third shop is a bar, a takeaway restaurant or empty and it’s a shame these can’t contribute to the life of the street during the day.
There’s an absence of trees on Blossom Street, and I feel compelled to detour via Scarcroft Green. The sound of children playing in the school yard is timeless and makes me feel young again, but sad too thinking that I have no reason to enter a school I used to visit every day. There are dog walkers, toddlers playing and people crossing the green. It’s a popular, safe place. It’s calming too and if I had more time I would linger on a bench or a swing. You hope this space and its trees will be here forever, available to all, its value priceless.
Son and daughter have come to visit for the weekend. Having moved away, they miss home and are thinking of renting in the new settlement on the edge of the city, attracted by the thriving tech/arts economy, and cheap transport – an all-night express bus service and parallel illuminated cycleway have recently been completed. We walk into the city centre, the same route we’ve always taken. What’s changed? Electric cars mean you have to be careful stepping off the kerb. But there are fewer cars now and they travel slowly, their speed inhibitors primed to detect pedestrians and bikes at the roadside. The footways are more attractive, the services have all been moved beneath them to minimize road closures and this has gone hand in hand with investment and maintenance of new block paving, its colour and pattern setting a unique continental signature for the city.
The Arts Barge is flourishing – during the day soothing classical music drifts across the water, and there’s laughter at the tables. On the river, a suspended walkway offers an uninterrupted route to the city centre on each bank. It’s wide enough to attract a variety of street vendors selling local wares. In Piccadilly a thriving bazaar quarter is established where old office buildings have been offered at low rents to house start up shops and cafes. New pedestrian routes and suspended walkways penetrate the ground and lower floors forming part of an aerial walkway linked to the city walls. You are immediately aware of more young people, now encouraged to stay in the city once they graduate, investing their ideas and energy in start up businesses, all conspicuously branded Made in York.
The weather is fine today. Seats and benches are put out on most street corners, attracting older residents, some chatting, some playing the latest board games with local youths, a recent revival since the demise of handset culture.
You can just make out some of the brightly coloured residential blocks which fringe the city walls. These high density units have brought young and old back to the city centre. Some of the units operate as retirement complexes with free accommodation offered to students who support their elders. The city feels vibrant on days like this. The tourists are here to see the street life, just as much as the history, of the this, the North’s ‘Greenhouse City’.
We ran our first My Future York stall on Bishopthorpe Road last weekend (24th September, 2-4pm). We had sustained conversations with eleven people/families and more fleeting interactions with 15 or so more. Here are 10 ideas for 2026, they are a mixture of the most common and the most striking and unusual:
1) Bishopthorpe Road to be pedestrianized or become a shared space (so cars have to give priority to pedestrians). We were standing on the Bishopthorpe Road pavement and battling to speak over traffic noise so maybe this idea coming forward repeatedly wasn’t surprising, but it is an idea that had also already surfaced through the written Days in My Life.
2) Safer cycling again a popular idea. Specific ideas were proposed such as designated cycling paths and – when spaces were shared – cyclists needing to give way to pedestrians.
3) Reduce Air Pollution One contributor thought a way forward to reduce air pollution would be for the council to invest in electric car recharging stations. Others were worried this wouldn’t address congestion and emphasized public transport and cycling.
4) Ban all stag and hen dos from 2017. The question of anti-social behaviour on weekend evenings came up repeatedly last week (as it has in the written stories). Some blamed drink. Others didn’t blame drink as such but said there needed to be more regulation of behaviour. Stories were told of seeing men peeing in broad daylight; having to explain rude slogans on t-shirts to 8 year olds and a man exposing himself to a woman and her daughter. ideas including some kind of PG rating on t-shirts etc until after 8pm. One idea was more police in town on a weekend. One radical idea was to ban all stag and hen dos. Another was how to create a cultural change so you could get as drunk as you like but certain types of behaviour would start to feel unacceptable.
5) Allotments. That all new city centre / York Central housing developments should have allotments built in.
6) Swimming was a popular topic. A swimming pool back in town was hoped for, as was outside swimming, perhaps as we were near the site of the old outdoor pool in Rowntrees Park. Feels like a York Lido Society needs to be formed…
7) Bring back the Arts Centre. The Arts Barge was celebrated but the old Arts Centre near Ouse Bridge mourned.
