A very modern meet up

Once upon a time, organising a meeting of friends could take weeks if not months with letters and phonecalls zipping between people as to who could and couldn't make it on a particular day. In our modern digital age, all it took was for someone to suggest a meeting in Manchester as a friend from Canadia was coming over; and in a couple of days seven of us online friends had a weekend arranged in Manchester. Oh, what a circus.

Of course, calling someone a friend in years gone by would mean having gone to college with them, or spend a decade in the paint dept. of B&Q stacking matt or gloss. Now, a friend can mean many things, we friends are members of a group on Flickr, and most of us had not met. But, what the heck? We knew about each other, where they lived and what we liked to snap at; so what could go wrong?

And to add some spice to the mix I was sharing a room with someone I had never exchanged a mail with; Thor from Norway was very excited, and so all was arranged.

So, on Saturday, I once again found myself on the 04:44 train out of Dover heading towards London. The train, was mostly empty, but the morning light was wonderful, and through each town we passed, markets were being set up as England woke up.

A quick dash across London to Euston station to catch the express, or what passes for one these days, and by twenty to eight I was zipping through the west London suburbs, heading north towards the Midlands and then onto the North and Manchester. The train tilted as it went round corners, like an aircraft banking, I sat at my seat watching the lush English countryside flying by. How wonderful.



I arrived in Manchester before ten, and after taking a few pictures of the sleek red trains, I headed out into the craziness that is the English family heading out to the shops on a Saturday morning.

Apparently, many towns and cities have a shopping centre, sorry mall, called the Arndale Centre, named after the patron saint of chain fashion shops and pick and mix; I did not venture in the there, but wandered around the shiny new and revamped buildings with my neck at an angle snapping away at the glorious angles and fabulous reflections.



At the far side of the Arndale was a large Ferris Wheel, with no queue; so what the hell. I went on, had a capsule to myself with clear views over the city right to the coast in the west and to the Pennines to the east and north. People appeared as ants below, and trains running into Victoria Station were as toys.

After taking more pictures, I decided I wanted a drink, and looked everywhere for a traditional pub; all the 'fun' and theme bars were closed, but the Crown and Anchor was open, and inside was all wooden framed bar with old glasses stacked; and the beer, mild, was just two English pounds a pint.

I had another to make sure.

One by one people began to arrive, and we met up and shook hands and took up our conversations where our messaging had stopped the night before.

The meeting proper began at five in the late afternoon; and so did the drinking. We were a mixed bunch; students, parents, grandparents, but all photographers, and with tales to tell.

As the city centre bar filled up, we moved to Mark's local, a quiet back alley kind of place, friendly with six real ales and space for us all to sit, and a juke box full of Mancunian tunes; and so at some point I put on Joy Division, James, New Order and some Happy Mondays; it seemed to be the right thing to do.

Needless to say, many, many pictures were taken, and much fun today as we began to post them: http://www.flickr.com/groups/1174319@N23/

And so it came for Thor and I to find somewhere to get something to eat, all we could find in the pouring rain was a humble kebab shop. And so we had small doners and then back to the pub just as the doors were being locked. Yes, a lock in; for me it was too late, I had been up 20 hours and I was fit just for a taxi ride back to the hotel Thor and I were booked into.

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear; after a frugal breakfast we headed out into the city, so he could make his way to John Lennon airport in Liverpool, and me to while away the morning until my train left at half ten.

I bid farewell to Thor as the bus passed near an old mill and I could see a canal, and thought there might be photographic opportunities there; the once grim industrial area was now the city's gay district, and bright and clean it was. The sun shone through the boughs of lush trees onto cobbled streets. I snapped away.

And soon, it was time to leave, and I made my way to the station via a greasy spoon and the worse fry up I have ever had; at least it was cheap, and read most of The Sunday Times.

And then, time for the train, and once again into my window seat and watch the landscape slip by. Sadly my ecstasy was broken by having to share my table with an ex-paratrooper who talked through the whole time down to Stafford, and regaled me with tales of his drunken nights and pranks whilst a squaddie. Why do these types think these antics are so funny and at best are odd and at worse slightly homosexual in tone as most seemed to involve putting things up drunken friends behinds; nice.

But, he got off and was Stoke bound as my train headed off, and I had the remainder of the journey and the English countryside to myself.