Heathrow Airport, London, UK, October 2015 - A lifetime's involvement

I have lived with Heathrow Airport almost all my life.  My first visit was as a young child, shortly after the tunnel into the central area was completed, but when, if you turned right shortly after coming out of the tunnel, you came to a cinder compound with a few children’s amusements from which the movements of the aircraft – Vickers Vikings, Airspeed Ambassadors, and Lockheed Constellations, could be watched from behind nothing more than a 4 foot high wire fence.

I should explain that I was brought up almost directly under one of the eastern flight paths into Heathrow – indeed my primary school was directly under that path.  Not that it mattered that much – our lessons were not disturbed by turboprop planes that came in every few minutes. It was when the early jets started that things got a bit worse – with the worst of all being the Trident, a British-built plane unfortunately. 

Instead of going off collecting train numbers I could sit in our back garden, with my father’s old wartime binoculars, and note down plane numbers. And that, of course, led into the question of where the planes had come from.  When my father retired he got hold of the airline timetables every few months and made up a schedule that enabled him to identify exactly where any plane that came over had originated: it could probably all be sorted easily by computer now, but he did it all by hand.   For my part I used to cycle to Heathrow in school holidays – starting when I was only about 11 – to watch the planes and record their numbers, returning home to underline them in the plane-spotters catalogues.  The cycle tunnels into the airport I used then have been converted to car and taxi lanes – I don’t suppose anyone cycles to Heathrow Central now.

Living near Heathrow had some interesting social geographical dimensions to it.  Protests about aircraft noise and campaigns against night flying were launched further away from the airport than where we lived – in Kew and Richmond.  The reason why no one in our street would have joined such protest movements was simple – a lot of people around us either worked at Heathrow (a father and two sons three doors from us who were all fitters for British European Airways (as it then was), or were dependent on the airport for employment (the Hertz rent-a-car man who lived next door).  Even the jobbing plasterer and the jobbing builder further along got occasional work at Heathrow or at firms connected with it.

My daughter lives in the house that I was brought up in near the flight path.  Today the planes come over at 80 second intervals, but since Concorde was taken out of service there is nothing that interrupts normal conversation.  Family life goes on irrespective of the noise of planes.  When I was a child, though, I had difficulties in getting to sleep in relations’ houses where all was quiet, without the regular thrum of a plane coming in.  (Throughout this piece I have talked about planes coming in to land.  When planes take off in an easterly direction they turn off the line before reaching the house: it is only when they fly in via central London – which they do most of the time because of the prevailing wind – that they fly over.)  

I have been at Heathrow today for a flight to Hong Kong, and I am actually writing this whilst over Russia on that flight.  I have just left Terminal 5 – a construction that would be unimaginable to anyone standing on that piece of cinder ground near the north runway in the mid 1950s.  Perhaps because I grew up with Heathrow as a constant presence in my life it seems quite natural to fly from there.  Many people from Sheffield, where I now live, would rather walk to Manchester than fly from Heathrow – saying that the airport is chaotic, crowded, unlovable and to be avoided at all costs.  But the UK’s provincial airports such as Manchester and Birmingham have few long-haul flights (Birmingham virtually none) and are rapidly becoming the preserve of budget carriers. And whilst it is certainly possible to fly from both of them to virtually anywhere in the eastern hemisphere via Dubai or Helsinki, I would much prefer a direct long-haul flight than changing planes in the middle of the night somewhere that I don’t want to be (not that I’ve got anything against Helsinki – a lovely city).  British Airways should perhaps be renamed ‘London Airways’ now since its service for cities other than London is now virtually non-existent.  At one time or another I have flown from Manchester, Birmingham (or even Sheffield) to cities as varied as New York, Berlin, Paris, and Düsseldorf: now the only BA destination from Manchester is London.

I don’t know how many flights I have made in my life – probably well over 200.  But flying still has an element of romance to it, and there is always a little bit of excitement in arriving to catch a plane at Heathrow, just as there was for me when I cycled there to collect plane numbers and watch aircraft from all over the world when I was a child.

Lisbon, Portugal, September 2015 - Favourite City?

When people find out that part of my claim to some sort of academic reputation lies in the research I have carried out on European cities, they often go on to ask which is my favourite among them.  Over the years my view has changed.  At one time my answer would be 'outside the UK I have three favourites - Berlin, Lisbon and Paris.'  I am wondering whether in fact that should be narrowed down to one - Lisbon.  Perhaps that's because I am there as I write this.

