The Power of Community.

I originally drafted this a couple of months ago, when asked by Manchester MIND as a regular volunteer at its mental health allotment project, to write something to help promote the importance of the charity’s work and its Nature for Health project. 

Now several weeks on, myself and the other community members are still adjusting after receiving the news that sadly the project would end due to a lack of funding. We’ve begun the difficult process of accepting change and starting to contemplate next steps. While we, and I personally, continue to reflect on this news and think of new ways forward, it has given me cause for a moment of pause – and to consider a new phase in my life, keeping in my mind the value of peer support that this project has helped foster in me. 

Though our presence at the allotment is no more, our community remains alive through regular meet-ups and nature walks. We keep the memory of this very special place in our hearts. 

*** 

It’s one of life’s great truths that things can seem much worse than they are when you’re in the middle of them. With the benefit of hindsight, muddy waters can become clearer. And so it has been with my mental health journey, and my relationship with the Manchester MIND community. 

In early 2020, amidst the darkest of clouds which had gathered around me in recent months, after reaching breaking point in terms of my mental health, I’d been forced to leave my job and looked around at the fragments of my life with an inability to recognise anything positive, or see any way forward. 

Some time later, I reacted with scepticism when my social prescribing nurse described a local allotment run by the nearby branch of MIND, catering for those struggling with their mental health. 

The rainy, obscured view I saw from my living room window one Wednesday morning that summer matched perfectly my internal environment. Reluctantly, I set aside my brain’s reservations about stepping out of my carefully crafted comfort zone and made the short journey to the allotment. 

On the edges of my town, set back from a housing estate, I was met at the gates of the enclosure by Manchester MIND’s Nature for Health project facilitator Carolyn. Amid the busy activity of members of the community, she warmly and kindly introduced me to the space. Kindness: it was a word that had been noticeably absent from my internal monologue for some time, and three years on from that first visit, it’s still the word I most associate with the setting. 

On that fairly gloomy Manchester day, as I began to learn more about the project, I looked around at the people milling about and felt certain that I could never be ‘normal’ enough to belong there. Now, I know through my own reality that I was wrong. 

In the coming months as a regular patron of the allotment, I would veer between days where I was incapable of leaving my home to make the trip, others where I made the journey but became overwhelmed and found myself in tears amid the soil and leaves, still others when the sun would shine both literally and metaphorically and I’d find myself content and at home among the flora and fauna – and my peers. 

On my more challenging days, the gentle guidance of my fellow gardeners kept me grounded and gave me clarity. On one such day, Carolyn engaged me in a mindfulness exercise in which she urged me to simply listen to the sound of the chirping birds, the buzz of the bees, and the soft tones of nature around me, a grounding exercise which took my attention away from my mind – and back to myself. ‘Just keep going,’ one veteran volunteer who’d previously shared his own inspiring story of challenge, and having come out the other side, said to me on a similar day. It was a simple message, but one which for some reason struck a chord on that particular day, and planted in me the seedlings of hope for an alternative future. 

In the crowded mental health space, mantras and platitudes are plentiful. Some resonate. One which I saw often while endlessly scrolling social media during difficult moments is that recovery from a mental health condition is not linear. 

After attending sessions as a service user for a while, I was invited to become a volunteer, still attending weekly and helping with whatever was needed. Whether it was sowing seeds, making colourful signs to decorate the plot, or simply sitting in the quiet haven of the space and having a cup of tea with my peers, the regularity of my Mondays at the allotment – and knowing I was contributing to something bigger – served as a much-needed anchor for me during the peaks and troughs of my recovery. I developed relationships with other volunteers as we toiled together come rain or shine, took home produce we’d helped grow, and enjoyed harvest events where we shared food and drink, songs, poetry – and our stories. 

As I navigated the oft unwieldly beast of my inner demons, adjusted to life changes, and processed new diagnoses, the consistent presence of Manchester MIND kept me centred. While facing the detrimental, degenerative impact of perimenopause symptoms on my health and wellbeing, I found support and solace in the community, through its Mindfulness and Relaxation for Menopause course. When I rode the waves of emotional dysregulation, the MIND website provided games, advice, and other resources to distract me from my distress. 

