Having spent a small fortune on moving house this year (anyone want the shirt off my back?), we decided to forego a summer holiday. Instead, we spent a couple of weeks taking it easy, and going on a few day-trips. One day, we fancied a traditional day at the seaside, so Southport seemed like a natural choice.
We’d been once or twice before, a long time ago. It’s amazing how your memory plays tricks on you. I can’t remember the beach being so far from the town. And where were all the ice creams, candy floss and knick-knacks on the prom? The tide was out (a very long way), and it was windy. There was even less to do here than on Freshfield beach.
I couldn’t remember Southport Pier either. Not only is it a long way to its end (with very little reward once you get there), but it extends into the town too, making it enormous. The unhappy guy in the doughnut stall refused to sell us four doughnuts (one each), because he only sold them in threes and sixes. We started to think we’d made a mistake coming here.
I consoled myself with FIsh and Chips in the town, within earshot of an Elvis impersonator. That was one traditional seaside activity ticked off. I washed this down with fizzy pop, candy-floss and Southport Rock, and headed for the slotties. I started to feel sick; this box-ticking was nauseating stuff.
The teenagers were revolting. One was bored and one was appalled. We headed back towards the car, past the Swan pedalos on the “Marine Lake”. I looked towards Blackpool Tower on the northern horizon, and remembered how much lighter my wallet was after our last visit. Maybe we’ll try a less traditional day at the seaside next.