Going North

We are heading north to spend a few days with Steve's family in a cottage by the North Sea.  We stopped to eat lunch by the Angel and discussed the tricky question: Where is North?

Certainly the North is north of Watford, but is Sheffield in the north?  Does the Angel's gaze extend that far? I chose to live in Sheffield because it seemed to be in the middle of England and therefore as easy or as difficult to reach my scattered family and friends, but it doesn't feel to me like the Midlands.

There is a view that the River Don splits the country and that Wincobank Hill stands on the southern frontier of the Beautiful North.  That will do for me.  I am a Londoner, a migrant to the North.  I am a visitor but it feels like Home.

I am driving back in time, passing my past home, over that iron bridge over the big river and onward along the long road I travelled every day to work, further north than even the Angel can see.  To the north of North.

The leaves are golden, flame red, sunshine yellow.  Winter is coming and the sky is blue.