‘A city with a green heart and soul’

Aminata Fofana is a best-selling author and songwriter from Italy. She recently decided to move from Rome to Bristol on a whim, and was inspired to write about her first few hours in the city.

“To say goodbye is to die a little”. Those words conjure up a very clear image in my mind of two lovers taking leave of each other amid the roar of a crowded railway station. The man leans out the window, returning the woman’s wave as the slow clack of the train gradually gets louder. They keep waving to each other across a sea of indifferent faces and breathlessly-rushing passers-by. She’s out of breath too now as she runs alongside the carriage until she’s finally forced to let her lover go. In the middle of all that chaos, they were the essential. That man and that woman. Their love. Yes, the essential.

It’s different for all of us. Mine is a kind of silent prayer to my mother, Mother Earth. After my best-seller The Moon that Followed Me, those feelings flow vividly through every line of The Eyes of the Shells, the YA fantasy novel I’m writing to give voice to my mother in my own way. Where better to set it than a city that’s become a standard-bearer for environmental management, a model for the rest of Europe: Bristol. A city with a green heart and soul. And much more besides. Bristol is also the birthplace of world-renowned artists: Banksy, J. K. Rowling, and even Massive Attack with whom I had the honour of working some years ago on the remix of my single The Greatest Dream from my debut album as a singer-songwriter.

But now it’s time to pack my bags. Two of them, to be precise.  Both full of memories and fondnesses, some faded like old curtains I can’t bring myself to throw out, or the little yellow dress that I proudly fold with loving care. I copied it myself from something I saw in the window of a posh boutique on Via dei Condotti in Rome.

By 4.30, I’m in Bristol airport which is bustling with people of different nationalities. It’s May, the 11th to be precise, and it’s chilly. Or maybe that’s just me, I think, winding my scarf around my neck as I gaze at a blond-haired girl. There isn’t a speck of make-up on her light-skinned, vaguely oriental face and her hair is bunched up at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing white belly-skimming t-shirt, jeans and sandals, and looks about 20. To my great surprise I see my bags are already on the luggage carousel. Outside, bang on time, a light drizzle and the airport shuttle bus await.  There are a few passengers on the bus already, including the blond girl. She immediately stands up and waves at the seat beside her.

“Thanks,” I say and a second later, the bus to Bristol gently pulls off into the delicate mist hanging in the grey air. The rain seems to hold the lush green countryside and the hills around its edges in its soft embrace. The girl takes a notebook out of her holdall and starts doodling in it lazily. 
“Are you here on holiday?’’ I ask.
“No… no… I’m from Bristol. It’s just my grandfather’s Chinese blood that gives you that idea. My name’s Penny…”
“And mine’s Aminata,’’ I smile, holding out my hand.
“Now you really do look like a tourist…,” she says.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m here to get the feeling of the place as a setting for the novel I’m writing’. Penny’s eyes goggle and she slaps her hand over her mouth in bright, child-like surprise.
“A writer!! Amazing! But why Bristol?’’
“Well, Bristol is the European Green Capital, isn’t it? And my novel is a fantasy story about saving the environment…”
“Um, sorry, what was your name again? It’s sort of unusual.”
“A-mi-na-ta’’ I spell out the syllables.
“Well, Aminata, you’ve come to the right place.’’
“I’m glad to hear it.’’
“No, really: you’ll get the full experience here.’’
“What d’you mean?’’ Penny bends over her bag again and pulls out a shocking pink wig. I frown as she pulls it on.
“There’s an event at the Green Party headquarters in a couple of days. A group of us girls are going to dance for the Earth’’
“You’re going to save the Earth with a pink wig?’’
“Sure, why not? Pink, green, blue, purple. Brings a smile doesn’t it? We’ll dance with aluminium bottles in our hands to remind people to use them instead of plastic. Because we all know the damage they do to the seas, the rivers, the animals. It’s all about our health in the end. So our dance is called ‘Refill Bristol free tap water’.  You can download the app to your phone to tell you where the nearest drinking water fountain is…”
“Wow. I can’t believe you’re so enthusiastic about protecting the environment.”
“Another thing, A…Amenit…,” we both burst out laughing, and then, still giggling, Penny continues. “I’m sorry – I’m always terrible with names but I’m totally struggling with yours…’’
“Just call me Ami.’’
“Oh yeah, that’s better. So, Ami, there’s an amazing amount of environmental stuff going on in Bristol. You can even get an allotment in a public park to grow your own vegetables. Here, let me show you something….’’ She pauses, flipping through the notebook.
“There!’’ she says, showing me a page.
“It’s a drawing of a child.’’
“Yes, but what do you see?’’
“A leaf?’’
“Read what it says!”
“The One of All Kinds,” I read. In the bottom right-hand corner is a signature: ‘Morgan’.
“Morgan is eleven and she’s my neighbour’s daughter. So you see, the schools are doing their bit too.”