I joined other community members for mindful walks around local beauty spots, to watch thought-provoking films, and to visit inspiring exhibitions. Under the blue sky and sunshine, I rattled collection tins as part of the team at the Heaton Park Food and Drink Festival. And while in my most vulnerable state, as I navigated the unforgiving world of the Personal Independence Payment application system, the advice team proved a vital source of knowledge and support in ultimately securing the financial aid I needed to manage my mental health and ADHD. 

In a landscape of increasingly hostile and ill-informed narratives around mental health, disability, and neurodiversity – in many cases coming directly from those who’ve been elected to represent us – MIND’s staunch campaigning against the demonisation of the vulnerable and myth-busting around conditions like depression and anxiety, helped me fight feelings of worthlessness around my conditions and need for financial support from the state, and made me resolute in the face of ignorance and gaslighting. 

It would be naïve of me to say that, even several years on, and with the help of the Manchester MIND community, my family and friends, therapist, and medication, I am cured. I know now that I will always live with my mental health challenges and my neurodivergence. But I can say with absolute certainty that I’m now in a far more stable place – and, thanks to the community which welcomed me – one in which I have hope. 

To quote one of my favourite films, ‘hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.’

Manchester, united

22 funerals.

22 mobiles that would never be answered.

22 ticket stubs never to be treasured.

Taxi drivers pitched in.

Clubs blue and red came together.

Tony Walsh spoke to the masses.

The spirit of Manchester appeared on our lampposts in bumblebee form.

The city rose up.

And the Brothers Gallagher fought in familial fashion.

It was love, it was peace, it was Manchester. 

#WeStandTogether

Gone Walkabout - Italy to Croatia by boat

I found that during the two weeks I spent in Italy I had on more than one occasion one of those travel moments which I'd conveniently forgot. I refer not to standing in front of an age-old monument and feeling a deep sense that all is right with the world, but one of those moments easier to put to the back of your mind in which you really do want to tear your hair out. Whether it be turning a corner to find your hostel isn't where you expected as your water bottle dwindles and the weight of your backpack pulls on your neck in the blistering heat, or discovering the handy sugar sachets you picked up at your last jumping-off point have now helpfully split into pieces, their contents working their way into every crevice of your purse, this trip was no exception; Italy a country whose beauty was matched only by the infuriation I so often felt when trying to navigate its complex ways and unwritten rules.

So when I stood on deck on my overnight trip from Ancona to Croatia after another incredibly frustrating couple of hours spent trying to make sense of the nonsensical, I felt a bittersweet sense of loss at leaving the country behind, along with it the experiences I'd had there, but also relief in many ways to be moving on - and heading to the next and last part of my journey before returning home.

Travelling never fails to broaden minds and remind us of what's important - so at odds was this particular trip then with how I felt about the evident collective mindset of the majority of the electorate in the country I called home. I had never before felt so strongly a citizen of Europe and of the world, and so in tune with the new places and people I was experiencing, I resolved then and there to make post-Brexit the start of a time in which I opened myself up to new cultures and experiences and not closed the doors on them. 

But in spite of this, I found that the prospect of home had never felt more real or more appealing.

How to make the perfect cup of tea

Even back in 1946, the ‘rules’ for a perfect cup of tea were being debated. The author George Orwell was concerned enough with how to come up with the ideal version of the beverage that he was moved to pen a list of no less than 11 hard and fast rules for brewing up.

He reckoned that the issue of how to make a good cuppa mattered such a great deal to so many people around the world that it had the potential to cause ‘violent disputes.’ I tend toward liking the idea that people in war-torn countries across the land could still find time to care enough about the preparation of a good cup of tea to the extent that it could lead to violence.

Similarly, I’m moved and somewhat comforted by the knowledge that amid his political writings, social commentary and jaunts down coal mines, Orwell remembered to write down his top tips for tea, a veritable feast of advice on the do’s and don’ts of putting the kettle on. I picture him wandering round one of his many homes, perhaps pondering an essay on social injustice, and suddenly thinking to himself, ‘isn’t it about time I wrote a seminal work on conjuring up the perfect cuppa?’, and it’s a source of great amusement for me.

