Running Away from Covid

It was the last day before the Easter holidays, a time every member of school staff in the land anticipates. Two weeks of freedom. Better than Christmas (less obligations), better than the summer (less pressure) and better than the half terms (more time). 

Then the black cloud of Covid reared its ugly head. 

My housemate texted me from the other side of the wall with her "positive" news. I wished her well and plotted my escape. 

It seemed extreme to run away but it was the holidays so I was free to roam in my bid to outwit the dreaded virus. And I would probably have adventured somewhere anyway, so why not turn the running away into an enforced holiday? 

Now, I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't have gone spreading my viral load over little old lady bed and breakfasts. I hadn't seen my housemate since her positivity appeared and I was still a negative Nelly (both my general disposition and the LFT readings), so I had a good chance of evading this particular domestic strain. 

I stuffed my bag full of random clothes, reading material and emergency biscuits before heading off into the sunset. 

Now, in the media representations of people on the run, there seems to be a lot of dodgy dealings and sheltering in questionable locations. In homage to this, I booked an Airbnb in Bognor. 

To explain, I was due to be drumming at Goodwood, just down the road, on the Saturday and I bloody love the seaside so Bognor Regis seemed like the obvious choice. My single room of choice was barely bigger than a prison cell but it had a sea view - a sliver to the side, when you leaned out the window past the condensation covered glass and at the end of a wheelie-bin strewn alley, but hey, it was the sea! In fact, the name of my room (yes, it was the sort of establishment that names rather than numbers its rooms) was "Fancy". Reader, it was not. 

Yet the accommodation was incidental: I was there for the location. The weather forecast being kind allowed me ample beach wandering time in the fresh air and away from others. It was cold but bright, and once the sun had warmed up, perfect weather for sitting on the beach and reading. Or finding a cafe on the edge of a park where I could greet all the dogs out for their weekend wanders whilst supping tea from a mug and eating marmalade-laden toast. Or frequenting a kiosk on the beach serving the kids' tea of champions: fish fingers, chips and beans. Did I find these gems? Of course. Did I indulge in these delights? You bet your beach huts I did. 

For a few days I stayed beside the seaside. Walking, pausing, eating, avoiding contact with people, listening, staring and always apricating. The sun kept me company and I basked in it hoping that the rays of vitamin D would irradiate any lingering particles of the coronavirus. I'm not a scientist but it seemed like a good use of my time. 

Morning walks were best. Up and about even before the joggers. Walk until weary in either direction. There's something about a seaside town that I adore. I have a penchant for people watching and the best place to do it is by the sea. And of course, when the people drift away, there's always the sea to soothe you. Yes, the sea is magnificent wherever, but when a grand old pier stretches into it from a shingle beach, magic is abound. 

Walk under it, around it and along it. There's no view of a pier that is ugly. Second only to bridges in my top five human engineering achievements. And Bognor's is a beauty, especially in the spring sunshine. 

Buggering off to Bognor had given me time to be outside and time to think. I had a sunburnt face (never forget to panic pack sun cream). a new favourite pebble and a realisation that I have anxiety issues over Covid. By the time I had to leave, I was still testing negative but I was hoping to go back to everyday life with a more positive outlook. Sometimes life is no walk on the pier but I shall endeavour to store the optimism of a blue sky for rainy days. 

Going Nowhere

Warning: this post contains no travel.

I am a mover, a traveller, a can't-stay-still-er. I like to be DOING something. Most of the time anyway. Doing stuff: better than not doing stuff.

But I've found a magical place where I don't want to do anything. Or go anywhere. Or move.

To be honest, I'm annoyed at myself that I didn't think about it before. I love the look of them, I love everything that they represent, I love the nostalgia and the purity of them. Why haven't I thought about it before?

The place in question?

A beach hut.

The humble, British seaside beach hut along the golden sands of Bournemouth no less.

