Comedy Classics

I thought I’d see how far I could ride up the coast. No real plan and only a few destinations as vague suggestions. It helped that having planned a route in my garmin, it wasn’t saved and I couldn’t be bothered to re enter it. However a few names stuck in my mind and that’s all I needed.

It takes time to get out of the conurbations and be free to choose to take coastal roads, rather than be force feed ring roads, about 30 miles to be exact. That’s 30 miles that tie you up in traffic. 30 miles that make you question your choice to challenge the weather forecast (several storms and localised flooding) and just turn back.

Preston has to be the worst, but it’s also the last, so that should give you heart if you are ever passing through to the N.W coastline.

A few sweeps round a rocky mass and the marshy areas of the Morecombe Bay area come into view. I saw a dirt road that I assumed would lead to the coast itself. It didn’t. But it did lead to a bird sanctuary and the first of the comedy classics. Eric Morecombe, who took his name from the area (no not an area called Eric) was a famous half of a UK double act Morecomebe and Wise. Their Christmas Special became an institution. Apparently he was also a bird watcher and I’d found his hide. Red Shanks, Plovers, Reed Warbler, a Grey Wagtail and Heron, Dunlins and Sandlings. Carrying my tank bag and helmet meant I had no hand free to block the spring-loaded hide door, which smacked shut with a crack like a gun shot. The couple in the hide were very understanding and only tutted mildly, so not radical, fundamentalist, break-away, attack twitchers.

It was like a sauna in this wooden hut. A silent sauna.

I managed to use my boot to stifle the door’s closing on the way out.

Jenny Brown’s Point, was the next stop, running into a dead end after following a detour around the Silverdale Carnival, and all damp and soggy bunting that entailed. It did look sad and under attended. I noticed that the “parade” ran from 1:00pm to 1:15pm, so that must have been something worth catching. Still, I bet a committee had argued vehemently over every detail for days and days and munched their way through malted milk biscuits by the gross. And if it turned out well, then congratulations on a job well done, at least you did your bit. Now there’s next year’s to look forward to.

Jenny Brown’s Point was a great little find. I watched a deer playing on the beech and even taking a dip in the tidal pools.  Captivating. Time slipped by easily and contentedly.

Retracing my route a few hundred yards, I passed the art gallery and cafe. Well not passed exactly, more stopped and went in. Home made elder flower presse and lemon drizzle cake, three presses, the most refreshing drink I think I’ve ever had. The lemon drizzle was special too, and I did see someone with a large bowl of fresh berries and cream which looked good.

Ullveston was having it’s carnival too, and looked equally as soggy but I did promise myself to call in on the way back.

Another downpour and another scurry for a pub. Obviously a local pub for local people, but with a wooden gazebo in the car park where scantily clad girls huddled in the rain, so that they could smoke. Classy.

The rain was sharp but short and I was soon on my way again.

I realised I wasn’t going to make it all the way to my intended destination, Whitehaven.

Whitehaven has a special place, in the “special relationship” between the UK and USA. It was here where a disgruntled Scot who was leading the US Navy, planned to attack one of the UK’s ship building centres.

Davy Jones and his two ships sailed into the harbour with the intention of burning the town down. The bright lights of the local tavern however, were a temptation too far (It may have been the light from the cigarette ends in the car park gazebo that caught their eye of course, but I doubt that).

The crew came ashore and partook of the hospitality, to such a degree that they were incapable of fulfilling their mission. The next day, hung over and obviously with their cunning plan discovered thanks to some brilliant detective work and much drunken boasting of their intentions, they set sail for home. It’s still celebrated, at the local pub…by the locals and a contingent from the US Navy, they must feel very proud.

Anyway, that’s another ride, on another day.

Ableside, there’s a river side town, (bridge pic) which on a drier day would be far more appealing, so long as there were more parking spaces.

I rode round to Piel Island. The ferry had stopped running for the day, providing another reason to return this way. But the biggest hassle was that the only camping I’d seen, was over on the island.

Nearest big town now was Barrow in Furness…however I can only assume and hope for the sake of the inhabitants, that I took a route through the town that was less favourable. Saturday night had brought out the people too. There seems to be a big fashion towards dayglo pink, which on a Mediterranean evening, lit by a golden setting sun, as it kisses sun bronzed bodies, may work. Fat lasses with ghost white bingo wing arms, not quite so good a fashion statement. Ask your Moms before you go out…oh you already are Moms!

I’ll see if there’s a ring road next time. Same should apply to Blackpool which I’d passed through earlier. A giant inflatable dick being waved from an ‘Executive Transit’ basically a workman’s van with benches and, based on this view, too many windows, full of full war painted sirens, isn’t what you want to see in full daylight, if ever. “Kiss me kwik, F**k me slow” novelty hats, you must be so very, very proud!

Anyway, it was 8:30 pm and I needed somewhere to camp, or a decent b&b. I passed a slip road that looked promising and turned around, only to find a 6 mile central barrier stopped me from getting back  a to the entrance, so a  12 mile detour later, I headed a short distance off road, passed a stagnant pool with clouds of mosquitoes and on to a small clearing. I was about to get off the bike when a tumbling, snorting and obviously annoyed feral pig came rushing into the space (it wasn’t dayglo pink, just muddy pink, which is how I could tell it wasn’t a local courting couple that had been disturbed). It made it quite clear that any thoughts of resting there for the night were a none starter. I wasn’t far from the M6 North/South motorway and a two hour blast would have me back before it was too late, although I preferred to stay in the area and carry on the next day further North. Still another series of downpours made my decision for me, plus nowhere to set up a tent that wasn’t also a spot for tippers to have dumped their crap, lazy, thoughtless bastards.

So back down the motorway. Stopped at services twice, due to rain. Just north of Blackpool a stretch limo pulled in so that the contents could spew out in a mass of…dayglo pink. Spewing out and up, seemed to be what the passengers were most intent on doing. A hen night on the way to Blackpool, with even a group of lads travelling back from a rugby game turning their noses up at what was on offer.

Having said which a coach arrived with a women’s althletic team on board. What a contrast and restoration of faith in standards. Smart, not foul mouthed and even without all the gloop troweled on, naturally attractive. Then it was the rugby boys turn to turn oafish.

Anyway I forgot Ullveston. Small market town, sad damp bunting and all, but with a civic theatre, outside which stood a bronze statue. Laurel and Hardy.

Seems Stan was born in the town. Part of my early years when black and white movies were shown at Saturday Cinema chums club and sometimes on TV and at school end-of-year parties. Even then they were old movies, watched as much out of curiosity as in fun, but they were funny. Thanks Stan for being part of what made me smile, when so much nowadays just doesn’t.

It seems the ‘simpler things’ are where I’m finding more happiness, the natural, the uncontrived…the deer on the sand, home made drinks, lemon drizzle cake, even the pig encounter. Details that are increasingly harder to spot, or just fortuitously glimpsed, that’s where I need to focus, where at every opportunity I need to give myself the chance to be ‘fortuitous’.

I spent the night back in my room, glad at what I’d given myself the chance to see and at the rewards which that had brought. One deer playing in tidal pools outweighs metaphorically, if not physically, a whole transit of dayglo pink and party puke.

And once again, thanks Eric and Stan for simply being funny.


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