by Jon Bounds
* * *
Having abandoned my plan to put the tent up how it is supposed to be in favour of trying to fashion something out of the jumble of pegs, poles and sheets that we can maybe sleep in, I finish with not so much of a 'taa daa' but a 'fuck it'. A full stop to the stream-of-consciousness swearing I now realise I have been projecting from the top of this hill in Weymouth. Only part of me feels bad as we step over the child's bike of a neighbour's tent in search of the bar.
* * *
Two men in jeans lean across the counter, bantering amiably with each other and the steward. They don't react to our presence, but the barmaid's cheerfully blowsy as she pours a couple of pints for me and tears off a packet of Bacon Fries. The bar itself is compact, but there is bench seating and stools for around 50 people here at least. Apart from the guys bantering amiably under the telly, we're the only customers. We sit next to each other facing into the room, and I notice posters for and photos of misshapen cabaret acts we could see if we only lived right here.
In the corner a scratch-chinned, blond guy is packing amps, keyboards and wires into flight cases. His calf-length jacket catches the light from the fruit machine. I recognise him from somewhere. From earlier.
* * *
* It turns out to not be Vonnegut but J. G. Ballard. Ballard said, 'No travel writer I have ever known has written about the importance of parking.' (BACK)
CHAPTER THREE
BOURNEMOUTH STRIKES AGAIN
I awake stupidly early and outside the tent there's dew starting to settle. The air is freezing cold. I'm alone in the field and I piss up against the bushes behind the tent. As far as I can see there is grass, foliage, trees. And, if I were to spin around, the sea. I won't spin, though, as I'll wet the tent.
It's a little too gloomy to see clearly, about four o'clock I think. The night has passed the darkest point but not yet turned to morning. If I'd not been to sleep at all yet this would be tired-headache time, but I'm clear, fresh even. Connected to the land. Enjoying the stillness. I can feel the rough grass through the thin soles of my pumps. I didn't notice the amount of wood and bush when we arrived last night. This bit of Dorset isn't even farmed much it seems. We're left to nature.
Over the brow of the small incline, there's a guy walking across the next field. A healthy stride, but he's walking from memory rather than purpose. He spots me and adjusts his path slightly to pass me more closely. As he turns I see that he's carrying a bag and has something – a walking stick, most likely – in his hand or on his belt. He's wearing odd clothing for a rambler: no North Face jacket but more a tunic or knee-length coat. Odd is normal round these parts.
He looks tired but hails me brightly when he's within hailing distance.
'Sir, could you tell me where I am?'
'This place is called Pebble Bank.'
'Am I near the port at Weymouth?'
'It's a bit of a trek, but it's the first town you'll come across.'
'Good, I am to meet a ship from France. At first light.' There are ferries there, I think.
'…'
'Do you have water, that I might drink?'
I don't, we don't. We do have some crème de cassis I've been tentatively swigging from during the day, so I offer him a nip. It's tart. He glugs and the parts of his expression that peek through his blond beard growth show it doesn't go down well.
'I thank you, stranger. I must away.'
'…'
'There is a dark force across this land.'
He turns, his stick glints in the half-light, and snags on a guy rope. The porch bit of the tent crumples in, but I wave him away. It doesn't matter. I crawl back in and doze again.
* * *
The light in a tent is different. You can tell not only how bright the day is outside but also the mood, just by how the quality of light makes the hairs on your arms look. A couple of minutes later I realise Midge has been watching me lying on my back while waving my arms in front of me like I'm doing slowmotion, clumsy t'ai chi.
'Shut up.'
'I'm cold.'
'What are you, some kind of poof?'
'Leave him alone – put a jumper on, love.'
'Yeah, you poof, put a jumper on.'
The family opposite have woken up and the father has made the classic mistake of thinking that the tent is soundproof. Well, either that or he thinks that homophobic abuse is a perfectly good way to address your 11-year-old boy in public. I'm mentally patting my pockets for my knife to slash the tyres of the car he clearly likes more than his child, when I hear them clump the doors shut and drive off.
Getting out of the tent is a bit of a hassle. The front half, which is supposed to be a porch area, has collapsed and the rain in the night has soaked through to everything, including the inner tent, because the flysheet is touching it. This fact may not mean anything to you, but if one of my old scout leaders is reading this they may come find me to take a couple of badges away. The day is as overcast as I had worked it out to be in the tent, but the earplugs I habitually sleep in had deadened how close we were to the coast. From the front of our tent, on the top of this hill, you can look out to where the grey clouds and the mist coming off the sea meet.
* * *
First night in a tent wasn't too smooth for me, but I'm up early and go to the shower block with Dan. It's reminiscent of a swimming-pool changing room and, similarly, it doesn't seem possible to get dry afterwards.
