The Sea - My Bit of Blackpool

 When my parent's wish for a pub on Blackpool promenade was granted, I had the joy of having a front bedroom facing the sea. I was fascinated by the view. The summer season was just starting, people were strolling past and each day seemed busier than the last one. Trams rumbled by, horses clopped along pulling landaus, bells rang out from the donkeys taking their place on the beach and squeals of delight or screams of fear came from the nearby Pleasure Beach. These new sounds were exciting but nothing compared to the noises of the sea. On a still and quiet day, with hardly a ripple on the incoming tide, there might by a gentle splash as the last wave met the sand. On a breezy day, the sea was louder and the tide came in with lively, white waves. One of my first memories of that room is of a sunny morning, the curtains half open and the nets billowing into the room on the fresh, salty breeze. In those early days, I shared the room with my little sister who was still in a cot and I would wake up properly to hear her calling my name and holding her arms up to be lifted out. I think she was two years old, which would put me at nine, nearly ten. I don’t know when she moved into a room of her own, though at some point she did.

My grandparents were regular visitors, leaving their pub to oversee ours – it was a family joke. Grandad would go and take an interest in the cellar lay-out and everything behind the bars. Nanna planted herself in the bay window of our private lounge and watched the world go by, tutting at some of the sights and loving the view of the sea. She would smoke her Park Drive and drink tea. Her knitting would remain untouched as the outside goings on captivated her.  I expected to be part of those goings on when I was old enough. I wasn’t, well, not quite.

We spent hours watching the illuminated trams when Blackpool Lights shone. We could see for miles up and down the promenade. My sister and I would be taken out by Dad in the car to enjoy a proper look and see the fabulous tableaux towards Bispham. Many years later, a story and a poem of mine featured along there, amongst others. Who could have known?

When the Illuminations end, Blackpool hibernates. The view from my window is dominated by the sea with no distractions. Trams, less frequent, thunder along but the horses and donkeys have gone. Gale force winds and high tides send waves crashing over the sea wall on to the tram tracks, into the road and often into our cellar. It wasn’t flooded completely, but Dad would need his wellingtons on. I watched the sea with my mum, from the comfort of our lounge. The noise of the sea would frighten me, roaring, pounding and fierce, rising at its most scary like some great water monster. It still scares me. I like to watch without being too close.

I loved that bedroom. Our family changed after my mother passed away and my bedroom was promised to another. I moved to a back room. I should have refused. That’s life.

During the full lockdown, I wished I lived close enough to the promenade to have a walk and a look at the sea. Suddenly, I missed it, everything, the sounds and the taste of salt on my lips. There was one very hot, sticky day during the summer when there was only one way to cool off. After tea, my husband and I drove to Anchorsholme and found a quiet spot. We had a short walk then stood by the railings, looking at the sea that was right out on the horizon. A gentle breeze was pleasantly cooling, swirling my summer skirt and loose-fitting top. We stood for an hour enjoying the fresh air, watching seagulls and the people in the distance. The Blackpool I like is the vast coast-line and the changing of the sea.

My chosen poem, a favourite from John Cooper Clarke, with a nod to John Masefield. It brings to mind the Golden Mile, 

i mustn't go down to the sea again

Sunken yachtsmen
Sinking yards
Drunken Scotsmen
Drinking hard
Every lunatic and his friend
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The ocean drags
Its drowning men
Emotions flag
Me down again
Tell tracy babs and gwen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The rain whips
The promenade
It drips on chips
They turn to lard
I’d send a card if I had a pen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

A string of pearls
From the bingo bar
For a girl
Who looks like Ringo Starr
She’s mad about married men
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The clumsy kiss
That ends in tears
How I wish
I wasn’t here
Tell tony mike and len
I mustn’t go down to the sea again.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

Photo from Blackpool Gazette

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Dolls - Meet Janice

My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not survived the test of time.

She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.

We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others. I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her. A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,

‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d escaped the attic on her own.

 ‘That Janice, she’s so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.

‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes across as a well-adjusted young mother.

I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.

If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice is back in the attic, until next time.

I found this poem by William Butler Yeats

The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.

W.B.Yeats  1865 - 1939

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