July 2010
Excited children fidget, eyes glued to the whirl of spinning pink candy floss. A teenaged assistant twirls the floss deftly round a thin stick over a large stainless steel bowl; fine threads of floss drift up and are rapidly swept away in the breeze. The girl raises the stick and hands a pineapple sized ball of mouth watering candy floss to one of the eager children. I stroll on, along the promenade. I'll walk the one and a half miles to the distant yacht marina and return by the beach road; the road is separated from the promenade by a green-sword planted with exotic palm trees.
It's good to be on the move. I’d spent the last hour or so relaxing on the beach with my wife and I was becoming restless. I'd watched a father and his young son building an intricate sand castle; it was more a palace than a castle and was a painstaking work of art. But disaster struck. Naked, and waddling at a fast lap, the youngest member of the family was determined to get in on the act and crashed into the castle, turning beautifully constructed arches and turrets into shapeless piles of sand. A look of horror appeared on the older boy's face, quickly turning to anger.
'He’s ruined it, Jason ruined it,' he roars, 'take him away, Mum.' Mum, who I can't see, attempts to defend Jason.
'He likes to join in, Colin, he feels left out, let him build a little castle near yours.'
'No, no, Mum, keep him with you he'll only ruin everything.' At this point the father has to take action. Jason, having destroyed the castle, is on a course to self destruction as he waddles towards the incoming tide, but disaster is averted as his father safely gathers him up. That was my cue to go.
Leaving the candy floss float, I pass a long row of white beach huts. At least half of them are open. The occupants sit outside on a variety of deck chairs and director's chairs; they are family groups of all ages, some are brewing tea. I catch a whiff of toast and butter and hear the constant banter from many accents; several occupants doze blissfully soaking up the sun, while others read. A dripping wet child almost collides with me as she runs from the sea into the hut I'm passing. Startled by her sudden arrival a pet dog jumps out from under a chair barking and wagging its tail furiously.
The beach huts behind me, I enjoy the relative quiet, and on my left, down on the beach, is the deck chair pound. The attendant is a thin wiry man who, I guess, is in his fifties, sits in his usual seat surrounded by a mound of folded deck chairs. Catching his eye I mouth 'All right,' he nods an affirmative 'OK'. We’ve never spoken, but have acknowledged each other every day for the past week. Two days ago I sat on the promenade wall and idly noticed him distribute deck chairs and issue tickets to his customers while my wife stopped to buy ice cream. When the last of his customers had been dealt with he dropped into his cubby hole. From his denim shirt pocket he took a packet of green Rizla cigarette papers, from the other pocket a tobacco tin. I watched him carefully spread the tobacco along the paper and roll it into a narrow cigarette. Then he licked the fine edge of the paper, rolled the cigarette again before biting off the loose ends. It's a ritual, a ritual of expectant pleasure, the same thing you see with pipe smokers as they pat down the tobacco in the bowl before the final pleasure of lighting up.
Further along the beach another ritual is in progress: an attractive girl lays face down, tanning her back. All at once, she looks at her watch, turns over, dons sun glasses, props up a pillow and starts to read a book. I imagine it's a 30 minutes tan for the back then the same time for the front. On the open ground to my left two young herring gulls are squabbling over an unappetizing piece of waste food. A carrion crow walks stealthily towards one of the gulls and calmly, and very precisely, grips the gull's wing tip in its bill and gradually, but determinedly, pulls the larger bird away from its meal. It's a very precise manoeuvre by a very confident crow. Then, in a flash, it lets go the wing tip, nips between the two gulls and flies off with their food. I watch the crow disappear as I walk on. Crows are superb opportunists, and skilful thieves; crows, I feel, answer to no one.
After a couple of hundred yards I stop and sit on the wall, here the beach is more crowded. It is a sea of happy faces. Discernable above the constant roar of waves breaking on the beach is a continuous sound from umpteen conversations, shouts, commands, shrieks and much laughter. From the waters edge a boy throws a frisby to his companion, but the breeze carries it back over his head into the sea.
'His back's gone,' a women’s cockney accent groans from just below where I’m sitting. 'Arry's back, he's done his back Alf. He shouldn't get up like that.' I look at the scene below me. A man, who I assume is Harry or 'Arry, is bent over rubbing his back. All he's wearing is a pair of long dark blue shorts - the sort that footballers wore when Stanley Matthews was skipping down the wing for Stoke City in the late 1940's. He is also considerably overweight: I think there should be a law forbidding people of his dimensions from stripping off in public. An old man in a deck chair looks up at me with a resigned smile – this must be Alf; he’s as thin as 'Arry is fat. He wears an off-white vest exposing matchstick-wrinkled arms; he too would be better covered up. I'm feeling critical, it's wrong; it's not what people look like; it's what they are. I smile warmly at Alf. I hope Harry’s back is nothing serious. I walk on towards the yacht marina.
The non-top rattle of halyards against masts is getting louder as I approach the first of a long line of moored boats. The breeze is stronger here causing the halyards to rap against the masts at a furious rate. They are like crazed musicians playing the same few notes over and over again, but all the time going faster and faster. It's disorientating. I pass sloops, cutters and a fine looking ketch named 'Golden Horizon' a name to provide hope. An enormous schooner is moored alongside a flash catamaran. Most boats are in good nick, but some have seen better days, some their last days perhaps: boats, I think though, are like old soldiers - they never die, but just fade away. There are gin palaces, but no gin drinkers or champagne drinkers in sight, but this an English seaside resort, not Monte Carlo.
I turn and start on the return leg of the walk. On raised ground behind a wire fence I pause to look at an array of hauled out dinghies. On the bow of one a fine and rather imperious cat sits sedately washing itself.
'Puss, puss,' I call, at the same time rubbing my hands together, the cat looks up and gives me a disdainful glare, then continues washing; it is the perfect put down. If it had been an alley cat, it would have translated as 'get lost.' I walk on through the ornamental gardens enjoying the shade from the palm trees. On my left is a large hotel with an extensive garden, where many guests are taking afternoon tea. Waiters glide adroitly round the tables, precariously balancing laden trays with one hand: it seems a bit of a throw back to former times; but it’s nice and civilised. A lady sitting at the front of the gardens looks up from her knitting and smiles at me as I go by, I return the smile,
'On its own - 1 and 9 - Nineteen!' I'm passing a small hotel where, on the terrace, bingo is in full swing. A young suave caller sits on an elevated chair. He's wearing a bright sky blue blazer, white shirt and a wide red tie; the mostly middle aged contestants have their heads down in intense concentration.
'Clickety click - Sixty Six!' the caller's voice rings out as I move on; I'm near the end of my walk, and up ahead I can see threads of pink candy floss drifting in the air. I step up onto the promenade. My wife is where I left her on the beach; but there is no sign of the sand castle. I'm standing by the candy floss float; the young girl is still twirling irresistible balls of floss. I step forward and buy two; I'll surprise my wife.