Every 20 minutes or so an ageing diesel train pulls into a graffiti-covered station. Nearby, a police siren pierces the near-constant traffic drone. Commuters hurry past collapsing, ivy-draped fencing panels as rain clouds gather.
This is perhaps the last place you expect to find a perfectly formed vineyard. But James Bayliss-Smith has managed to cultivate 40 mature vines sagging with plump mauve grapes on a rambling allotment sandwiched between a row of 1930s houses and a local rail line just north of Bristol town centre.