Fine, I lied a little; there was some travel involved. Early travel at that. I woke up super early (although the sleep was restless when it eventually came, much like on Christmas Eve) to take on the A31 before the traffic hit.

The beauty of the early start was that I was at the beach in time to ride my bike along the promenade before the 10 am curfew. Like a boss.

Then, the non-travel began.

I picked up the keys to my beach hut (which perfectly matched the colour of my bike - it was fate) and unlocked my destiny. Well, a wooden hut to call home until sunset.

I pulled out a deckchair and settled myself down. Sat on the prom, cup of tea and biscuits to hand, I started the task of doing nothing.

I sat.

I watched.

I listened to the sea.

I warmed under the sun's rays.

I smiled at everyone (and the gazillions of dogs) walking past.

I just smiled.

The best thing about travelling are the people you get to see. The people you meet along the journey or the people who you find at your destination. The beauty of the beach hut was that I got to see both these groups of people, but I didn't have to move to see them.

I'd sent an invitation to various people to join me at the hut during the day. Not everyone could come (which was fortuitous as the beach hut was not the TARDIS) but there was a steady flow of friends and family who came by throughout the day. I was there for the long haul, but I welcomed transient visitors, especially when they brought buckets and spades, tractors for digging, ice creams, chocolate supplies, satsumas and provided much needed coverage for when I went to the loo or for a swim (not simultaneously I hasten to add).

Then there were the people I met along the 'journey'. Although I didn't move anywhere, it was still possible to meet people: the arguing family two doors up who spread all the way along to my territory; the kindred football spirits who we talked to next door; the beach hut owner the other side who's been lucky enough to own it for almost twenty years and has the interior decked out like a junk shop; the fishermen I met by the bike racks who told me what they caught and how cold I could expect the sea to be (not too bad as it turns out).

And to add to this, there were the thousands of people I must've observed throughout the day from my deckchair shaped vantage point: the family of giant bubble blowers at the sea edge in the early morn; the diligent joggers getting it done before the crowds; the teenage gymnasts tumbling off the groynes onto the sand like superheroes; the toddlers straying into the paths of other walkers; everyone on the land train I had to wave to every single time they passed; the old couples strolling hand in hand; and not forgetting ALL THE DOGS!

It was a busy day and I saw so much considering I went nowhere.

After twelve hours being on the beach, I made a last sweep of the beach hut (they provide you with a broom and I've never enjoyed sweeping so much) and locked up for the night. The smile never left my face as I took the bike ride back along the prom. By that time I was a little chilly, tired and covered in sand. But I couldn't have been happier.

Next time I want to go somewhere that makes me happy, I'm going to go nowhere.

Strictly Come Darting

I've talked a lot about love in my last few posts. Maybe I'm getting soppy in my old age. Or maybe in a world that seems to be losing all common sense and crumbling into chaos around us, love is what I want to see more of and so am searching it out on some level.

It was 32 degrees and I was sharing a car with three family members for a little over five hours. You might well ask why: I often asked why when we were crawling through the roadworks on the M6 and into the second hour of the car name game.

The reason was love.

Sure, he drives me crazy and invokes eye-rolling like no one else can dare to, but I can't help but love my dad.

So, my brother and I bought him tickets to the darts. The PDC World Matchplay Darts to be exact.

I was a little terrified. I'd seen the darts on telly and it looks quite rowdy. I am not. As a rule. But Dad loves the sport, so along we went. My dad, my uncle, my brother and I were on an Isham road trip up north to the glitz and glamour of Blackpool.

Finally arriving at our hotel along the prom, we peeled ourselves out of sweaty clothes and changed into marginally less sweaty wear, only to cram into Blackpool Winter Gardens with thousands of other people who were sat closer to me than I've been to my closest friends. And they were already rowdy. I didn't think I'd last the night.

But then something strange happened.

I embraced the cheering, the sweating and the mental maths. I looked around the room and saw the love.

Everyone there was there because they loved the darts. #lovethedarts

They loved the game of darts.