But to my musings on making the perfect cup of tea. In an ideal world of course, I would be sat on a plumped-up cushion at the Ritz, being served the drink in a china cup, in copious amounts, along with cake and cucumber sandwiches – sadly, an ideal world this is not.

One quick initial point by the way: if you are going to allow someone the privilege of lovingly preparing you a ‘nice cup of tea’, be sure that they not only know one end of a teaspoon from another and have a steady hand, but also – crucially – realise that the main ingredient of tea is in fact, tea, and not milk, the latter a belief sadly held by a great many people around the world who for the most part look entirely normal.

When preparing a cup of tea for yourself, your first move should be to seek out the appropriate container for your beverage. This should not be a huge crater-type cup more akin to a bucket, but a small and modest mug, perhaps ordained with a picture of your favourite animal or Star Wars character – lovingly drop your teabag of choice inside it.

Next, you need to add water to the kettle – imperative here is remembering that you are making tea for neither an ant nor a party of 500. Fill the kettle with a little dribble of water and you may well destroy it, fill it to the brim and you may find you’re still waiting in your kitchen come next year.

Once the kettle’s boiled, be sure to grab it promptly and pour to just above the three quarter level of your mug. Now would be a good time to adjust your radio station, wash up those dishes from earlier or simply enjoy daydreaming, with the precious few spare minutes this process is affording you. Return to your mug when the liquid has turned a dark brown, almost treacle colour, at which point you should grab a teaspoon and swiftly remove the bag from the mug and dispose of it.

Reach for a cold carton or bottle of semi-skimmed milk and add a splash of it to the brown liquid. This should leave you with a creamy, darkish caramel-coloured mug of hot tea, ready to be devoured.

On one final point, Orwell also threw in his tuppence-worth when it came to the issue of whether or not to add sugar. For me, this is a personal choice equating to whether you prefer lager or wine, tall or short men, Coronation Street or Eastenders, or Man United or Arsenal. Not for Orwell, who claimed that all tea with the exception of ‘Russian style’, ‘should be drunk without sugar.’

I’ll leave you with this: if you add salt to a nice bowl of tomato and basil soup, does it cease to be soup and instead transform into some new, as-yet-unnamed entity? Far be it from me to get into a semantic argument with Orwell, but I would suggest this question could become the modern day equivalent to the philosophical quandary, ‘if a tree falls in a forest and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?’ Think on, Orwell, think on.

The soundtrack to my 30 years

Music geek that I am, as I prepare to celebrate my 30th birthday, I have put together the soundtrack of my life so far: from Weller to Winehouse, as I play it I'm reminded of years of different experiences in Manchester, Leeds, North Wales, London, Oz, New York, Ireland and beyond.

Happy birthday to me:

1981 - Under Pressure, David Bowie
1982 - A Town Called Malice, the Jam
1983 - Beat It, Michael Jackson
1984 - Your Love is King, Sade
1985 - I'm Your Man, Wham
1986 - A Different Corner, George Michael
1987 - Where the Streets have no name, U2
1988 - Can't Stay away from you, Gloria Estefan
1989 - I Don't Want a lover, Texas
1990 - Step On, Happy Mondays
1991 - Unfinished Sympathy, Massive Attack
1992 - Baby Don't Cry, INXS
1993 - Regret, New Order
1994 - Girls and boys, Blur
1995 - Ironic, Alanis Morissette
1996 - A Design for life, Manic Street Preachers
1997 - Bitter Sweet Symphony, the Verve
1998 - All around the world, Oasis
1999 - Pick a part that's new, Stereophonics
2000 - Yellow, Coldplay
2001 - Fallin', Alicia Keys
2002 - The Zephyr Song, Red Hot Chili Peppers
2003 - Crazy in love, Beyonce
2004 - Somewhere only where we know, Keane
2005 - Black and white town, Doves
2006 - Rehab, Amy Winehouse
2007 - Hometown glory, Adele
2008 - Viva la Vida, Coldplay
2009 - Empire State of Mind (In New York), Alicia Keys
2010 - Upside Down, Paloma Faith
2011 - Someone like you, Adele

The Soul of the City

It was my final week in Argentina before I really felt I had got to know what the country, and the city of Buenos Aires, were all about. When this occurred to me, I couldn't help but feel sad that I was preparing to leave for home when I had only just began to fully appreciate this place.

