Protests against HS2 in the area where the railway is planned to pass through near Lymm in Manchester on April 8, 2014. Photograph: Getty Images.
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We need to go beyond HS2 and build a Liverpool-Leeds rail link

A high-speed rail connection between Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds would be transformative for the north.

Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds are separated by a mere 65 miles. Yet board a train at one end of this corridor and it will be nearly two hours before you alight at the other end. We ought to be seriously considering building a high speed alternative.

The current Transpennine Express trains trundle across the Pennines with a meandering listlessness reminiscent of a distracted pony. They huff and puff and creak and groan. Calling them "express" trains is an outrage against the English language. Transpennine passengers enjoy glorious scenery, but appalling speeds. As Andrew Adonis has drily noted, it is "quite an achievement" that the 45 mile journey between Leeds and Manchester takes almost an hour. Although the route is set to be electrified, the work will make only a marginal difference to journey times. 

Of course, Britain is riddled with slow rail connections and plenty of trains huff and puff, but this case is different. This transport corridor links three of the six largest cities in England. Liverpool is the fastest growing city outside of London and Manchester is increasingly heralded as the UK’s second city. Surely our major cities should be better connected?

This issue is even more pressing in light of the economic importance of bringing businesses closer together - so-called "agglomeration economics". Nowadays, economic growth seems increasingly to be driven by large urban hubs where workers and businesses in close proximity compete, collaborate and copy each other much more intensively than they otherwise would do. Mixing in these ways drives innovation and productivity gains. As Evan Davies explained in his recent documentary Mind The Gap, London benefits from these "economies of distance" in a way that other parts of the country do not – and it is powering Britain’s economic recovery as a result.

Yet Davies also emphasises that the area from Liverpool through Manchester to Leeds is the prime candidate for an extended travel to work zone outside of London. With populations expanding again after decades of decline, these cities have the potential to form a robust corridor of economic activity, a northern hub.

This will depend, however, upon better transport links. As things stand, the area is hobbled by poor rail connections. Research by the LSE found that approximately 40 per cent fewer commuting journeys are made between Leeds and Manchester than would be expected given the cities’ proximity and size. Such statistics will hardly surprise regular Transpennine travellers, but they underline the extent to which poor transport connections are holding back business growth.

The government’s current plans for HS2 do nothing to address this problem of east-west connectivity. In fact, while the government has portrayed HS2 as an economic panacea for the north, the matter is far from clear. Many experts have argued that HS2 is more likely to draw more wealth into London than it is likely to spread it northwards. Unsurprising, then, that northerners show little enthusiasm for HS2 with 22 per cent strongly opposing the scheme in Yorkshire and only 10 per cent strongly in favour.

By contrast, a high-speed rail connection between Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds would be transformative for the north, drawing journey times down toward those of a standard Underground commute and thereby boosting business growth. It would cost far less than HS2 and would be more readily deliverable.

As things stand, however, we are in danger of allowing the controversy swirling around HS2 to stymie further thinking and plans for high speed rail, plans which should be judged on their own merit. Irrespective of whether the case for HS2 adds up, a connection from Liverpool to Leeds ought to at least be on the policy agenda as an option and subject to the careful cost-benefit evaluation of any major infrastructure project. When discussing high speed rail, we ought to be going beyond HS2.

David Kirkby (@kirkbydj) is a researcher at Bright Blue 

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue