Welcome Back to Durham

‘You don’t look like a fresher to me.’

He looks first at me; then at my suitcase, which is sitting obediently at my feet; then back at me.

‘Are you a… a…’

I allow him time to struggle on in his battle between politeness and curiosity.

‘Are you a… second year, perhaps?’

I smile benevolently: I am, after all, old and wise now. ‘I’m a fourth year,’ I tell him, and then add generously: ‘I’ve just got back from my year abroad.’

Politeness and curiosity have clearly now joined forces. ‘Where did you go?’ he asks, no longer paying the suitcase any attention.

The train is pulling into the station, but there’s just enough time to give him this last, crucial piece of information. ‘I was in Austria,’ I say, watching his response closely, ‘and Russia.’

As I turn to step off the train, I am gratified to see his eyes widen in amazement – and if I’m not mistaken, he repeats the word ‘Russia’ as if he’s not quite sure he heard it correctly.

Yes, Russia is a long, long way from this little student city in the far North East of England.

Are you familiar with Durham? Do you know its cobbled streets, its brick houses and its thick local dialect? Can you picture the iconic castle and cathedral, high up on the hill above you?

Had you been able to answer ‘yes’ to those questions one year ago, your answer would be no different today. A year abroad may have changed me (so I am told), but it has not changed Durham: the same cafes sell the same cakes, and the same cashiers serve me in Tesco’s.

There are leaves on the ground and I kick my way through them – and it is as if I am kicking my way through the leaves in Durham two years ago, three years ago, before I ever went to Russia (where autumn was bypassed and summer was greeted with snow on the first day of October). I remember the apprehension of my first autumn here, when I was a fresher; and I remember the semi-security of my second autumn here, when I was no longer a fresher – and I am glad that I am a fourth year.

One thing that is different is the house. This year, I am living with Saul, Sam and Victoria in the area of Durham known as the ‘viaduct’ (because of its proximity to the railway viaduct), one of the most popular areas for students to live in. It’s a fifteen minute walk to town, sixteen minutes to lectures and seventeen minutes to the library. The house is in need of repair but it’s cosy and comfortable – and it feels like home.

I very quickly fall back into routine, and it’s not long before it feels like I never left Durham at all.

And then, on the first Sunday of term, I am walking along a cobbled street just off Market Square when I hear a familiar sound. There’s a group of smartly dressed students standing outside one of the college bars, and they’re not speaking English.

I can’t help myself. I go over to them.

‘Привет,’ I say happily.