The transient nature of my student accommodation in Congreso meant that I was never really sure who was going to turn up next - nor was anyone else. Just as we seemed to be saying goodbye to one person, a whole new set of people would arrive eager to make friends and explore everything the city had to offer. The dynamic of the place changed in my final week so that it felt as if we had a perfect balance of personalities, backgrounds, ages and cultures.

I returned to La Milonga for a second attempt at tango in my final week, determined not to let my futile efforts first time round put me off. Several of us from the apartment, along with other friends from school, headed down there to lament our sad lack of tango knowledge and full understanding of what the dance was all about: maybe we were just not melancholy enough to truly take to it in the way an Argentinian can. When we'd drunk a few more beers, the American rock n roll tunes they began to play had more of an effect.

Throughout the rest of the week, I continued the delicate balance of having fun with my newfound friends in this exciting and diverse city, while also focusing and concentrating carefully on trying to get my Spanish up to scratch. The week also saw the first of my goodbyes to the people I had been spending so much of my time with in Argentina as a porteno friend of mine left for his holiday in Peru. Always something I find difficult, it reminded me of the fact that in a few days' time I would have to say goodbye to my other friends and to the city and country I had grown to love.

On my last day of school, I reflected on how quickly the two weeks had passed since my first day there, and looked ahead to my final weekend in Argentina, during which time I saw the last few sights I'd planned to see while I was in the country.

Friday night saw us return to Palermo for a night of more amazing food and Mojitos, followed by another trip to Crobar. The club was even more jampacked than it had been the previous week, but the 80s and 90s electro and dance classics spun throughout the night kept everyone on the dancefloor energised and fired-up enough to stay till the sun came up and beyond.

The following day we stumbled over to La Boca for our planned trip to the Bombonera for Boca Juniors v San Lorenzo: an important fixture, and a stadium with such notoriety made me determined to make the match. The fans of Boca Juniors I had seen and been told about in Buenos Aires were beyond dedicated to their club and the game, the rivalry between them and basically everyone else reaching almost war-like heights. Before the match began, we were taken to a 'traditional La Boca home' and walked across to our place in the stadium: happy though we were with the great view of the goal we had, and the glorious sunshine that was shining on us, we were keen to agree to being moved further up in the stand to avoid any missiles from the San Lorenzo fans hitting us.

Despite having been to Old Trafford for many a spirited match over the last fifteen years, I wasn't fully prepared for the level of noise and atmosphere generated by the Boca faithful. As the players came out on the pitch, flares were let off, the air filling with smoke as drums were beaten and the fans came together to sing as one about their beloved Boca Juniors. A huge banner the size of the stand opposite us was unfurled and manoeuvred deftly by the supporters, and there was a mighty roar as the game kicked off. San Lorenzo ended up grabbing the win in the end, to the disappointment of the Boca fans - a late goal gave us something of a consolation.

On my final Sunday in Argentina, I headed down to the beautiful Teatro Colon for the ballet. A historic venue in Buenos Aires, it had been several years in renovation prior to my visit. I'd been looking forward to being inside for an actual performance since my arrival in the city, and I felt really lucky to have been able to get a ticket during my short time there. I'd paid a tiny amount for my ticket, and when I arrived at the theatre I understood why: me and several others were crouched in a tiny space at the top of the venue leaning over a barrier at waist-height. But this hardly mattered at all - the theatre was the most ornate and beautiful I'd ever seen, and when the ballet began I barely even noticed the pain of my legs as I crouched down to get the best view.

I'd already decided that on my last full day in Buenos Aires I would travel over to Uruguay on a day trip. As I was only in Argentina for three weeks, and would be studying in Buenos Aires for two of them, it unfortunately meant I couldn't see much outside of the city. I figured that going to Colonia del Sacramento in Uruguay for the day before I returned to the UK would at least mean I had seen something or somewhere outside of Bs. As.

