23 August 2016 - Brylea Caravan Park, Lea, near Preston, Lancashire

Who would have thought after so much wind and rain, we would delight in a day at the beach! And such a day it was, especially as the main destination of today’s outing had been built up to be perfectly ghastly; kitsch, crass and crazy.

We set off with lunch packed, south west toward the Ribble estuary, although at some distance from the actual river bank, passing near Freckleton and Warton. Our previous host, Chris G, had suggested Lytham St Anne’s was far more appealing than the commercial crass of Blackpool, this latter only to be driven through if necessary, the former to be enjoyed at leisure.

The wetlands at Lytham

The small settlement of Lytham, the taste tester of that with the more elaborate name, caught our attention; a wide seafront of green parkland and what appeared to be a stop bank. We parked and walked across to the raised bank, to the windmill now only decorative and a long since abandoned building once used for lifeboats. The river has surely shifted greatly from those days because now from the bank, the river is far distant, beyond marshlands sanctuary to birdlife, to a quarter of a million winter migrants. Looking further east, we could see what appeared to be oil platforms. Subsequent research has suggested they might be related to gas operations however I would not swear that to be so.

We drove on a couple of miles arriving at Lytham St Anne’s, parked and spent over half an hour walking up along the esplanade, past the promenade gardens to the pier, then around a block inland. We thought the place particularly lovely, a sedate gentrified spot that appealed to us more than the regular English seaside spots.

The formal gardens at Lytham St Anne's

The town was named after St Anne’s church, built in 1873, and the first building in the area. At the town’s inception, it was decided that St Anne’s would cater for the wealthier and the more genteel holiday makers, by providing high quality accommodation and services. This is one of the reasons there were regulations preventing trades-people from touting their wares on the promenade, and was reflected in the style and design of the sea front. Entertainers and stalls were also banned from the foreshore. The promenade of St Anne’s was meant strictly for promenading.

The long belt of rock gardens along the sea front was laid out in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries and is now a Grade II listed site in the National Register of Historic Parks and Gardens, which means that it cannot be changed.

Ironmongery at Blackpool

This lovely spot was so very much in contrast to Blackpool which we soon arrived at continuing north around the coast. One of our travel books describes the town so very well: “There is no place in the world like Blackpool. Its publicists have described it variously as a Fun City, Playground of the North and the Entertainment Capital of Europe – and they back their claims by pointing to its seven miles of sandy beach, three piers, two towers, eight theatres, 140 acre amusement park, and a host of ballrooms, discos, bingo halls, amusement centres and every other conceivable form of entertainment.”

What more can be said?

Chris has dragged me from one English seaside “resort” to another; Great Yarmouth, Brighton and so many in between, and I have been quite horrified that this is how English people need to enjoy “the beach”. This represents one of the great cultural voids between Antipodeans and their Anglo-forbearers. He kept saying, “But wait until you see Blackpool!” I waited with bated breath expecting the very worst of horrors, and was surprised to find it was only half as bad as expected. He had prepared me well!

It all helps of course that we had such a glorious day, thin clouds smeared thinly across the sky early in the day which soon cleared to reveal a burning sun. It also helped that today was a Tuesday rather than a weekend day as it has been when calling into some of these “preparatory” resorts.

Scenes of Blackpool

The waterfront was as archetypically littered with low-brow entertainment as expected, but the families enjoying the offerings were happy and well behaved, all just so pleased to find a rain-less day. Little groups of donkeys were out and about on the sand, waiting for business, although I never did see anyone take a ride. Horses clipped and clopped their way up and down the promenade pulling an assortment of carriages; the pink pumpkin shaped affairs attracting little girls and their parents. I thought of our two youngest granddaughters who would have been delighted to ride in such fantasy-like vehicles. Trams, modern and heritage, ran along the length of the frontage, for those who were not willing to walk the miles from one end of the beach to the other as we did.