They loved some of the players.

They loved hating some of the other players.

They loved the drama of it.

They loved the spectacle of it.

They loved the community of it.

It was a room full of (sweaty) love and beauty.

I loved the beauty of the Winter Gardens architecture.

I loved the effort people put into their ridiculous costumes.

I loved the signs people were writing to hold up to the TV cameras to their nan / their boss / the general public at home.

I loved the kids keeping quiet on their phones whilst parents let loose.

I loved the disappearing drink dregs near the teenagers who'd been dragged along on the annual family pilgrimage.

I loved the chat between groups of strangers on the long banquet style tables.

I loved the pumping beats at the end of every leg of the games.

I loved the pizza box flipped into the air by the Scottish man practically sat on my lap when his local hero did well.

I loved the flippy scroll banner contraption that I could thrust into the air with joy at every 180.

Everyone there loved it. There was something special about how a collective love sweeps you along. By the end of the night, I was deeply invested in a match between two men I'd never heard of three hours previously and roared along with everyone else in the room at each thud of the dart into the triple twenty.

According to the chant (I told you it was rowdy), you had to "Stand up, if you love the darts!". I was on my feet for most of the evening. It was very easy to #lovethedarts. 

I already knew I would fall in love the next day. We were set for a slight change of pace in the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. There we found scores of people swirling round the famous dance floor. Despite it being a warm weekday afternoon, the tables around the dance floor were all occupied, even though some just had cardigans holding the seats whilst the wearers were otherwise occupied with a waltz. 

I knew I would love it before I got there, and of course I did. I had a swelling of emotion and felt ridiculous trying to stem my stinging nose as I first looked around in awe of the decoration, the ambience but most of all of the people bringing the ballroom to life. 

These weren't celebrity dancers; they were 'the regulars' as the lady on the till had told us. The people who live to come and take to the floor with their friends and partners to the sound of the organ on the stage, for the love of the dance. 

It was beautiful. The dancers were the most beautiful I've ever seen. 

I loved the tables of older folk chatting and laughing and drinking tea and deciding when the music moved them to dance. 

I loved the red velvet backed chairs. 

I loved the smiling lady in the pale blue dress gracing a different partner every tune with her presence. 

I loved the cheeky fella with the psychedelic waistcoat and bow-tie making his partners lose concentration by laughing. 

I loved the elegant lady taking the lead with a visitor who wanted to try their feet in the ballroom. 

I loved the lady dancing with the gent in the wheelchair, easily winning the twirling stakes. 

I loved the fact that the Viennese Waltz is the ballroom version of Mr Brightside where no one is left sitting down when it plays. Banger. 

I loved the two older ladies dancing with each other and obviously having a complete ball. 

I loved the tea and cake I enjoyed whilst watching the dancing. 

I loved sitting on the balcony and watching the hypnotic scene below until my face ached from smiling. 

Our love for Dad had driven us to the town of Blackpool, and I was glad to share its spirit and its fish and chips with my loved ones. 

Blackpool is a place that wears its heart on its sleeve. Everyone there is happy to share their passions and they do so with no qualms or worries about how they might appear to others.

To wear a satin ballgown and matching gloves at 1pm on a Wednesday or to dress as a seagull in a packed ballroom on the hottest day ever in Blackpool comes from a place of love. In the current climate of confusion and hatred, we need to cultivate more love in our daily lives. I, for one, will stand up to being a bit more Blackpool and do what I love.

Hidden Hengistbury

This is a little embarrassing.

I generally pride myself on my navigational skills - GCSE Geography don't you know?

But there has always been one thorn in my side, one niggling Achilles' heel in my travelling boots: Hengistbury Head.

I'm a Bournemouth girl, for sure. Although I live in Southampton, "going to the beach" has always meant going to Bournemouth beach. I have been going to one of the beaches along that stretch of coastline as long as I can remember. Digging huge holes in the sand, playing in and out of the water, crabbing on the quayside, eating sandy crisp sandwiches, walking every inch of promenade, and of course swimming until I thought I'd turn into a fish.

