It started by the harbour, drinking a £6 bottle of cava with seagulls drifting to Tina Turner. I’d lived here for 4 years, with three and a half of those spent waiting for something to happen. Wandering round town in the dark, I was looking for a doorway or a muted beat or a note to float on the wind, telling me to come, come, come. When they didnt come, I felt let down. I’d left Manchester to come here aged 19, used to the endless possibilities of Canal Street after dark. Nights would start in Napoleon's or Vanilla, and end in Kiki’s or G-A-Y, kissing in the dark and bobbing to Britney. Manchester’s sprawling cartography hosts more queer nights, drag shows, cabarets and cocktail bars than you can shake a stick at, and upon leaving, a canal shaped tear appeared inside. 

 After 3 years of thinking there was no queer scene in Bristol, and 6 months of knowing there was something going on but not knowing where, I was sent an event poster for Conqueer, a queer-run art and music night. I then sent it to a friend of mine who had been finding it similarly difficult to break into the scene, and three days later we were sat by the water on the first warm evening of the year. We drank our booze and got there early for tickets on the door. 

On the night before the clocks went forward, a line of gorgeous people snaked around Strange Brew in leather and spiked hair, platform boots and face paint. There was a low buzz in the air as the city woke back up, I met a friend from Manchester and saw more queer people in one room than I had seen in the whole of my time in Bristol. I watched Sarahsson perform, their creaking, mossy, seabed music scratching at the walls. It was like nothing I had ever heard before, a cross between Diamond Dogs and sea shanties, how I imagine tectonic plates to sound and the inside of a bowel. In the back room, Vascha played in a circular cage, their partner screaming along to the synthy ride. I watched the people on the other side of the cage move in time to the noise, I remember being shocked that I felt like I belonged. Sitting at the bus stop on my way home that night, I hoped and hoped that there would be more. 

 In the background, I had been getting involved with doing branding for Dolce Vita, a queer-friendly European techno night run by queer women. I first met Lavinia at the Arnolfini, just metres from where I sat with the seagulls on that first of many nights. Lavinia is an Italian DJ, manager, promoter and founder of Dolce Vita and Dynamic Aura management, an all round powerhouse with waist length red hair and the best contacts in town. Maddie (the second longest standing member of DV) can go-go with the best of them in sequins and 6 inch heels, stays out the latest when she says she’ll go home the earliest, and is adored by all who meet her. Sitting at Lavinia’s kitchen table in St. Paul’s, I find the forward-movement of being young, queer and alive, the 25th hour of the day for the things you really love. 5 months after attending Conqueer, I worked my first Dolce Vita night, a pride-after party in collaboration with Slaughterhaus. We sold out before doors opened, I took photos on my 10 year old digital camera, images I’d save from a fire. After so many years of feeling around in the dark, to look out at a room full of sunburnt, drunk queers elongating Pride into the early morning light felt euphoric. 

Down a quiet set of stairs, a dark corridor and through an empty room, we found the courtyard. It was funny, going through these spaces that felt like an after hours school; like so many queer people, most of my school memories are the antithesis to the pride I feel now. Walking through these liminal spaces with tits out and feet ready to dance felt like a point and kill moment, like a balm, a salve, a receptionist handing over a wet paper towel. Through the courtyard and a plastic curtain was the thumping heart of T4T, a night which platforms trans+ creatives to raise money for trans+ healthcare. Walking in felt like how you always want it to feel, like the slow pan through the doorway in a coming of age film, like entering into some-thing, significant and intentional. I danced next to the rig to speed techno and Todrick Hall remixes, spoke embarrassing French to someone in the smoking area, danced some more, then left. I glowed about it for the next 3 days, stamp still on my hand, eardrums still ringing. 

 1 week before that I attended T4T, my maiden voyage into the belly of The Island. I walked around the edge of the building with my flatmate, not knowing how to get in, until two other attendees spotted us and pointed us in the direction of the door. Watched by china dolls, our tickets were checked and we were given directions to get to the party.

 This isn’t a piece of writing with a conclusion or an end; rather, it is an ill defined track, created by the feet which have walked it before. I started Tundra last year with the hope of giving space to people who need something more, who feel like there must be more out there. For me, that’s an inherent part of my queerness, there’s a longing in that, a will to survive, a dedication to keep growing and growing and growing. So in writing this song of the last 6 months, in looking at this start point as a place of future gaze, I’m creating accountability for where I take Tundra and any sibling projects I start. I’m also declaring my love for this city and it’s queers, for it’s nights down side streets and subterranean dens. May there be so much more, may we all keep making it. May we all find the things we feel might be there. See you on a dancefloor somewhere soon, be safe, text me, love you loads, byeee (for now) x