We parked near the massive dippers and whirly gigs that were invented to turn one’s bowels inside out and replicate bad hangovers, hearing the screams of the masochists as they dropped over the high iron precipice. Chris told me that when he came here to Blackpool the one and only time before, he had ridden on this particular tangle of metal and it had indeed provided the promised adrenalin rush; this from a man who found bungee jumping off the Kawarau Bridge near Queenstown an anticlimax. I told him that I was delighted he had enjoyed the experience then, because I was not moved in the least to try it out for myself now, with or without him, nor did I want to watch him subject himself to such horrors.

Instead we walked on and on up the promenade, pausing to admire the great expanse of sandy beach, very slowly populating with donkeys and families and the odd deckchair. We walked along the piers, two of the three, and found them to be busier and noisier versions of others seen elsewhere on our travels. Blackpool Tower loomed up in front of us as we progressed north, and I had to agree it was indeed an impressive sight. It was built between 1891 and 1894 in imitation of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, but at 518 feet, it is little more than half the height of the Parisian original. For some years it remained Britain’s tallest structure.

Blackpool, today with a population of over 140,000, is a relatively new metropolis. At the beginning of the 19^th century, it was little more than a small fishing village of perhaps 500 people, if that. The arrival of the railways in 1846 linked the resort with the industrial towns of Lancastershire and Yorkshire, giving the hardworking folk of the industrial regions easy access to fresh air and leisure time. And so Blackpool was born and grew into the monster it is today.

Eastern ladies prefer to look

More recently, with the upwardly mobile seeking overseas trips, Blackpool’s popularity  palled, and so the city fathers put their heads together and came up with the Illuminations. At the end of the summer, when the days are shorter and the sea is less inviting to bathe in, in fact, in just a couple of weeks, these will start and run for about two months, thus lengthening the commercial viability of the resort. Already weird and wonderful structures are being erected for miles and miles along the coast, and a million shapes and lines of lights are just waiting to be switched on to delight the public; like the little Christmas light competitions some towns have, but on a much bigger scale. In the raw, this all seems rather kitsch, however according to my husband who shares similar critical opinions to my own, it is actually quite fabulous.

After we had walked beyond the North Pier and a little way up the hill where there are only hotels rather than the tacky attractions and shops selling rock candy and souvenirs, we wandered back into the commercial part of the town, where the non-tourist types hang out and there found a lovely shopping area, full of all the shops you could possible need or want. The pedestrianized streets and malls were busy with people and we decided that Blackpool was even better when away from the sea frontage.

Here as with the promenade, there has been massive development over the past few years. There are some wonderful sculptures all about, although nowhere can be found information plaques or panels, so credit can be given to no particular artist. The promenade itself is a gently sculptured walkway, giving way to tiers of steps that lead down to the beach. If you took the “fun stuff” away, the whole place would be most attractive.

By now the sun was hot, and we were both poorly dressed for such summery weather; shorts and skirts would have been more appropriate. However we made it back to the car without expiring and headed further north to Cleverleys and Fleetwood, the latter on the mouth of the River Wyre which flows north toward Morecombe Bay, which in turn lies south of the Lakes District. Traffic was very heavy and our progress slow. We would have done better to have simply returned home after leaving Blackpool, however we persevered and saw a little more of the countryside which lies in this corner of Lancashire.

Dainty carriages for Cinderella types

Near to our camp, we had noted the high industrial looking buildings and wondered about them, deciding they were more than likely dairy factories or the like. Well today our route took us right past the gates and we took note of the name: “Westinghouse – Springfield”. I first thought of washing machines and electric cookers. Back home we did some research and found them to be something very different indeed.

We are camped almost in the shadow of a nuclear fuels facility, which was built in 1940 as a munitions factory but has served otherwise since 1946. Here oxide fuels and uranium hexafluoride are manufactured, by the industrial efforts of 1,700 plus workers. These fuels are produced for the UK’s nuclear power stations and for international customers. The company also deals with decommissioning and demolition of redundant plants and buildings. Well, who would have thought it? And here was I distracted by the cattle and sheep about the place.