On People and Places.

We've just been away in our motorhome for a few days. Our travels may not be in the same league as George Orwell's (Eric Arthur Blair) but I've enjoyed the change.

We called at a scrap yard near Preston on the way up. Don't let my wife ever tell you I don't take her anywhere interesting. I'm sure many a lady would like to be taken round a scrap yard! I bought two brass signs for my bar. Corny, yes, but they amuse me. Why ever grow up when you don't have to.

We stayed the week on the playing fields of King Edward VII and Queen Mary School, Lytham St Annes, courtesy of The Camping and Caravan Club (Lune Valley D A). Within sight of my daughter's home, literally across the road. An ideal situation, close but not under each other's feet, so to speak.

I hadn't realised how elderly many caravaners and motorhomers are. Smashing people in the main, many in their seventies and no small number eighty plus. Brilliant that so many ' oldies' are still active in this day and age. Though I doubt that all drivers following cars and caravans on our crowded roads would agree.
St Annes up the road (And Lytham for that matter) have a gentile, affluent feel about them.. My mother in law, well into her eighties loves them. She says they have a better class of charity shop than most. (I counted six at least in St Annes, charity shops that is, not mother in laws!)

Whereas Blackpool, not too far down the road has no pretensions of grandeur. Many people in Lytham and St Annes are rude about Blackpool. snobbery to a degree, but I can see why. I must admit I have seldom seen so much obesity, so many people smoking and so many tattoos for many a while. And that was only the ladies! (Only joking). I met a delightful man and his father who lived in Stoke on Trent, the son had had retired this week after thirty eight years in teaching and they always holidayed in Blackpool. Stoke, Blackpool and thirty eight years in teaching, the mind boggles! Nevertheless I like Blackpool.

Fleetwood is unique in its own way. A port, though perhaps somewhat in decline, not particularly attractive, certainly not pretty; it's biggest claim to fame appears to be its markets, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The numerous parked buses testament to the many day trippers who descend on the markets week after week. And I have never seen so many geriatrics, and geriatric aids for that matter in one place. The market heaves with ancient old dears intent on a bargain and woe betide anyone not quick on their feet who momentarily blocks their path in the search for the holy grail. If I have learnt nothing else from this short break, I have learnt that the average age of the British population is high in the extreme. Either that or they've all migrated to the north west.

I did meet one interesting young man by the name of Andrew. He wandered over to our motorhome on the seafront at Fleetwood. He insisted on telling me a large proportion of his life story. Andrew is twenty seven, married into a travelling family, with children and has recently moved from Rochdale, having run up several hundred pounds in debts owed to the council. (I was unclear as to whether the money is still owed.) He and his brother make a precarious 'living' collecting scrap metal with the aid of an old van. evidently 'scrap' is worth around £170 a ton but was £200 not long ago. Andrew had recently been arrested for 'stealing by finding'. Taking scrap without permission, even though it's been lying round for some considerable time. You learn something everyday if you're prepared to give a little of your time.

Andrew was waiting for a friend who was 'in front' of the magistrates in the nearby courts, (a favourite parking spot of mine) charged with numerous motoring offences. Ok, so Andrew was not 'the sharpest pencil in the box' and maybe he'd had a drink. But he was totally friendly, polite and civil and no, he didn't 'tap me up' for money; I am ashamed that I considered that might be his motive. We shook hands and parted, Andrew informing me that his ambition was to move his family up the coast to a quiet life in a nearby village. I hope his dreams come true. (Back home we are visited by three different groups collecting scrap metal on a regular basis. I have not seen this happen for many years; it must be a sign of austere times.)

One other memory. Life consists of millions of individuals seeking contentment, success, pleasure in their brief lives. The punk groups in Blackpool, there to attend concerts in the Winter Gardens were a joy to behold. A non conforming, colourful, good humoured presence, piercings and Mohican's to the fore, they were a joy to behold; thanks lads and lasses, you made my day.

