SPAR North Hill – Plymouth
If you grew up in a genuinely rural area, there's no such thing as a corner shop. Mine was a half-hour walk, and there's a steep tax for that convenience. In fact, the concept of 24-hour accessibility was also alien until I discovered Spar on Plymouth's North Hill.
I'm sure you'd agree, but I can scarcely recall most trips to the shop. Although, when I've travelled back to Spar, its familiarity is akin to returning to your favourite pub after lockdown.
The scent is eerily unchanged, prebaked loaves rising in the ovens of a built-in Subway. The sights haven't moved an inch, as if frozen in some motionless alternate reality. You daren't touch anything but the product you intend to buy; there's an apathetic attitude to cleanliness. All the while, the same bald bouncer guards the door, reaffirming the shop's bar-style relationship with its public.
You could've mistaken North Hill and Mutley's rows of bars with abject exteriors for a Lowry scene, its takeaways were equally bleak yet bountiful. Rowdy undertones were dying to emerge from the dense cluster of surrounding student houses. Though I'd never actually seen the bouncer put to use, his presence alone has diffused countless scuffles before they've begun.
Realistically, Spar was just a coffee-stained canvas for some unforgettable anecdotes. While the shop occupied a semi-nirvana state in my imagination, in truth, it's the company that made it remarkable.
Initially, it was the shop you never wanted to visit with prices seemingly calibrated to Venezuelan inflation. However, its subtle charm and 24-hour convenience rapidly won us over. Before we knew it, the place became an everyday encounter.
It was also a learning experience. Regardless of my unawareness at the time, Spar provided me with a foundation-level culinary education. For instance, my first encounter with a Blood Orange San Pelligrino, the doyen of lightly carbonated refreshment. Initially, it was the spot for chicken and leek pasties until we unearthed West Country Family Butcher's.
Seriously though, when you'd only experienced life through an agricultural lens, even a reintroduction to Subway is moderately impressive. Before Plymouth, I'd had one Subway in my life, by the finale of freshers' week, I'd eclipsed that. I've stood in that Cumberland sausage of a queue more times than I care to remember, but one moment will forever be synonymous.
If I recall correctly, it's reasonably late, but we're still in the p.m., long after dinner time for most. Con's hungry, unsurprisingly, considering we've just shared a spliff. Now, we had an inside joke running for a minute, but nothing quite prepared me for the Freudian slip: "I'll take a footlong meatball marijuana, please".
Queue raucous laughter from both sides of the counter. Eye contact was an impossibility. I still feel sorry for the woman who made those sandwiches. Her mental fortitude put the sword. Somehow she completed Con's order between desperately gasping for air, punctuating frenzied laughter. Meanwhile, Con and I were equally hysterical, arguably providing the lift her night shift needed.
Admittedly, Spar is a different place when you're inebriated, but if that wasn't their intention, why would there be a bouncer on the door? And why was there so much atmosphere? I distinctly remember dancing to Gotta Get Thru This by Daniel Beddingfield with Con, undoubtedly deflecting fellow customers out the door. Not once did the bouncer flinch.
Other anecdotes come to mind. It's impossible to choose between feints, scratch card strategies and meeting my ex-girlfriend adorned in full Jedi Robe, lightsabre in holster as if I'd arranged to join Obi-Wan inside the Mos Eisley Cantina.
While discovering remarkable individuals and acclimatising to unfamiliar surroundings, Spar provided the backdrop to profound scenes, moments of the utmost unimportance. You'd probably only be there for something to snack on that evening, but I left with memories that will nourish my soul for a lifetime.