8) Nuture the city centre. Monk’s Cross and Clifton Moor were generally seen as mistakes that failed to look after the city centre and ensure the city centre as a living place for local people rather than just a place for visitors.
9) More places for 12-18 year olds to hang out – possibly a community centre in Rowntrees Park (which in our imaginary 2026 no long closes at dusk) and which might show films and have on various courses and events.
10) ‘More for us that live here’ / Recognize that lots of things happen in York because we have tourists. This is the dilemma that runs through a lot of discussion of the city centre. That the city centre – because of the out of town shopping centre and/or anti-social behaviour – is becoming a place of less appeal to locals, especially with local areas such as Bishopthorpe Road developing into their own micro-centre. Yet at the same time many we spoke to recognized that much of the cultural infrastructure – whether arts or restaurants – is enabled by the fact York has visitors. An issue worth further debate…
We’ll be on Acomb Front Street this afternoon between 2-4pm. Let’s see how this list compares…
If you’re interested we can also share a transcript of the unprocessed data. Just get in touch.
It must be ten years now since I left York and went to live in a sustainable city and I realise that I have forgotten how tiring and depressing it was to live in a place that refused to join the 21st century. It is 2026. I have grandchildren now and we are coming to York for the day to see how people used to live. Being a passive house, our home costs only £40 a year to heat, and that heat comes from the district heating network that is linked to the incinerator. Half the homes in the city are heated from rubbish. It’s brilliant. I remember dreaming that one day York would be like this; cycle paths and tramways linking all corners of the city and its villages, electric cars, properly insulated homes for all, fuel poverty a thing of the past, secure underground cycle parks, buses running on biogas, a city protected against flooding, renewable energy installed across the city, district heating … Apparently everyone preferred coughing in the pollution, admiring the gridlocked ring of cars around the city walls, shivering in single-glazed historic splendour, and traipsing through annual floods like Vikings; it’s what made York special everyone told me. It still does because York hasn’t changed a thing in 2026.
Anyway, our current passive house in our sustainable city (well away from York) is programmed to wake up a 6.45am. It’s a smart house. First the rooms are heated (it doesn’t take much), then the insulated kettle boils, using solar energy stored in the main battery. The water stays at near boiling point for hours, that way we can make toast and everything else we want to do when we get up, without overdrawing on the battery. Through the day our smart house does everything that needs doing in order – washing clothes then dishes then heating the water and so on – as soon as the power has built up from the solar PV. No waste,
Once the kids have eaten I bundle them in the electric car and take them to the tram stop for the start of our big day out. No need for big car parks anymore, the car takes itself home. I’ll call the car from the tram when we’re on our way home later and it will come and meet us at the tram stop.
In our new city they converted all the car parks to vertical greenhouses, to grow vegetables within the city, taking filtered grey water recycled from the roads. It cuts down on food miles: tomatoes, turnips, peppers, salad, radishes, even bananas and ginger are all grown in the city. In the UK! Oh, yes, that’s another thing we do, at the city hall they get all their hot water from the pipes that are laid beneath the roads outside the building. The sun heats the road, the road heats the pipes – it’s not rocket salad … but you know all that already, it’s what you do in your city too.
I digress, I was meant to be telling you about my trip to York – the city that never changes. Our tram stops just outside the station and we catch the high speed electric train to York; 300 miles and fifty years back in time in just over an hour! Amazing. Against expectations, the new generation of nuclear power stations have proved very effective. (The Tokamak reactors have finally passed all the tests so nuclear fusion is set to
get the go ahead this autumn … At last! ;-). The children have been making fun of me for weeks. They simply don’t believe a word I tell them about York. One of the hardest things has been persuading them to carry gas masks and high vis jackets. When the ticket collector arrives in our train compartment, they tell him
where we’re going and he confesses that he comes from York. So they start asking him questions but it turns out he’s rather embarrassed and doesn’t want to talk. He checks with me that I know what I am letting myself in for, then wanders off up the train shaking his head. We arrive in York bang on time. As we step onto the platform the children’s eyes are big as Yorkshire puddings. Zethan immediately starts coughing and I remind them to put their gas masks on.
