Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • This place – this wet, old, industrial town nestled in the Pennines between rock, rain and sky – my grandfather chose it. There was work and he could speak the language.

    A soldier for the Empire, he'd chased Nazis through deserts, arriving under this northern sky, driving a bus by day and working the satanic mills by night.

    He always had the future in his eyes. An explorer, not a colonist.

    But colonise he did - he brought his friends, his brothers, his sons, and later wives and daughters. Four generations of us now. We are teachers, engineers, doctors, police, cooks and cabbies. Dreamers and builders, preachers and sinners.

    We shaded a white place brown. We coloured Bradford into Bradistan.

    He pulled us all into his future, to see a frontier before it was gone.

    I have his eyes.

    I see that it is time for me to leave this place, and explore once more.


    Northern Sky by Nick Drake.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.