A popular weekend and day trip destination for many portenos, Colonia is accessible by boat from Puerto Madero in just an hour. It's a very tranquil and pretty little town, a million miles from the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires, and a really fitting place to spend my penultimate day.

After a farewell lunch in Buenos Aires on the afternoon of my departure, I headed to the airport still not quite ready to say goodbye to the country. Nervous about the impact of the air pressure on my damaged ear on my flight home, I wandered around the terminal in something of a daze before take-off. As the flight took off I found myself feeling reflective and also sad to be saying goodbye to the city and the country: while I looked forward to returning home, I also felt a sense of loss about leaving this place that I'd connected with in so many ways. I acknowledged my feelings, and realised that perhaps it meant more to me than even I had realised. But I was comforted by the inner certainty I had that I would one day return.

The life of a Porteno

Health problems aside, I initially relished everything Buenos Aires had to offer in my first few days here: its food, its culture, its people, and the very special porteno culture. Although I didn´t walk around on a permanent high, I did feel in what I can only describe as bewildered awe. I loved the laid-back vibe of my hotel, the wide and sprawling streets, and the bustle of the Microcentro.

After just under a week in Argentina, I left the cosy confines of the Hotel Ritz and headed over to my student accommodation, a short walk away in Congreso. While attending school to learn Spanish here I would be staying in a shared apartment with fellow estudiantes - the place turned out to be crazy and wonderful all rolled into one. It was a large, old and beautiful apartment, with a long balcony which looked out onto the Plaza del Congreso: it was full of huge windows which would remain open throughout the day and night, the strong winds blowing a gale through the common areas. There were many of us students who found ourselves staying in the apartment together while we studied Spanish for this short time in our lives: a range of nationalities, ages, professions, personalities and backgrounds, we came together to hang out and share some wonderful experiences and memories of this great city and country - something which was very special indeed.

The first day I woke up at the apartment was a Monday, also my first day of school at Coined. The weather had begun to grow more cold and rainy and I remember, late as ever, rushing down the Avenida Rivadavia to the Coined school on Suipàcha in the Microcentro, determined not to be late for my first day of classes. I needn´t have worried - as I walked through the doors of school that morning, I realised it was a laid-back and friendly place where the students were welcomed and very valued. That morning I met my teacher and classmate (both lovely) and began to get to grips with the Spanish language. Lucky to have always naturally taken to words and linguistics of all kinds, I didn´t find it to be a huge struggle to begin understanding this language which I had no prior knowledge of. However, that didn´t mean it wasn´t problematic to adjust occasionally - in particular I found trying to find the words for simple things while talking with classmates and flatmates often tiring, hence why I spent most of this first week with a permanent coffee and nicotine buzz.

My first experience of a milonga - the traditional tango hall where Argentinians go to meet, eat, drink, dance and enjoy the beauty and melancholy of the music - came the following day. I met my colleagues in the beautiful and rare La Catedral de Tango in the barrio of Almagro, where we joined in as best we could with the portenos there to watch and learn from the talented teachers who were clearly in love with the dance and all things related.

This week, my second in Buenos Aires, was when I first began to fully understand the city and what it was about. I tried the traditional Argentinian food, empanadas, tried to get to grips with tango, and went with a porteno friend to a parrilla where every kind of meat is available and cooked in front of you on a huge griddle. The parrilla was in the Puerto Madero by the water - after a short Subte ride to the Plaza de Mayo, the walk to the lovely restaurant, followed by a great evening, with amazing food and wine, was one of the most special experiences I had during my time in Argentina.

Some friends and I spent the following Friday night in Bs. As´ party central, the barrio of Palermo. We visited the wonderful nightclub, Crobar, where we stayed till the early hours dancing and enjoying the buzz and vibe of the place, jampacked with portenos keen to party throughout the night.

I returned to Palermo a couple of days later for a visit to the Jardin Botanico Carlos Thays and Museo Evita. The sun shone really brightly that day, and I enjoyed wandering round the beautiful gardens and spending time at the museum while reflecting on my first couple of weeks in Argentina: I thought a lot about the people I had met and my experience of Spanish thus far, and I looked ahead to my final week in this very special place.