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to bristol
Thereβs a funny kind of feeling that comes with returning to a place you once lived. I experienced it when walking along the streets of Bristol this weekend, hit by a wave of sentimentality for the city where I spent my university years. It felt like coming home.
Strolling through the city centre, I noticed how much β and how little β has changed. I climbed Park Streetβs steep hill, each step taking me closer to Wills Memorial Building. It looked exactly as I remembered: strong, astute, and honestly, sort of regal.
Passing by the much-newer Beacon House, it was full of young students whom I realised that I wouldnβt recognise. Memories of trying to write my dissertation in between coffee breaks and long chats with friends rushed back, entire days spent there, huddled over laptops, discussing the stresses of coursework in between every topic under the sun.
Thereβs something so comforting about those memories β me and my friends knowing that we were all in it together, attempting to juggle our futures and chaotic social lives all at once.
In Clifton, gorgeous terraces still stand with their stony white facades. I popped into the White Lion pub for a mimosa in the sun, in awe (how can you not be) of the suspension bridge that sprawls impressively over the Avon Gorge.
Stokes Croft, too, was still as colourful and alive as ever. New street art is layered over the murals that emerged during my time in the city, while once-derelict buildings have been transformed into modern, bustling restaurants serving up trendy vegan food to locals. Of course, some of my favourites cafΓ©s and bars are still open, but now some of them have queues of young people waiting along the pavement to get into them, which makes me think they mustβve gotten big on TikTok.
