In The Mersey Seat, Self waxes poetic on the Wirral, dubbing the insular peninsular ‘a spatulate tongue licking the Irish Sea’. But, in a column devoted to Debordian psychogeography, it is susprising to see that Self seems not to have noticed the difference between Hoylake and West Kirby.

As far as I can tell, Self rode his folding bicycle down Meols Drive, past the Royal Liverpool Golf Club, probably bypassing Bank Street and cutting down Riverside Road or another of the streets that lead to the Marine Lake, from where one can walk to Hilbre, as Self planned to do. I can’t remember whether there’s a welcoming sign along Meols Drive, but as a former local, it seems unimaginable that Self could have passed over the invisible line between Hoylake and West Kirby without feeling it in his bones—the two townlets are as different in character as Glasgow and Edinburgh, or Liverpool and Manchester.

Still, at least he didn’t confuse West Kirby with fucking Heswall.

Parallel Wales - Simon’s visual survey of US locations with Welsh place names - is really rather wonderful:

Place names transcend their status as identifiers of geographical location; they become inextricably associated with hundreds of years of history, of cultural references, stereotypes, childhood memories, news items, myths, commercial products, weather systems.

After the Welsh Quakers left their homeland towards the end of the 17th century in search of religious and economic freedom, the new settlements founded in the Americas were often named after the settlers’ point of origin. It was one familiar link in an otherwise strange new world, fostering a sense of community among the displaced. This practice continued into the 20th century, when Welsh miners crossed the Atlantic to develop the rich Pennsylvania coalfields.

Parallel Wales is the result of two weeks spent in Pennsylvania, Maryland and Delaware in October 2005, visiting locations with Welsh namesakes. Many have, in the time since they were settled, become distinctly un-Welsh. Others have been abandoned altogether, simply becoming areas of wasteland. I’m fascinated by visual incongruities. The images, although they may be familiar to us from TV and cinema, conflict with our normal associations of the place names. A re-evaluation must take place - a certain image is of Llangollen, or Brynmawr, but not the Llangollen or Brynmawr that we know. These are parallel places, places that we might normally have no particular feelings for, but become surreally linked with our personal world; we derive a sense of kinship through a shared label.

From the windows of my new flat, I can see five spires: one University, which was founded in 1451 by a bull from Pope Nicholas V, one Episcopalian Cathedral, and three churches, (one Methodist, another Catholic, I think, while the third is now a bank).

Gerard, who lives nearby, pointed out all the spires and said, ‘We’re hemmed in by God.’ A lovely coinage, I think (unless he nicked it from someone else).

This device is tracking my position all day today by logging the WiFi nodes I pass. (I’m not entirely sure why.)

And, for added geekiness, I’m posting this from my telephone. It’s like being in the future, eh?