None of us has smelled diesel fumes for years; the children have never smelled them. And we’re still in the station! I’m wondering if it fake smoke, to get us in the mood. York has always been famous for its museums, and rightly so, but now in 2026 it has become a museum itself. The whole city. I remember going to Beamish a long time ago to see how the Victorians lived, and now people come to York to experience life in the Elizabethan age. Elizabeth the Second obviously. You can spot the tourists, we’re all wearing face masks or gas masks. As we step out of the station the stink takes your breath away. There’s a long line of taxis, all with their engines running and belching out diesel fumes, just like I remember it. The taxis are like a row of
Roman soldiers carrying burning torches, blocking our way into the city. Axana asks me if they’re real. I assure that they are but she wants to touch one to make sure. She leaps back laughing when she feels the engine shaking beneath the bonnet.
‘What’s that cloud of smoke coming out of the back? Is it like with dragons in the olden
times?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, just like dragons,’ I answer.
A large sign advertises trips to an authentic village experience.
Step into the Past
The Way we Were!
‘That’s where you lived, isn’t it, granddad?’ Zethan asks. ‘Let’s go there.’
I hesitate. We only have eight hours and it is nearly eight miles. The taxi driver assures me that it will be fine so we climb aboard. The taxi smells as bad inside as it does outside and I instruct the children to keep their gas masks on, much to the driver’s amusement. It’s not just diesel fumes, it is clear that the driver is a smoker, something else the children have never witnessed.
We come out from under the station arch and are immediately stuck in a line of taxis, lorries, and other vehicles, just like I remember it a decade ago and for 30 years before that. It must take ten minutes just to do a little loop around a group of six parked cars. The road in front of the station is awash with dirty buses, vans, and huge wheeled cars that were designed to climb up mountains in the snow but became insanely fashionable in cities like York, even though they cost twice as much in fuel and couldn’t fit in the thousands of parking spaces that covered the city, and probably still do.
I don’t remember seeing the pollution when I lived here back in 2010 but I do now, a yellow fog hanging in the air, thick as custard. I am half-expecting to see residents wandering about with mobile phones powered by combustion engines instead of batteries, with the exhaust pipes emerging from under their armpits.
When I was a child they spent their whole time cleaning the Minster, going from one end to the other and then starting all over again, scrubbing the pollution away and replacing the stones that had been eroded by acid rain. I don’t think I ever saw the whole building without scaffolding up somewhere. In most cities all that is just a distant memory, but not in York. As we join the stationary traffic, the taxi driver turns and hands me a copy of the York Press, telling me it will take a while to get across the city and I might like to catch up with the news.
‘Are we there yet?’ asks Axana.
I shake my head. ‘Why don’t you play a game?’ I suggest.
Zethan has found an App about living in a scarily cold house. I leave them to it.
I look at the newspaper. News? It’s like stepping into a time capsule.
‘Latest plans unworkable say councillors’ reads the headline on the front page, alongside a
photo of a bunch of angry men in grey suits and ties, crouching in front of a pothole. (see
page 4 for full story)
The strange thing is that potholes don’t exist anywhere outside the UK and even in the UK they are only found in cities like York. In the rest of the world they long ago switched to rubberised surfaces that dramatically reduced the amount of money it cost to repair the road. The rubber surface prevents ice from getting in to cause damage. Keeps the road quieter too. Been around for 30 years. But not here. Except in York, there are very few private cars on the road in 2026 and the cars, all electric, that do exist are lighter and designed for only one or two people. And in any event most people use trams or bikes to get around. It’s how modern
cities are designed: bikes and pedestrians first, trams second, buses thirds, cars last. I can’t remember when I last saw a row of large lorries nose to tail inside a city.
Still that’s why we’ve come to York; to see how people used to live in the olden days. On page 4, the three angry men in grey suits are having an argument about potholes. One says his party wants to spend more money on fixing them. Another wants to spend even more money on fixing them. And the last one wants to talk about pollution, which makes the other two men very angry. I wonder whether there are women councillors and whether they get as angry about potholes.
‘We cannot abandon cars in favour of unproven new-fangled technologies that will not
work,’ says Councillor Brassneck.
‘It is simply intolerable that they want to spend money on youth centres instead of
investing in our road infrastructure,’ says Cllr. Meek.
The Press quotes a resident who points out that trams and bicycles have existed over 150
‘The survey clearly showed that most York residents do not trust them,’ responds Cllr
Beneath the pothole article in the paper is a smaller one revealing that next week is the 80th anniversary of the last time the city had an agreed Local Plan.