* * *
Me and Jon set out to find the bathroom facilities, hoping that they're open this early, and I remind him to grab his towel. Campsite bathrooms are remarkably civilised now, with tiled rooms with big mirrors and stalls for showering. Mercifully, the toilet stalls are empty of the usual Morning Dad moving his bowels shamelessly with whistling gusto.
'I thought they'd be grubbier,' says Jon, impressed as he lays out several bottles of expensive-looking toiletries, creams and pots of powder. My old wash kit is stained with dirt from a couple of continents and greasepaint, containing mostly old sticks of eyeliner, plasters and a tub of tiger balm oil. I quickly shower and dress, leaving Jon to ritually cleanse his self.
Heading back to the tent I see Midge, who I automatically point towards the toilets. Luckily, he seems equally reluctant to talk in the mornings. I take the tent down, mostly by stuffing the wet components in the bag and resolving to let stupid Future Me deal with them. I hate that smug prick, swanning around in the future. Fuck you, ME, now you've a wet, rotting tent to worry about.
Then I set to repacking the car, the second job I correctly guess will become mine exclusively during the trip. I sit in the car and wait for warmth to happen. Camping can be miserable, especially when you lie down listing all the horrible things that you have to do that day. The only way to combat that is to throw yourself into the next job as soon as you can, just get it done and enjoy the gap until you think of the next thing. It sounds obvious, but it took me 30 years to work that out. Also, as I look out into the grey, turbulent sea this morning, I realise that some parts of my life would have been a whole lot better if I'd been able to transpose that thinking to everyday life.
* * *
As we arrived last night after the reception closed, we can't leave this morning until we pay. Midge pulls up in front of the door and I get out to see if the reception is open now. It isn't, and I get back in the car with little intention of waiting another half an hour peering through the condensation.
'Let's just post the money through the letter box. I mean, we could even just do a bunk if we wanted.'
'We can't do that.'
'I don't really want to do a runner; we'll leave a note.'
I dig a brown paper bag out of my bag and scribble my name, number and the amount of money on it. We don't have quite the right change, but an extra 50 pence or so is a cheap price to pay to be on our way. The ink from my pen doesn't dry quickly and the 'Thanks' has already smeared by the time I stuff it through the metal flap.
* * *
Nobody ch
ases us out. We head to Weymouth, happy knowing that there are two piers in the town, so we could potentially be three piers up before noon.
* * *
We reach Weymouth itself in a matter of minutes, though finding a car park isn't so easy. It's stopped raining, but the air is heavy and the sky a flat sheet of light grey. Trailing through the close back streets towards the seafront, I catch sight of a tatty newsagent where there may be cheap postcards to be had, but will have to wait to visit on the way back.
* * *
Weymouth on a grey wet morning is as miserable as it sounds, so when we look out onto the seafront and see the complete lack of piers, it is hard not to take stock of the situation. Why do I care? Why am I standing in the cold with a slight hangover, looking for an architectural feature that I haven't given more than two thoughts about before this trip? I was never a big fan of piers before this and, after two days of looking for them, I am beginning to hate them.
* * *
The pier entrance is across an expanse of tarmac with dips and pits of water. The bottoms of my jeans, already ratty, are damp and flick against my heels as our steps quicken. At the side of this wasteland car park, a metal arch announces the 'Pleasure Pier' across little more than a pavement along the front.
'Both of those things are a lie,' says Danny.
But, when we cross the expanse of depression, past the toll gate for the ferry, there is a pier of sorts.
WEYMOUTH Commercial & Pleasure
Opened: a structure on the same site was there since 1812 but, as we now know it, 1933
Length at start: 900 ft (274 m)
Length now: 1,300 ft (396 m)
Burn baby burn? The pavilion theatre, built in 1908, burnt down in 1954 (when it was known as The Ritz) and was rebuilt as the current Weymouth Pavilion.
A cargo stage was added in 1877 to facilitate the landing of Channel Island potatoes. Land reclamation alongside the pier, and the failure of planned Olympics-related refurbishment, have left this pier a dull concrete outcrop. The opening ceremony was carried out by the Prince of Wales, soon to become King Edward VIII. No information survives as to whether it was a factor in the abdication.
We follow the edge of the car park on a metal path away from the front and we reach a large bus stop painted council cream. There's a cafe up on the second floor of some building or other but the sign is so cheap and weather-worn that I can't tell if the cafe will open later this morning or 40 years ago. The only signs of life are dispirited teenage graffiti and an arcane sign that tells us NO FEATHERING, which I can only presume is a fishing thing, not a teenage sex thing. The area smells of salt and piss and, despite the relief of Redcliff Point appearing in the distance through the haze, we quickly check this pier as 'done' and start the long walk through the car park back to the front.
* * *
Little more than a thrust of concrete into the thick sea, the pier is two levels of flaking despair. The centre is taken up with a moulded building, each entry into it blocked with gloss blue paint bubbling off warped wood. There are people here fishing, but they're not happy. We are, or at least I am. This is the sort of dankness that I thought we might find, one of the downsides of the seaside – it's an interesting depression. This is pier as functional item and the function is no longer required.
