The paperwork has been signed, the deposit has been paid, the contracts have been exchanged. Unless an act of god blows the building over or some part of the machinations of bureaucracy goes wrong, I’m going to be a homeowner.
…Of a house 250 miles away from where I currently live.
Ah.
So I’m moving to Manchester, England’s definitive second city (suck it, Birmingham). For those not privy to the beeps lore, Manchester and its surrounds are where I lived and grew up before I moved to Bristol in 2010. My family live around there still, as do a lot of friends I’m still in varying levels of contact with.
The main driver has really been that house prices in Bristol are kinda crazy bad value. I originally slammed a bunch of tables and citations here as if I needed to somehow justify this statement further, but I’m going to save you the suffering. Suffice to say, when it comes to an actual house (not a flat), the price difference between equivalent properties in each area is substantial. Like, measurable in the hundreds of thousands substantial.
I do really love Bristol. It’s a city of great diversity and progressiveness that fuels an hyperactive arts and food scene. It’s a city very unafraid of acknowledging its flaws, both past and present, of saying what it feels needs to be said, or doing what it feels needs to be done. And it’s small enough that you can pretty much walk anywhere you need to go, too.
But if I can’t live in Bristol, Manchester is the next best option available.
I’m going to miss this place a lot. I suppose that’s to be expected when you’ve called a place home for nearly half of your life.
My actual moving date isn’t going to be for about two-ish months. For now, I’m practising a long farewell: making sure to go for a walk by Severn Beach one last time, eat at Chilli Daddy one more time, and have an aimless bumble around Clifton Downs one more time.
Bye bye, Bristol. I’m gonna miss ya.