Travel blog: A duck's life in Lancaster

Ben Aitken continues his occasional travel blog on off-the-beaten-track destinations in the UK following his 2009 summer campervan tour of the British Isles:

I'm on my way to Lancaster to attend a conference hosted by the university about the relationship between atheism and literature. In a nut shell, atheist literature (that of Dawkins, Hitchens, Amis) has become as religious as the belief-systems it takes issue with. I care little for the various morning debates, and when time is called and lunch-time announced I move eagerly out into the city's post-Roman streets.

Lancaster Castle immediately steals my attention. I read, amusingly, that the castle is now a prison. What a stroke of luck to have one's misdeed rewarded with residence in a fine Norman castle. I recall the fates of Victorian bread-thieves shipped to the vastly superior climes of Australia. Given the difficulty of a) getting on the housing ladder, and b) gaining Australian citizenship, one becomes tempted to burgle a Greggs and hope for the worst. Sitting next to the castle is the city's priory: a giant lobster with small-pox.

Just down from the castle on St Mary's Gate is perhaps the best looking Job Centre in England. I've not seen all of the Job Centres in England, and nor do I wish to, but my conviction stands: the unemployed in Lancaster, like the imprisoned, ought to be considerably grateful. I walk along Cheapside and watch the Saturday market in full swing. Kettles are going for £6. I consider buying a few.

On Church Street I read a National Heritage placard: 'Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed near here in 1745.' I laugh at the vagueness of the boast. How near? Blackpool? I make my way towards The Dukes, an arts centre that promises affordable cultural exercise. Beyond The Dukes is The Golden Lion, where those condemned to be hanged at the castle are entitled to drop in for a final pint.

I notice a left-wing duck on the canal reading the Review section of the Guardian. From what I can gauge the duck has taken exception to some opinion piece or another.

In Market Square the Saturday market provides a decent lunch: a crusty loaf from a French baker, some smoked Mozzarella from a local cheesemonger, and some olives from an Ipswich-based olive-monger (is he lost?). I eat lunch while being canvassed by a gangly Liberal Democrat. The canvasser assures me, should I be worried, that Nick Clegg is indisputably posher than David Cameron. Not in the mood to disagree, I agree.

I walk some more about Lancaster's splendid side-streets and find the quay. I feed some seagulls a few olives. They don't seem to mind. I end the day in The Sun sharing a cheeseboard with a few gangly academics from the conference. There is an Irish barmaid whose accent I try miserably to emulate. I leave Lancaster emphatically pleased to have visited, but not a little disappointed about the politics of that duck.

Ben Aitken

Follow us @travelbite