I go to many beaches in and around the Bournemouth area, but Hengistbury Head had always escaped me. Not through lack of effort though. Over the past fifteen years or so, I had tried to find it on two separate occasions. It's not that hard to find, one might think.

One would be wrong. This was in pre-Sat-Nav days it should be noted, but that is still no excuse. I couldn't find the bloody place. I remember hitting the coast and just not being able to find the fabled stretch of sandbank leading to the grand headland. Several times, on visiting Mudeford, I was literally a stone's throw away. Farcical! (Although I wasn't paying a ferry fare to get there.)

I had banished thoughts of these failures to the back of my mind and made peace with the fact I was never going to make it. Until New Year's Eve. My friend Kate asked if I fancied an end of year trip to the seaside.

"Do you want to go to Hengistbury Head?"

Yes Kate, I bloody well do.

And so, under the guidance of more seasoned visitors to the Head, I was driven to my destiny.

I mean, I knew I was going to love it, and I did love it. I loved every single bit of it.

Love list:

1) Sheep
Nobody told me there were sheep there.
I loved seeing a flock of sheep being led down a hill as I embarked on my journey.

2) The sea
Of course I bloody loved the sea. What's not to love? You're surrounded by it as you walk up the headland and along the sandbank. I always love the sea.

3) The dogs
There are loads and loads of dogs (with their walkers) everywhere. Got a dog? Take it to walk Hengistbury. Love dogs? Go there to vicariously live out your dog walking dreams with the hordes of hounds already there. (My favourite was the tiny dachshund that I was amazed had got up the hill - shh, don't tell the other dogs I have favourites.)

4) The hill
Yes, it's a steep hill. Yes, it's hard on the legs to push forward. Yes, your lungs burn in the numbingly cold air at the exertion (especially after Christmas excesses). But isn't that the joy? The feeling of being pushed to confront your own existence. There were a lot of runners taking the hill a lot faster than us. Maybe I'll do that next time. Maybe.

5) The end of the hill
When you reach the top of the headland, you are treated to a wonderful view of the sandbank below that reaches towards Mudeford, allowing your eyes to adjust to the moving waves that lap the sand, the screeching gulls overhead and the general colourful mosaic of a British seaside vista. And you know that it's all downhill from there. (Physically, definitely not metaphorically.)

6) The beach huts
The sandbank is filled, crammed, chock-a-block even, with beach huts of different shapes, sizes and personalities. They are their own living entities, jostling for their position facing the sea, or Christchurch harbour, or in some case, both. Some are blue, some are new, some are cracked, some are worn. All are lucky to stand watch over the sea.

7) The Beach House
This is a cafe on the sand spit. It sits on the beach, pride of place, nestled amongst the colourful beach huts. Unfortunately, it suffered a fire recently and so I was unable to experience it fully. However, it's currently still working to provide rejuvenation for tired beach walkers from a small kiosk. My cup of sweet tea and a cheese and onion pasty was a culinary delight. I don't know whether it was because I was tired, or I was cold, or I was very, very hungry, or because of the breathtaking view, or if it was a combination of factors, but, I kid you not, that cheese and onion pasty was the best bloody pasty I've ever had. The best.

It was a very cold day, yet there was no wind. Even the five layers I had bundled on to keep the elements at bay would have been no match to a gusty headwind blowing in off the sea. I was thankful that mother nature chose to let me enjoy my snacks in peace on my first visit to Hengistbury Head. I guess it owed me a treat after the hassle of actually finding the place.

Yet now, due to the law of averages, I fear that the next time I head down to this magical seaside escape, I will have to contend with whipping winds that push me backwards down the hill and send sand into my tea. Bring it on, I say. I think I'll love it whatever the weather.

As long as I can find the bloody place again.