I came to Lisbon, and to Portugal, relatively late in my career.  It is less than 20 years since I first visited.  But since then I find it difficult to count the times I have disembarked at Portela airport and got a taxi into the city, or been met by a colleague with a car.  (Since my last visit the metro has at last reached the airport, but I've not used that to reach the city centre yet.)  I have been fortunate to be involved in some significant research projects with colleagues in various Portuguese universities, particularly in Lisbon, and have got to know the city and its surroundings in part through their eyes.  That also involves going to places that other visitors would not find, being taken to authentic fado evenings, visiting buildings not open to the public, and meeting a variety of interesting people.  On this visit I have caught up with a number of colleagues and we have talked over plans for possible further collaborations.

But part of the time I have been here has been just to relax for a weekend before my meetings, and later in the day after they have concluded.  So why do I like Lisbon so much?  Here's a brief list of highlights of my current visit - most not being tourist-oriented activities.  

• Travelling the buses, seeing how people get up for the elderly and infirm, despite the press of people (most buses seem to have twice or three times as many passengers as they have seats for).  There is also a wonderful iPhone app that accurately lets me know when the next bus is due at any stop in the city.
• Travelling the 12 tram up above the Baixa district.  The 28 tram appears as a 'must' in every guidebook - and is always jam-packed with tourists.  But the humble 12 which does a one-way circular route carries ordinary residents, many of them elderly, up the narrow streets to their tiny houses and apartments on the side of the castle hill and in Alfama.  This is a more authentic Lisbon experience.
• Eating at the A Travessa restaurant, with tables around the cloister of an old convent.  There is no menu for starters: instead the chef sends out small dishes prepared from whatever has been freshest or most interesting in the markets of the city that day.  And although the restaurant appears in all the international guidebooks, there are many Portuguese eating there on the evening I visit.
• Catching up with emails while sitting in a little shaded square near the back of the Open University (the Praca Flores, or Flower Square), accompanied by small children playing, old men reading newspapers, and old women knitting and talking together.
• Taking the train out to Estoril on a sunny Sunday morning, along with hundreds of other Lisbon residents, and strolling along the seawall promenade to Cascais, followed by a plate of grilled prawns in garlic at a beachside restaurant - and a glass of white wine from Setubal.
• Taking a short cut from the Santa Apolonia station back to the city centre, cutting through the Alfama district, an area of few roads but criss-crossed by a dense network of stepped alleyways lying against a steep hill.  Ever since I first arrived in Lisbon I have watched the gentrification of the Alfama neighbourhood - an old Moorish district that lay outside the walls of the medieval city and whose name, with the Arabic 'Al-', reflects its history (as do the names of other Lisbon districts).  People have lamented the loss of the old - but gentrification in Alfama is a very slow process.  Families that have lived in the tiny and inadequately provided houses here are inclined to stay on and there are still many long-standing residents.  Yet I accept that there are signs of change - some houses with new tiled roofs, painted walls and well-fitting windows; and in the lower part of the neighbourhood there is a rash of small restaurants offering a tourist menu in five languages, with a fado performance included.  But the saddest sight in Alfama today occurs where the chaos, irregularity, and hidden and secret delights and corners of the neighbourhood confront the quays of the Tagus river: there the massive monolithic cruse liners moor for their few hours in the city, creating a wall of uniformity to close Alfama in from the rest of the world.
• Being taken to a horse riding centre just a few steps from the University of Lisbon and the stadium of Sporting Lisboa football club.  I had previously not known of the existence of this green space, surrounded by stables for numerous horses, right in the middle of the built-up area.  And nor had I known of the excellent restaurant, open to everyone and not just to those coming to exercise their horses.
• Taking the metro, which is spacious, clean and efficient.
• Eating pasteis de nata de Belem (custard tarts, which should be coated with cinnamon before eating), or indeed any other Portuguese cakes and confectionary.  

I will close this paean to Lisbon with mention of one specific set of artefacts in a museum: I try to go to see them as often as I can when I am in the city.  The Portuguese were the first to reach Japan by sea, and in the Museum of Old Art (the Museu de Arte Antigua) there are a set of screens painted by Japanese artists depicting the arrival of these people from an equal but different culture.  They were produced within the lifetimes of those who could bear witness to the reactions of both groups involved.  And they are a wonderful insight into the initial contact of civilisations, as well as being beautifully designed and executed works of art.  I recommend anyone to go to seek out the 'Namban Screens' - and the districts around the museum (Lapa and Santos) are some of the most relaxing in the city as well.