Stopovers in my small town

Hinckley and Bosworth. Small urban district in southwest Leicestershire. Well known by motorbike enthusiasts for its attachment to the brand Triumph as well as lorry drivers for its convenient location on the A5. Also known (by me) as the cage I believed I was trapped in for 20 years of my childhood. 

Ah yes, the shackles of the small town. From the ages of 3 to 18, Hinckley was my home, and since leaving for university I have somehow ended up living back here three times in six years. Like many small towns up and down the country, we had one main high school where everyone who lived within a 10-mile radius attended, a distinct lack of food takeaway options, and one nightclub which changed its name every year after inevitably being done for underage drinking. The older I got, the more desperate it all seemed. The painfully stubborn Conservative backing, the waning countryside in the face of growing housing and warehouse development and the distinct lack of anything to do. It’s the kind of place that no one really dreams of moving to, but people somehow just end up in and never leave. It is a district with one of the lowest rates of social mobility in the country and over half of the buildings in town lay abandoned because the once booming hosiery industry died off over 100 years ago and no one knew what to do with all the factories afterwards. The town where nothing moves. This is Hinckley 

There have been many times in my life where I feared I might too get stuck in the stagnation. That no matter how hard I tried, the town that raised me would be forever chained to my ankle, preventing me from venturing too far for too long. And whilst I have had my fair share of adventures, here I am at 24 years old, back in my parent's house, wondering what on Earth I am doing with my life. After a year of living and working in London, a mental and physical health break brought me back to the four walls of my childhood. The unrelenting nature of London was all I had ever wanted growing up. The everchanging, constantly moving, hustle and bustle of excitement and activity. Everything that Hinckley was not. But the reality was exhausting. I was forced to reconcile the problems in my life; my newfound lack of time and space meant that there was nowhere I could run to avoid them anymore. They smothered me, in a pile of stress, anxiety, worry, depression and fear. And I felt totally and utterly alone, in a city which already cannot help but isolate.

So I did what anyone who could, would. I ran home. To the very town I was so desperate to leave. To the very life I had never wanted. Because it was comfortable. Because it was easy. Because I didn’t know where else to turn. And in the most bizarre way possible, I am glad I did. I know! Something I truly never thought I would say. And it is not because I have changed my mind about what I want from life. It’s not because I’ve suddenly decided that I love living in a town with more Greggs than GPs. But because I think only in coming back, would I find part of the key to breaking the chain that has brought me so much unhappiness.

The week after I arrived back, I decided to try out a free yoga class in the village. I parked my car at the village hall, and walked up the three flights of stairs in the old factory building until I reached a loft space, ordained with white linen curtains, hanging off expansive ceiling windows. Patterned poofs with that fair trade shop feel to them sat in the changing room, where an eclectic group of locals collected their mats, blocks and bolsters before heading into the airy studio. I thought, fair enough, this could be alright actually. Alas. The class ran for an hour and 30 minutes, including a good 5 minute period of chanting where everyone seemed to know what they were supposed to be saying apart from me. On the mat next to me, a somewhat passive aggressive yummy mummy flexed in downward dog. Stood proudly in tree pose in front of me, a white woman with dreadlocks. I sighed. This was not for me.

Just outside of the old factory, there’s a record shop that only opens towards the end of the week. It’s got as many genres as you can think of in there, and the guy who runs it is insanely passionate about music. He can recognise every vinyl he has in stock and will give you a backstory or personal opinion on each one you choose to buy. There are four cases of vinyls going for a pound each just outside the front, and you can actually find some pretty decent stuff in there (unlike the markets in London which try and flog you vinyls that look like a dog has slept on them for a price upwards of 20 quid each). I like it in there.

I signed up for a gym membership in the hotel around the corner from my house. A 5-minute walk away it couldn’t be more convenient, and the hotel is relatively picturesque due to its Tudor-style design and neighbouring horse paddock. On my first visit, I hit up the sauna, only to be greeted by the man who has delivered our Indian takeaway for the last fifteen years. We had once run into him at Dubai Airport at 4 am, and yet somehow, the sauna still felt like a weirder location for our reunion. We chatted for a bit about his restaurant and my upcoming travel plans. He gave me some recommendations for beach resorts in Bangladesh and told me that he came to this gym every day, reminding me just how far from London I was, both physically and experientially. That I could come to this gym at any point of the week and most likely see someone I know EVERY time. Community is everything in a small town. That’s not to say it’s always a good thing, but it is everything.

Thirty minutes by car from Hinckley, there’s a farm which has been converted into a bookshop. An emporium of new and old, it is a marvel to explore. Row upon row of history, fiction, travel, autobiography, you name it, expands through narrow passageways, nooks and crannies. They had books which were hundreds of years old, a locked cabinet of literature on witchcraft and sorcery, and even first editions of the Lord of the Rings. As you enter the building, there is a blue plaque by the door, an item of decor commonly associated with an acknowledgement of some event or person of historical notoriety taking residence in the buildings they are attached to. This one said:

“On this site Sept 5, 1782 nothing happened”

I had to laugh. How very Hinckley. And yet I think about it now, and I wonder how true that statement really is. One of the most basic definitions of place attests that a place is but a location with meaning (Cresswell, 2008). A set of coordinates may tell you where something is, but a place is where something happens: whether that is physically or emotionally, for one person or for many. A place is a collection of moments gathered within a cartographic context. As much a memory as an entity. So perhaps nothing did happen here on September 5th 1782. But on the 13th of November 2024, I found something new and interesting, in a place which I had previously resigned to the realm of unimportance. And that seemed a little meaningful to me.

The same can be said for the record shop. The yoga studio was a different kind of place, for a different kind of person. One which I will admit I am not that far removed from, but one who maybe sees spirituality and yoga a little differently to me. And that is ok. The gym is one of these places of meaning too. We used to go as a family there when my sister and I were small. On my third visit as a 24 year old, I was sat reading my book and I saw two sisters, both under the age of 10 playing in the pool. A gentle reminder that the cycle continues and the place renews itself for each person who finds themselves there. 

And with that comes that piece of the puzzle you think you’ve lost, only to find under the table 6 months later. The realisation that this town is not and has never been my burden, but merely a stop along my journey. To believe that I could be shackled to it, is to believe that it somehow defines me. But it does not. I define it. I decide what kind of place it is, and how I choose to feel about it becomes the reality of my experience. There is much about Hinckley that I do not like. But there is much about London that I do not like, and I must say I am far less likely to critique the latter than the former. Because there is that natural part of me which equates somewhere like London with the idea of success, and somewhere like Hinckley with the feeling of failure. But it is my choice to feel that way, and that doesn’t make it true.

Being home again, I have seen a different side to the town that I thought I knew. I have seen a town where passionate people have found their creative outlets. I have seen a town where people treat themselves to daily trips to the sauna, and strangely authentic vinyasas. A town where children are learning to grow, just like I did. Figuring out the world for the first time, just like I am. A town where something happens every day, even if it only decides to whisper rather than roar. And a town which may not see me to the end of my days, but played a large part in the start of them. And for that, how can I be anything but grateful?

Remember: growing up in a small town, does not resign you to a small life. But living a small life does not mean you are living an unsuccessful one. <3