‘Have they really still not agreed a plan?’ I ask the taxi driver.
‘You know how it is, Love,’ she says. ‘The Tories blame Labour, Labour blame the Lib Dems, the Lib Dems blame the Greens, the Green blame the Tories. There is good news though. I’ve been told our city councillors have all agreed to celebrate the centenary of not having a strategic plan. They’re calling it KEEP YORK SPECIAL DAY.
I’ve almost lost the will to live by the time we reach Fishergate. It’s been nose to tail all
the way, people driving vehicles that have been banned across most of the world. It’s a bit
like those old photos you see of Cuba when Castro was alive, with cars that were sixty years
old and held together with bits of string.
‘There’s a minibar if you’re hungry,’ says the taxi driver. ‘Parkin biscuits baked in an
authentic oil burning stove. I’m Caroline by the way. Are you from York?’
‘From Wheldrake,’ I answer. ‘Many years ago. I can’t believe that nothing’s changed.’
‘That’s York for you.’
‘Granddad, it says here that crossing York today takes twice as long as it did 120 years
ago,’ Zethan says, pulling my sleeve.
‘Only twice as long? Are you sure?’
It takes just over two hours to reach Wheldrake. Caroline tells me that when the houses
started being sold at Germany Beck in Fulford they had an extra 1000 cars on the road every
morning. Slapping a road on the Ings didn’t help exactly, she confesses. What with climate
change getting worse every year. The road floods twice a year and only way in and out of
York to the south is blocked for at least three weeks every winter.
‘Why didn’t they build a tram?’ I ask. ‘Everywhere else has them. They opened one in
Dijon, one of York’s twin cities, nearly twenty years ago. Their tram network was carrying
50,000 a day with months of its being launched. York could have had a line from Wheldrake
through to Haxby, via Germany Beck, and the university all the way up past the station and
on through York Central to the north of the city. And another one from east to west.’
Caroline laughs. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Cars are part of our heritage,’ she says. ‘Can
you imagine anything as ugly as a tram going along main street in Fulford? It would ruin the
look of the village, destroy its character.’
‘What village? What about the ten thousands of cars that jam up Main Street for hours a
‘They’re what makes us special.’
‘They’re what makes you a laughing stock,’ I said. ‘and lead to half of you going to
hospital with respiratory diseases.’
‘That’s all hearsay. Besides look at all the tourists we have. Oh, by the way, have you seen
they took those houses down and rebuilt the old petrol station. Lovely, isn’t it?’
I get Caroline to wait for us in the car park at the WHELDRAKE the WAY we WERE Museum, just to make sure we can actually get back to the station before dark. The kids are entranced. They have never seen a village without wind turbines, where every street is blocked with parked cars and where every third house has an oil tank outside.
‘But why would they do that?’ they keep asking me. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
The tour guide, Mr Smirthwaite, explains that the huge clouds of smoke on the horizon are
no longer coming from the ring of power stations that used to be to the south of the village.
With a distant look in his eye he reels off the names of his favourite coal-fired power stations
as if reciting the names of lovers: Ferrybridge, Drax, Eggborough …
‘They all shut down years ago, sadly, but the village were determined to keep the visual
amenity they had provided, Smirthwaite tells us. ‘We missed the view so the village applied
for funding to have giant video screen erected along the southern boundary of the village, to
show the cooling towers as they used to look. The smoke pouring into the sky is actually
steam generated behind the giant screens, with a bit of soot added for effect. Anyroad, we do
still use all our own oil.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We bought shares in an oil field in Libya when the price of oil collapsed in 2023,’ he
explains. ‘Most of us didn’t want owt to do with renewables. We prefer the old ways. We
have a tanker come from Tripoli every six months. The oil is brought to us from Hull in these
heritage oil delivery lorries you can see.’
‘But it must cost a fortune just to deliver it.’
‘Aye, there’s some say that, but at least we don’t have to put up with those whirling
eyesores in the fields or those ugly blue panels stuck on roofs. You won’t find a wind turbine
‘But you’ve got four rusting oil delivery lorries stinking to high heaven in front of the
church, in the middle of the village!’
‘They’re part of the character of the village, son. Like the telephone kiosk.’
‘Which is being used as a petrol pump.’
‘Times change,’ says Mr Smirthwaite says proudly. ‘Times change.’
Contributed to the My Future York project, 20th September 2016. The writer prefers not to be named.
