Seaside Musings and Memories

It was some time on Tuesday afternoon that the thought came to me.  The prospect of no work coming my way to occupy me the next day, coupled with the forecast of more bright and warm weather reminded me of an annual 'tradition' - broken by Covid restrictions last year, but otherwise consistent since my retirement - of a 'day at the seaside' at some point during the late summer.

So, where would I go?  By a happy topical coincidence of geography and my recent Welsh lessons, one of the nearest resorts aligned itself with 'Dw i erioed wedi bod yno o'r blaen' (I've never been there before).  So it was that a quick glance at the road atlas enabled me to set course for Cleethorpes.

The journey east, via M18 and M180 heralded a day of happy and quite varied memories, beginning with the recollection that there was a Moto service station at the junction of those two motorways.  On the few occasions that I'd had deliveries in Hull, I preferred to use the A15 and Humber Bridge, to the faster combination of A1 and M60.  I would often return by way of these two motorways, so the scenery thus far was quite familiar.  Grimsby I had seen once, I think, but Cleethorpes ... never.

On my arrival, having located a parking place, the first major question was 'how long do I want to pay for?'  I decided four hours rather than two, but in the event it was only just over the two by the time I left.  Like many seaside resorts, the town has grown up in the last two centuries from small and deep-rooted beginnings.  Essentially a fishing village with a population of just a few hundred at the start of the nineteenth century, Wikipedia tells me that it is now home to nearly 40,000.

The seasonal attractions at many resorts are manned by people who have two lives: meeting and greeting the holidaymakers for a few months in summer and turning to some other lifestyle for the 'less public' greater part of the year.  As I wandered along the promenade from my parking place quite close to the railway station, one of the first sights I encountered was a truck on the beach in readiness to carry away a fairground ride that was in the process of being dismantled, its work done for another season.

On this mid-September day, there was, of course, a noticeable absence of children, resulting in an atmosphere that could easily be compared to the leisurely age of a century ago.  Almost all of the seats on the promenade were occupied and it was touching to find that some bore plates dedicating them to particular individuals who had obviously taken pleasure in sitting there regularly down the years, and had now passed on to a greater plane.  Some seats were occupied by family groups, often comprising three - or more - generations, and I was reminded of many a group picture from the 1930s in my own family collection.  There was a noticeably significant presence of motorised wheelchairs and tricycles, not all of which were being used by older visitors, for a number carried young parents out with the rest of their family to enjoy the late summer sunshine.

In embarking on this impromptu excursion, I had deliberately brought no food with me, confident that there would be somewhere to get something to eat, be it hot or cold, a substantial meal or a simple snack.  Not far from where I had left the car, was one of many fast-food outlets and, having made my purchase, I walked carefully to the other side of the promenade and ate my sausage and chips, looking out to sea.  As I did so, my mind went back some eleven years to my one and only visit to the Isle of Man.  On that occasion I had eaten fish and chips by the seaside surrounded by an eager squabble of  hungry gulls eager to share my lunch; this week my audience was more refined, but no less hungry, and these small speckled birds (sadly, I have no idea of their species) were content to stand back until I had finished.  Their reward was my emptying of the carton on the ground, before putting it carefully in one of the many large bins provided to keep the town tidy.

Later, I walked further along the promenade, lingering from time to time by the rail at the beach's edge to watch mankind at leisure.  As I did so, I assigned to one individual who caught my eye, the epithet 'a brave young mum'.  She had come, it appeared, alone apart from her daughter, a bubble-curled blonde of two years or less.  When I first spotted them, mum was taking pains to explain that she was about to leave for a brief errand.  Her gestures clearly conveyed the message 'I'm going up there, and I won't be long.  You'll be quite all right here, won't you?'.

I watched as she then walked quickly, though with a few backward glances, past me, up the slope to the promenade and back behind me to her car.  Having established the point of her journey, my gaze turned back to the toddler, still happily playing with her spade in the sand.  I wondered in my vigil how loudly I would be able - or, indeed, willing - to shout 'leave that child alone' or something similar, should I see an interloper make a threatening move.  Of course, all was well and within seconds, her mission complete, the mother was retracing her steps.  I breathed a sigh of relief and allowed my imagination to question what else the woman could do, and what circumstances might have placed her in that situation.

Cleethorpes central promenade

Further along, I sat awhile on one of the seats, forcing myself to sit and relax.  I find it hard to 'unwind' and sit doing nothing; there's always a niggling feeling that my minutes could be filled more productively.  As I did so, framing this blog in my mind, two young women approached, one pregnant, the other drawing a pram.  Sitting alone at one end of the seat, I was amused at the latter's question, 'Excuse me, do you think we can we squeeze in?'  How could I object?  They were content to sit and chatter beside me and, when I felt that it would no longer convey a message that they had forced me out, I wandered off and satisfied another whim, buying an ice cream ... from a place that happens to feature prominently in the picture from Wikipedia, in the window of which was a sign that read "Last day - closing tomorrow".

Thus provided for, I enjoyed memories of other resorts: Clacton-on-Sea as I walked uphill through gardens behind the promenade & Colwyn Bay as I then came upon the red-brick shopping street beyond.  My homeward journey brought its own memories: battling with SatNav as it tried to send me to Louth rather than Market Rasen: my brief sojourn in that latter place a few years ago, when I bought in a charity shop there the pair of pictures that still sit beside my desk.  Then, strangely, as I passed through Bawtry, I was reminded of another town I've passed through only once, but by which I was sufficiently impressed that I resolved one day to go again - although I haven't as yet - Yarm.  Is it mere coincidence the distance from Bawtry to Doncaster is not much different from that between Yarm and another recognised railway town, Darlington?

(Picture credit: Wikipedia - used under license: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported)