BARTLEBY

Do we have to, really?’ ‘Come on – it’ll be fun!’ ‘That’s what you always say...’ ‘And aren’t I always right?’ November brings many joys to many people – Bonfire Night, Thanksgiving, growing a moustache – but in Bristol there’s something else to look forward to. No, I’m not talking about the seasonal appearance of mulled cider, although the cultural phenomenon I’m talking about can involve the warming apple brew. And an Art Trail with cider is certainly more enjoyable than one without.

Did you know that Bristol is practically the world capital of Art Trails? Well perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but for a city this size we have more than our fair share. Every autumn they proliferate like fungi in the north and to the south, to east and west and in the middle too. For years we visited so many houses and observed such a wealth of paintings and pots that I may have become, shall we say, a little jaded. Then came the dreaded virus, lockdowns one to five and a couple of years in which the front doors of all those artists’ homes remained steadfastly shut.

So to 2022 and suddenly the posters and banners and bunting are back. A frisson of excitement can be felt running through the (now childfree) corridors of Bartleby Towers, or at least through those frequented by Ms B. In my workroom the frisson is less noticeable, but to her credit Ms B has never taken much notice of my Eeyore-ish tendencies. If I give in right away, I reason, and accompany her around one of the earlier trails in October, I can perhaps avoid the later, jollier ones.

Happily, the one we choose is local, giving me the opportunity, as Ms B puts it, ‘to go home if you’re bored’. Which sounds, I suggest, like something you’d say to win over a sulky teenager. ‘Exactly’, Ms B replies, and then off we go.

The weather is bright and breezy, and as we walk along we reminisce about stuff we’ve seen in houses along the way. This place once housed a miniature museum with strange and wonderful artefacts labelled with Latin names, etc. The house over there was filled with balloons one year. Another time they put all the furniture on the ceiling. On this occasion our first port of call is an upstairs flat filled with home-made teapots. I’d always thought of a teapot as rather cosy – ‘I'm a little teapot’ and all that – but when there’s a hundred of them they become a little like Hitchcock’s birds.

Moving swiftly on, we come to a house I remember from previous years. One of those places that seems ordinary from the street, but which opens up in surprising ways as the hillside drops away. We go down at least four floors and there, suddenly, is a garden full of asters in bloom. The family comprises Mum, Dad and two daughters, who used to be distressingly talented teenagers. A decade has passed but their talent is undiminished, in fact all of them are brilliant. Colourful prints and illustrations fill the house. Despite my best efforts I feel the colour lifting my spirits.

As we go from place to place I sense a change in the old neighbourhood. For such a long time it has felt drab and a bit alien, and now it is coming to life again, but in a different way. We visit houses where our kids went to birthday parties and meet people we haven’t seen in years. We discover that a woman we see with her dog in the park is also a fabulous illustrator of children’s books. Her husband makes cider. She’s always drawing, he says, so he has to keep busy. Would we like to try some? Would we?

‘Are you bored yet?’ whispers Ms B as I take a sip.

‘Terribly,’ I say. ‘Can’t you tell?’ ■