Confessions of a gentrifier

The backlash against plans for a Gail’s bakery in Walthamstow made me think about my own experience of gentrification. When I moved to my suburb of Bristol nearly 20 years ago, it was still a largely white working-class area. It was also a temporary home to many of the students from the local university. It felt slightly down at heel but, judging by the impressive size of some of the houses, had once been quite prosperous. Black and white photographs from the early 20th century show the now non-existent tram running down a high street populated by soberly dressed Edwardians.

We were looking for somewhere to start a family, and it seemed to tick all the boxes: good transport links, not too far from the city centre, plenty of green space, well-performing primary schools, and relatively affordable property – street after street of 1930s and Victorian houses. Comparable properties in smarter parts of Bristol were out of our budget.

It also had some useful local shops, including a greengrocers, a stationers, and a Woolworths. The only hint of incipient gentrification was one small café that was the second in what eventually became a highly successful national chain. Being unashamedly middle class, we saw it as a positive sign. Our three-bed semi was, by today’s standards, an absolute steal. We were delighted with it. It’s on a lovely road with beautiful Grade II-listed buildings opposite and a huge park nearby. When the kids were little, there was plenty of room.

We slowly integrated into the area and when my wife fell pregnant we started antenatal classes, where we gravitated towards other middle-class parents-to-be. I started drinking with the other new dads, and our local boozer – which had once been a hangout for bikers – transformed into a gastropub. Pickled eggs and warmed-up pies were replaced by posh crisps and gourmet burgers with triple-cooked chips. Out went fizzy lager and in came real ale.

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The next sign that the demographic was changing was when a delicatessen opened selling charcuterie, fancy bread, and other middle-class staples like first-press olive oil. I don’t eat meat, but I had a spring in my step the day it opened and I saw cured hams hanging in the window. It didn’t last. I went in there a few times and bought some overpriced bits and pieces but there was too much competition from the supermarkets.

A health food store suffered the same fate. After that, I began obsessively combing through planning applications on the local council website for reassurance that the tide of gentrification wasn’t abating. I also lurked in Facebook groups, gleeful whenever I saw speculation that an upmarket brand was looking for premises in the area. Then a micropub opened and stayed open. More bars and restaurants followed. Coffee shops became ubiquitous. Suddenly, we were spoilt for choice.

A Steiner school, beloved by middle-class hippies, opened on our road. Kids wearing outfits plucked from dressing-up boxes arrived via eccentric modes of transport which looked like they’d been made of stuff harvested from skips. ‘I bet there’s a few trustafarians amongst that lot,’ I commented to the wife.

Residents planned discos and festivals. Planters tended by volunteers appeared on the high street. People with litter pickers would regularly clear the streets of rubbish left by their less civic-minded neighbours. Then, one Christmas, miniature fir trees with fairy lights were attached to all the shops. I thought I was in a Richard Curtis movie.

Down at the park, muscular dogs with thick necks made way for soppier breeds. While walking there one day, I heard a bloke telling his mate what a waste of time it had been learning Latin at school. I knew then that the change in the area was irrevocable. But it wasn’t all good. Following the collapse of Woolworths, our local branch was suddenly vacant. The fruit and veg shop also closed – another victim of supermarket supremacy. Other businesses – including a draper’s opened half a century ago – also shut down. People began to complain there were no proper shops on the high street. The hospitality sector dominated.

Developers became interested in the area. Suddenly, hundreds of new homes were being built, putting strain on the infrastructure. There was more traffic, and it was harder to get a GP appointment. Scaffolding was everywhere you looked as extensions and loft conversions were added (including by us). House prices got to the point where you were exclaiming: ‘Really? Blimey! Who’d pay that to live here?’ People on lower incomes were priced out. You’d see young couples, noses pressed against estate agents’ windows, looking at properties they’d never be able to afford.

Smugness at my good fortune was tempered by guilt over other people’s bad luck. There are several hostels for people with special needs nearby. If you’ve ever wondered what care in the community looks like, it involves kicking residents out after breakfast and not letting them back in until tea time. They roam the streets picking up dog ends, sit in a small park endlessly drinking fizzy drinks and munching chocolate bars, or congregate in the local Wetherspoons.

Gentrification also means that if you go to a café, you’re practically forced to remortgage to pay for some absurdly elaborate cake and coffee made from beans extracted from civet shit. You can get gentrification envy if you see other parts of the city developing faster. In a rival corner of Bristol, house prices have gone stratospheric, and you now can’t move for craft bakeries and critically acclaimed restaurants. The local media laud its success – overlooking the less meteoric rise of my own suburb. I look on indignantly, bristling at what seems like a deliberate snub.

You can also experience a certain amount of snobbishness when you move into an upwardly mobile area. Friends who live in the city and went to the same public school raised their eyebrows when they discovered where I lived. Gentrification may alter the character of a place, but it takes a long time for negative connotations to disappear.

There have been several occasions when I’ve wondered if I really belong here. When we decided to send our kids to private secondary school, the reaction from some parents at their state primary was positively glacial. Several relationships have never recovered. I was left thinking we should perhaps have overstretched ourselves to move to a more middle-class area. Even after 20 years of development, the people who buy here still feel the need to justify their decision: ‘Of course, we looked at XYZ, but the prices were just crazy. We really weren’t keen at first, but now we love it.’

Well, no, it’s not the poshest part of Bristol – and never will be. But it’s been a great place to raise a family and is the only home our children have ever known. The tide of gentrification ebbs and flows, but I’ve at least stopped looking at the planning applications website. Although, in the unlikely event that Gail’s wanted to open a branch in my suburb, I’d be the first to comment in favour. I probably wouldn’t go there very often – my pockets aren’t that deep – but I’d love the cachet it would bring. And it would be one in the eye for our rivals.