This is a fact: every conversation about Bradford is negative. So it’s not surprising that I shocked everyone by planning a short day trip there during my exploration of Yorkshire.

Comments like “make sure you wear a bulletproof vest” had me quite scared – I mean guns in the UK? Yes they exist in gang affiliated neighbourhoods, but to think that a city would get such a warning does make one think twice.

I remember being quite worried on my train ride there, and thinking that it is perhaps best I get off and not leave the station.

In the end, my curiosity won out: I needed to see what it was actually like… for no one who talks shit about Bradford has actually been there…!

Beauty vs. Depression

The train station treated me to a lovely sight: multi coloured flowers. They stood in great constrast to the gray sky above, and they weren’t enough to make me ignore my fears.

I wearily got out of the station and made it to the city centre.

I was stunned by the beautiful town hall – a Venetian clock tower that stood so grand against a desolate place.

And this is where the beauty ended.

The city was empty, and in the most sad way possible. I looked around for signs of life but there were hardly any. The most common sight resembling life were gaunt men who sad alone on benches. I couldn’t tell if they were junkies or just lonely. The whole place just made me feel cold. And it wasn’t because of the weather. I could feel it deep within my bones.

I didn’t feel unsafe… just sad. I dropped my desire to investigate the crime and grime of the city. I stopped bothering to explore. I simply wanted something to make me feel the warmth that the city had sucked from me.

I went into a café to get a bright pink beetroot latte.

Innocence vs. Pain

I left the café with the intention to leave the city.

But as I walked over to the main square I saw what seemed to be a pack of families walking towards a building that looked like a mosque. They piqued my interest for a few reasons: they were all white, the kids brought an innocent joy with them that was lacking in the city, and I found it strange that they seemed to be unrelated families but still walked together. A cynical part of me wondered if this was due to the city being dangerous.

I decided to follow, and it turned out that the mosque-like building was a theatre called Alhambra, named after the fortress of the same name in Spain. They were playing Aladdin in there, and being so deprived of joy I decided to buy a ticket and enjoy the show.

This was massively dissonant to the two homeless men who sat outside the theatre, on the far ends of each side, who it seemed had resigned themselves to their fate. Even if I accept their homelessness, the manner in which they sat, not even trying to catch our attention, added to my low mood.

The show was very fun, and for those two hours I was transported away from the reality of the city.

I got out and remembered it.

I remembered that I wanted to leave, so made my way to the train station.

It was around 3 pm, and I was starting to see congregations of single young men in the corners, huddled up. I started to get a sense of why the city had the reputation that it did.

I didn’t spend a second longer than I had to to find out. I took my train back to York, saying goodbye to what appeared to be less colourful flowers at the exit platform.

On the train I reflected a little. The city was desolate, and no different to how I felt at Uptown Mirdif in Dubai after most of its residents had left. I imagine that Bradford was a good place to live prior to deindustrialisation, though I need to read a little bit more history to truly find out.

So to conclude: Bradford is not as bad as you think. But based on my limited exposure to it, having gone there with an open mind, I would never go again.

A few other photos from the trip: