My day as a tourist at Turbo Island

TripAdvisor can be a bastard sometimes. Slave to the wretched thing, I was surfing its website this morning looking for Bristolian days out. Then, I found the perfect distraction from my Law degree: Turbo Island, home to hipsters and harlots alike – and a long way away from my home in Chelsea. 

Turbo Island is Bristol’s 109th (out of 184) greatest tourist attraction, famous for its ‘plastic-bottled cider’, ‘mediocre Banksy murals’, ‘occasional rave[s]’ and even its ‘mix’ of ‘magic mushrooms and barley wine’. 

So, it was with a beguiling mixture of enthusiasm and trepidation that I tentatively said goodbye to my Uber driver and glanced furtively out into the big, bad world today.

Here is a selection of takeaways from the day out for fellow nomads and travellers to take heed of:

The bigger they are…

They say that the higher they are, the harder they come down. Or something like that. 

I was reminded of the phrase, as it dawned on me that everything in Stokes Croft was closed until 12pm. The streets were empty, save for a half-empty box of fried chicken and cigarette butts.

Innocently, naively, gamely, I had arrived at 11.15am hoping to eat brunch. Slowly, as midday approached zombies emerged. The guys, Charlie and the chaps, had longer hair than the gals; the gals, Mary-Jane and her mates, had gnarlier tats than the guys. As the gentle, blazing sun beat down, silence gave way to a lonely harmonica. It was soft and chaotic, the soundtrack to my morning jaunt. 

But I grieved for the poor shopkeepers unable to flog the white stuff, milk and sugar for breakfast, until the afternoon. For these great, hulking bastions of independent retail around Turbo Island, it really is true that the bigger they are, the more money they must lose on rent in the mornings. Or something like that.

Corbyn Country

It is fitting that I spent the last day of Labour’s annual Conference at Turbo Island, and I will tell you why. Jeremy Corbyn has had a rough time lately, despite renewing his democratic mandate, so I thought he’d like to hear that I have good news.

Eventually, still waiting for a shop to open, I stumbled across an ATM. As I went to withdraw some cash, a group sidled up behind me. It was the solitary girl, pale and pierced, who had demanded the stop. She said she needed to get some cash out. The group – playful and irascible – chided her for “feeding capitalism”.

John McDonnell describes his hobby as “fomenting the overthrow of capitalism.” Jeremy, John; if it does, indeed, exist, then this is definitely Corbyn country.

See you next Tuesday 

Armed (sorry, Jeremy) now with a ten-pound note, I continued my journey and wondered if I might return to Turbo Island. The place is charming, in its own way. In fact, I probably could make myself available for a return as soon as next Tuesday.

But walking along, I saw a baby crying across the road and instinctively sympathized.

A very sweet, turquoise-brown awning advertised wedding cakes. It was just that from the street, I could hear yelling. Two men, in a foreign tongue (Arabic, I think), were shouting at the top of their lungs and gesticulating wildly. Voyeur that I am, I crossed the road, stood outside and observed for a few seconds, before they noticed. “See you next Tuesday”, they bellowed – or a four letter word to that effect, at least. I guess I had that one coming.

Dog’s dinner

Pacing around Stokes Croft, I was met with a dog’s abuse.

Grafitti done well can be high art. Bristol’s own, Banksy, is living proof of the fact. But for art to be evocative, it does not have to be provocative. There is some incredible craft lining the streets, but there is also plenty of guff.

Here at Turbo Island, the abuse just went on: “CHOKE ON YOUR FUMES!” wrote one especially witty artist. “MELT!” was the bilious message from another.

Still, I pressed ahead with my plans and went to cult favourite, Slix, for a chicken burger. Which, itself, was an experience. On the way there, the graffiti continued its ill-tempered tirade, this time “AGAINST REPRESSION!”

You’ve got to wonder if there aren’t subtler or more effective ways of making the point; I may have received a dog’s abuse, but it’s they who crafted the dog’s dinner lining the walls.

Play that funky music

Across the road was a yellow building with grime booming from its windows. Locked and double-locked and padlocked, for good measure, it looked closed. It was a hair salon and I could see inside it. It had all the usual paraphernalia. But although nobody was inside the place at 12.15pm, I stalled outside it to listen to the music. 

Sat down a couple of paces away from me was a coarse-looking, young redhead, wearing a baggy jumper and with an Ikea bag full of clothes. I hugged my phone glutinously to take stock of the situation, when this young woman let out a haggard old croak, “you owe me £26! You owe me £26! REMEMBER I said that! You owe me £26!” It was urgent and vital and angry.

Three young, disheveled lads – one in a flat cap, another in a full Nike tracksuit and the last of them in a Puma t-shirt – were walking past. They seemed to register the warning, but didn’t break stride.

Instead, they stood at the next store along, had a cigarette and played some grime music on their phones.

I’ll be back

Looking back, it’s easy to see just why Turbo Island has soared to 109th on TripAdvisor’s Bristol sightseeing rankings. It’s hard to see how there could possibly be 108 places more compelling than this, actually, in Bristol’s sprawling metropolis. 

Hell, it’s surely the perfect place for underworked undergraduates to waste their youth. For a third year law undergraduate like myself, a day out like today will always have a sort of unique, tortured little place in my tortured, little bougie heart.

Suffice to say, I’ll be back. Just not next Tuesday. 

Read more: What next for the Bearpit?