FAT man photos recently posted images of Weston-super-Mare. They reminded me of the last time I was there, fourteen years ago.
A day trip from Worcester, with my husband, late Mother and Step-Father no.2 (SF2). In my memory it remains a sunny and happy day, filled with colour.
This is even taking into consideration, the annoyingly loud deh-deh-di-deh and blarb noises from SF2’s traffic light and speed camera warning device; allllll the way there and alllll the way back. Oh, and the electric wheelchair running out of juice, and a proliferation of disabled-toilets that were moonlighting as furniture storerooms and changing rooms. Much to the chagrin of my Mother.
I have been to Weston two or three times. The first when around nine or ten years old, in the 1970s. Foggy memories of a postcard from the time. Winter Gardens backdrop to a long pool, flanked by flower draped arcades.
I imagine we would have made this journey by train or coach from Birmingham. One of the first holidays with Mother, Brothers, and Step-Father no.1 (SF1). I vaguely remember staying in a bed and breakfast and visiting a family who lived on a caravan park. I distinctly remember sketching an older boy reclining on a bed.
The beach, made up of sand then mud seems to go out for miles, towards the elusive sea. Within the family the beachside town was known fondly as Weston-super-Mud.
The second time was on the way to somewhere else, in the 1980s with Richard, my late best friend. Of that day, memories of cold wind and rain remain.