I get up far too early and try to coax Lexie into watching Cbeebies to give me more sleep. Programmes are only 7-minutes long! Eat a quick breakfast, battle on some shoes, beg to brush her hair and take Lex on her scooter to nursery. Come back and have breakfast, read latest news on Hilary Clinton.
Go upstairs to work where I have a contact call with my virtual team in my clothes which are really only one step up from pyjamas. Feel very modern until Skype gets glitchy. Work all day through lunch until 3.20 when I go to pick up Lexie from pre-school. Have play-date planned for after-pre-school but its wet and in Holgate and there is nowhere to go. Make excuses and go round to Grandpas instead.
Fancy going for an outdoor swim but choices are limited, so instead we go to Rowntree’s Park. Covered in Goose Poo. Dad says this didn’t happen when dogs were allowed off leashes. Agree to tell someone about this. We all have an ice cream.
Go back to Grandpas. He makes Lexie a fish supper. I bug him about getting his blood-tests done. To be fair the combination of getting through the traffic congestion, paying for parking and a potential wait at the hospital makes it a fairly stressful process, especially for someone already feeling pretty weak.
Dad drives Lexie home while I run home via river. Wish there was a way to run by the river without having to run through town. There isn’t. (First world problem). Instead I try to accelerate through Coney Street, aiming to look fast when I’m feeling really tired and sweaty. Get home. Olly has started the bath, books and bed plan for Lexie. Lexie really wants to sleep on my knee. That is what happens.
Get a shower and then eat, and then watch netflix box-sets until it is far too late. Crash.
8.30 getting nervous. Lexie still not out of bed. We get our runners on and run to school remembering to turn on our EasyPE sensors to earn PE credits. Three more running commutes this week, and she’ll get out of PE this week entirely – no Hockey – hurray!
School situation improving. Parent’s in York clamoring to get into “authentic” Local Authority controlled schools. We don’t have a chance, as only academies in our area. Luckily the school is finally starting to offer some term time flexibility, so with a combination of compressed weeks, remote work modules & parent mentoring credits, Lexie is able to travel with us for work. November = California – yay!
Get back to find two Grandpas and Olly cooking high fat, high salt breakfast in the kitchen. At least now they both live with us they are on the cleaning rota. Check Dad’s blood levels which are now collected from his implant. All good & green light back from surgery. No meds changes today & no need to call on the Community-run Health Squad.
We’re out of bread, so use my digital-detox hour to take Dottie the Dog to the park to pick up a faken-sarnie from the community bakery in West Bank Park & do some weeding in the stress-less garden. It’s all got a bit post-hipster-hipster round here, but there are some benefits. Dad arrives to run the Young Folk singing session. Get a bit nostalgic about bringing little Lexie to the Young Friends Group. Sigh.
Need some new clothes for my big pitch in Reykjavik on Thursday, so pop to York Central Makers Quarter to get some inspiration from independent local designers. Really pleased we got plenty of family housing and green space here too. The place is buzzing with small kids who are out playing in the water-fountains. It’s nearly the end of September! Might try to squeeze in one last dip of the year in the Ouse Lido, or perhaps I should have a run on the new Pedestrian Cross Town Sky-Link. Amazing!
Head home via new forage-your-own food café for some take-out. Still not quite sure about this but I offer the a few herbs I gathered earlier and get something interesting in return. I then pay using my YorkYen contact-less card, which generates community credits for the school-supper club & bringing back the Holgate Matterhorn. Bonus.
Finally back to work. Facilitate virtual seminar on history of new media for online Learning Co-op. Sociocratic organising & peer assessment principles means there is no lesson plan or marking scheme. Can sometimes be a transformative process, but today (in my opinion) we spend far too long exploring the word ‘web’.
Should really be thinking about dinner, but this evening Mum & I are going to retro-roof-top cinema on Stonebow House & Lexie is at ballet, so I pop a Tesco Value 500cal pill instead. Feel a bit guilty, but I save 3 hours and leave Olly and the two Grandpas free to dig on more swine – so not all bad. Walk home accompanied by personal pavement-projection trail, stopping only for a quick, virtual Street-Up with my bezzie in London en-route.
Finally back at home. All is quiet. Programme-in my berry-breakfast & set the Alarmbiante to Brighton Seafront, before jumping into my temperature controlled side of the bed!