And at the end of the week, what did we take home. Five books, second hand from a charity shop and a pair of shoes each, new, though in the sales from a 'proper' shop and a cardigan for the wife (that sounds a good swap to me). A watch (I never learn, can't get it to work yet but there's hope) plus some meat of all things, both from a car boot sale. (I hope the marks on the meat are not made by a saddle.) Plus a Colocasia Black Magic and a Musa Santa Morelli from a garden centre. Oh, and memories to savour on the dark nights ahead. Roll on Christmas!

I'm Not a Happy Chappie.

I've just been 'thwacked' by a car and caravan travelling in the opposite direction, one new mirror now required and boy oh boy do I feel a grump coming on.

Now I know he's arguably as much right on the road as my none too tiny motorhome but does he really need mirrors on mile long sticks. Obviously a rhetorical question. Of course he needs them when his motor is five feet wide and his caravan's seven feet six. Mind you, it would have helpful if he'd stayed on his own side of the road.

Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against caravanners. I'd even go so far as to award them their own time to travel. How about one to three am. It's not as if they'd be lonely as they seldom travel alone.

When I was a trailer tenter I was quite worried as I was unsure as to whether I was now under caravan rules. I had no friends to travel with and I wasn't sure if I was allowed out on my own. I did think of waiting for another trailer tenter to pass and tucking in behind but I was unsure as to whether this was ethical. Plus my inexperience of 'driving in pairs' would be embarrassingly obvious. For instance, when an ordinary mortal decided to pass me, how would I know when to accelerate in order to close the gap between me and my friend in front. Are there books on driving in pairs or do you learn by experience.

Then there's the experience 'on site'. Never mind if your fellow caravanner couldn't travel with you. Just save his place alongside your pitch, anything movable will suffice: fire bucket, chair, your car, all warn fellow travellers you've got a friend coming. Who probably lives on your street, works with you and you haven't seen since half past four and it's now six o'clock. Besides, it wouldn't do to have to walk half way down the field when you've got so much to tell each other.

So get the chairs out, open the wine and get chatting, usually louder and louder as the wine takes effect. No need for an early night, a lie in beckons tomorrow and watching the 'tele', courtesy of the generator. Good job we carry plenty of cable so it's not positioned too close to our caravan. (I was once told by a caravanner it was a violation of his European Rights when I asked him to turn off his generator after several noisy hours. I have also seen generators hidden in toilet tents; whom did they think they were kidding.)

Grump over, the last one for a while. There must be many 'nice' caravanners who are acutely aware of their fellow travellers. Have I just been unlucky. You tell me.

What a Diff'rence a Day Makes

I wonder if Dinah Washington ever visited Southport; maybe, maybe not. I was certainly reminded of the wonderful Miss Washington on a recent visit to that delightful Lancashire resort. ‘Southport by the Sea’ as I remember it from childhood. For the memories, though pleasant enough, do not include the recollection of seeing the sea itself.