Twenty minutes fly by with Penny for company and then suddenly in the distance, brilliant yellow sunlight bursts through the grey rain, like a woman in a party dress, revealing that great symbol of Bristol, the Clifton Suspension Bridge. A thing of timeless beauty spanning the Avon Gorge. I feel a smile of wonderment spread across my face and then right through my entire body as I stare out at the bridge gliding by.  Just a little while later, the bus pulls into the terminus and before she gets up, Penny tears a page from her notebook and quickly scribbles something on it.

“Listen, I know Bristol like the back of my hand, so here’s my number, call anytime.”

I smile and thank her. I realised it’s stopped raining as I head towards the taxis and then on to the Avon Gorge Hotel in Clifton where the welcome is warm and friendly.  After freshening up quickly, I make my way down to the enormous terrace of the White Lion Bar. It’s seven in the evening and I join the people taking in the breathtaking cliff-top view of the Suspension Bridge which is now strung with thousands of lights that seem to pierce the black shroud of evening, their reflection glittering on the river below.

The Romans called the river the Avoniea. That thought sets my mind whirring back through the gates of time. I see sinewy Roman soldiers from the encampment on the other side of the hill coming to soak in the warm spa waters, their glistening, sculpted bodies wrapped in long lengths of towelling. I imagine flirtatious ladies and sensual slaves making their way down the short flight of steps to the right of the terrace to the spa’s underground pump room.  Then, a vast ballroom adorned with imposing flying buttresses, a sea of brightly-coloured, grandiose robes and elaborate hairstyles. But the death was an ever-present threat in those days too – not so much from the hand of an unforgiving god but merciless invaders arriving up the estuary in their warships.  All possible escape routes had to be kept open. Hence the stepping stones that cut across the river to Somerset on the opposite bank, a place shrouded in dense undergrowth. Unwelcome visitors would be met by a hail of huge rocks from the Roman encampment standing high above the gorge and the river. Cruel times. Kill or be killed. I tear myself away from such thoughts, telling myself that only beauty can conquer barbarism. I head towards the short flight of steps leading down from the terrace to a little road that cuts through a lush, hilly park.  “Suspensa Vix Via Fit…,’’ I murmur softly a couple of minutes later as I read the plaque at the start of the bridge. Then I walk all the way to the top of the hill which looks out over the entire valley.

“Suspensa Vix Via Fit,” I say the words aloud this time. I take a deep breath and then another. I want to savour the cool air as I breathe it in through my nose. Time stretches out darkened by a deep shadow, the smell of his cigar. The man is fearlessness personified, driven by a vision far ahead of his time. The son of French immigrants, he’s just 25 years old and standing in a huge basket dangling on a long wire strung across the gorge, making it look a bit like a cable car. He gazes out intently from beneath a top hat. A pocket watch hangs from the waistcoat beneath his jacket. His trousers are dark.  His traversing of the gorge is accompanied by a constant stream of smoke from the cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth and, of course, the mounting tension of the crowd gathered at the other end of the gorge to watch. That tension surges and becomes almost tangible when the basket snags. I can imagine the roar of apprehension from the crowd and I don’t dare think of his young pregnant wife in her magnificent Victorian frock. She must have been out there too in the throng. The cable has to be pulled back this time and, for a short while at least, interrupts the inspection required prior to laying of the foundation for his astonishing design. A single-span suspension bridge of over 400 metres thrown across the entire width of the gorge.

His name is Isambard Kingdom Brunel. An engineering genius, with a brain more nimble and innovative than many others of his time, he would never see his bridge completed in 1864 because he would be snatched away by death at just 53.  His eyes seem to overlap and blur with those of this Afro-Italian’s as they dive into his spectacular legacy, the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It’s as if we are both scrunching our eyes tight shut to drive Sarah Ann Hanley back into the pitch-black darkness. Her 75-metre flight from the Suspension Bridge ended in the Avon in May 1885.  She was 22 and had been spurned by a lover.  Legend has it she floated in the air as her stiff crinoline skirt caught the wind. Cheated of death, she eventually landed in the mud of the dried-out riverbed. I smile, cloaked by the darkness all around. By the essence of travel.  That secret intimate place where we die and are reborn time and time again. Smashing old habits, views, beliefs, even our ways of loving into smithereens only to see them in a new light, as that departing lover at the station knows only too well.

I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow morning and explore Bristol. Maybe even with Penny. Its green heart. Its street art, art galleries, Gothic churches. Its black heart too. A shiver runs down my spine and far below me in the gorge, the River Avon suddenly seems to roar.

This piece first appeared on VisitBristol’s blog.