There's a concrete (of course) viewing platform of sorts, but it's fenced off. The concrete blocks that steady the wire mesh don't hold it tight. We could get up there if we wanted and I can sort of feel Danny's mind mulling the idea. I say nothing.
People are starting to arrive in cars to wait for the next boat as we head away. I overhear a guy in a heavy hi-vis coat suggest that the next crossing will be delayed. It dawns on me that not every part of the trip can be driven by our spreadsheet – we're due to get over to the Isle of Wight this evening. I'm not sure I'd be able to be calm if the ferry were cancelled. I know that something will go wrong. I know that we've built in contingency days, I know we've not booked any of the campsites as such, but it'll still come as a dull drop to the stomach when something is seriously 'up'. Add to that the fact that tonight we're stopping at a mate's house, and I don't want to mess him around.
* * *
After World War One, Fred Barrington, Swift Vincent and others made large-scale sand sculptures on the beach at Weymouth, taking advantage of sand which is reputedly closer to silt than actual sand. Even though upon investigation it just feels like, well, sand really. The tradition of sand sculptures still lives on and we walk past a pretty impressive version of the Mad Hatter's tea party, presumably inspired by the recent Tim Burton movie version of Lewis Carroll's classic Alice in Wonderland story. I am torn between respect for the artist (and the massive amount of time and skill it would have taken him to create it) and the urge to jump down and attack the thing with a golf club. Even the imagined satisfaction of seeing all that hard work crumble keeps me a little warmer as we walk to the next pier.
* * *
There is – according to the list – another pier here. It could scarcely be worse, and it isn't. It's okay, it's nice, with a nautical art-deco look about it and a clock atop it, reminiscent of every 'Clock Garage' from Castle Bromwich to Spondon. It's called the Pier Bandstand but doesn't look much like it hosts fat men in starched jackets pursing their lips every Sunday. It doesn't look much more than a cafe-cum-arcade that overhangs the beach a little.
WEYMOUTH Bandstand
Opened: 1939 (Architect: V. J. Venning)
Length at start: 200 ft (61 m)
Length now: 48 ft (15 m)
Burn baby burn? The seaward end was dynamited by two schoolgirls – as competition winners – in 1986, leaving only the bandstand and making it the shortest pier in the UK.
Only a third of the 2,400 audience seats were under cover of the two cantilever roofs, which could often put a dampener on performances.
Pier Bandstand, Weymouth hasn't been a proper pier since 1986 when two schoolgirls, winners of a national competition, pressed a button that set off a small amount of explosives and destroyed the crumbling seaward end that had become too costly to maintain. Although, with the mood I am in, it would have saved them the price of the explosives if they had given me half an hour and a nine iron.
All that stands there now is a tacky-looking arcade and a Chinese restaurant, half fenced off by the sort of giant metal fence panels that serve no real purpose because a child can push them down.
* * *
The wind is drying the air, but drawing up the particularly fine sand. We trace our route back to the car and I stop to buy as many postcards as I conceivably can – they are dreadful, poorly cartooned in pencil rather than ink, card fraying at the edges due to a lack of lamination and low sales turnover. The jokes are similarly stuck in the hateful seventies, one of them centred around a homosexual man at an army recruitment office. Don't ask, and I won't tell you how queasy it makes me feel. I buy six of each; they are cheap.
* * *
There were plans, which never materialised, to turn the two so-called piers at Weymouth into two actual piers as part of the whole seafront being remodelled for the London 2012 Olympics. I don't know why money should flow so far down to the coast just for some sailing event, but if we were trying to push for sand modelling to be introduced as an Olympic sport, I'd be all for it – so long as nicknames like Swift Vincent catch on.
The drive to Swanage is silent, punctuated only by the six or seven songs that 6 Music play and the intrusive bossiness of the satnav. The joy of reaching a new pier is already being tarnished by repetition and disappointment, and is being taken over by the joy of unfolding my back and legs from a car that, despite our best efforts, is beginning to smell of socks, of damp and of men.
* * *
Near a place called Worgret Heath, foot-high letters painted on a trailer at the side of the road read 'NO GIANT WIND TURBINES HERE'. We've seen plenty. They change colour as you pass them for no other reason than the differing of the light. The rele
ntless swoosh and cut of the air drums the heartbeat of the landscape. They are powerful. They are beautiful.
I'm aware that some don't like them, but I've never really seen the reason why – sustainable power generation does seem to be gaining a foothold in the south. There are solar panels everywhere. If you don't like them you don't like them, but the campaigners always say 'NOT HERE', implying that they'd be fine if they were on the other side of the hill or in the next town. Not here, near Weymouth, on the road to Swanage. Not with our history here on the Jurassic Coast. Not where we take our rowing boats out to the secret cove for a picnic.