Our return visit, minus the children all these years later had an inauspicious start. The drizzle was unrelenting, belying the fact that June beckoned. The town buzzed with impatient traffic, seemingly driven by growling, scowling individuals, crossing the road somewhat dangerous. We found the seafront at the third attempt, (I thought we’d actually found the sea but alas it was only a lake), parked up on miles of almost empty asphalt and peered out across miles of mud come sand to where the sea presumably existed. And we very nearly went home.
‘What a diff’rence a day makes
Twenty four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain.
Next day the sun did indeed shine; smiling was once again allowed and we began to appreciate Southport, for it has much to offer. (One of the things it offers is an abundance of bright orange people, and I mean orange. I kid you not. Not tanned, brown, black, olive, nut coloured, definitely, unequivocally orange. Is it too many carrots. Is it a genetic aberration exclusive to the area. Do they know they're orange. Do they like being orange. Fascinating, is it a phenomenon exclusive to Southport. I'm dying to know. Would someone out there please put me out of my misery.)
The town itself dates back to 1792 when a certain Mr Sutton opened a hotel. Other key dates include 1848 when a rail service linked Southport to Liverpool and 1853 and a rail service linking the resort to Manchester. From which point Southport never looked back.
The Victorian legacy is both obvious and pleasing. Lord Street, a tree lined boulevard is one of Britain’s finest shopping thoroughfares. Lord Street was named after the Lords of the Manor whose foresight and money made such an impressive street possible. The idea was a deliberate attempt to develop a resort for the ‘refined’ and ‘the well to do’. The aim of creating both a select residential town and high class resort has in the main succeeded. The Victorian buildings particularly in Lord Street have to be seen to be appreciated. Neither is the attraction of Southport confined to its main street.
The pier is the oldest surviving iron pier in the country and the longest overland for good measure; an excellent fine weather walk with a tram ride available for the faint hearted. Rewarded at the end with an arcade of Victorian and Edwardian penny style attractions. Old style pennies available for the machines though the exchange rate, one old penny equalling ten new pence is eye watering! Or am I just being an old meanie. But Southport is not merely an advert for the past.
The Marine Lake (the largest man made leisure lake in the UK) has the Miniature Railway Village and the Southport Belle Mississippi style paddleboat. Plus I was particularly impressed by the Marine Way Bridge into the town, very futuristic, very aesthetic. Southport definitely grew on me.
Southport offers something for all. Culture lovers, try the Theatre and Floral Hall or the Arts Centre. Skateboarders have their own park whilst the Dunes Leisure Centre is particularly accessible to disabled visitors. And where else in the entire country could you visit a museum dedicated to the humble lawn mower.
If you fancy a ride out the Martin Mere Wildlife Wetland Centre is a must for bird lovers of all ages and a stone’s throw from the town. Home to over one hundred species of rare and endangered ducks, geese, swans and flamingos. Internationally important, offering ten hides and numerous exhibits, Martin Mere is an all year round attraction that appeals to all, not just the professional ‘twitcher’.
Further down the road is the European Capital of Culture, Liverpool of course. An afternoon visit can only wet the appetite for further visits. Suffice to say we found Liverpool amazing, vibrant, the place has truly arrived. The bus tour round the city was exhilarating and extremely educational. A couple of hours spent at the Albert Dock made me realise how far Liverpool has come in the twenty first century. The last time I visited was as a schoolboy not long after the war. I remember only ruined buildings, a rattling yet wonderful overhead railway and men performing on the banks of the river. One of whom was tied in a sack and destined for the river unless the collection by his cohort from the bystanders dictated otherwise. (He never did get thrown into the filthy river, much to my childish disgust.)
With regard to Southport I get the definite impression the British seaside is fighting back after years of decline. Presumably in part I suspect due to the availability of European Union money. But there again I never did really understand the political scene. If it helps British seaside resorts, Southport included, all well and good. That being the case, black mark Southport for the sad derelict frontage of what was once a railway station at the far end of Lord Street. I am assured by locals neglect of this frontage goes back many years.
Overall my wife and I enjoyed our stay immensely. Much helped by the fact that, as members of The Camping and Caravan Club we could stay with a pleasant Yorkshire group, in this case the East and West Yorkshire BCC on a local commercial site for a saving of over two thirds of the normal cost; for four nights a saving of a massive £64. Well done both the Camping Club and the EWY BCC for organising this particular holiday meet.
Even the fact that whoever is in charge of roads in the area decided to start major roadworks on the Saturday bringing the whole area to a standstill didn't detract from our overall enjoyment. I know you've got to start jobs sometime but a Saturday, lads, come on!

Picture the Council offices the week before.

"The roadworks, John on the A565, when shall we start?"

"How about Wednesday, Harry.

"Forecast's poor, John plus it'll be bit quiet on the roads."

"Forecasts hot for the weekend, Harry, and it's bound to be busy."

"Right you are, John, Saturday it is."

Nevertheless we enjoyed our stay and we will return. And by the way, we still didn’t really see the sea.