Weston-super-Mare

Today I went to the seaside. My friend Katie is writing a novel composed of short stories which take place in a cafe in a declinging seatown. On Friday we wondered: why not really go to the seaside to see what we can see? Said and done. We looked up train times and dedided that yes, Monday would be a good day, and off we went!

Katie in sneakers, me in my new boots

 It rained.

The first glimpse of the iron sea 

 

Gazebos along the shoreline 

Pose, I said, and he did. 

It was a cold day, a wet day. I hesitate to call it spring when it felt so much like winter. Still the lonely shores were comforting. Despite the blustery weather, I found my thoughts turning towards sunny Singapore. Something about the architecture, the wrough-iron gates and fences, the manicured promenade of Weston-super-Mare made me think of Sentosa in its olden, golden days. #bringbackthemonorail

We had arrived in time for lunch and we dined at the Victorian Cafe. 

We had a laugh at the fudge boxes. Gran's box has flowers, Grandad's has classic cars and trains, and Dad's toffee box has a set of golf clubs, a soccer ball, and a drag racing car. My dad wouldn't like any of those, and I'm pretty sure I'm more into classic cars and steam engines than my grandpappy ever was.   

 Fish and chips! What else?

And mushy peas. Because it's England and I had to try.

Then we worked on manuscripts.

We bought donuts and I asked the donut guy to get a picture of us. 

We took a walk along the shore and found fresh adventures. 

And then we chanced upon an abandoned pier. Since its closure in 1972, there have been several attempts at its revival but nothing has been done. It lingers under people's good intentions. 

It cries in rust,

arthritic knees creak under wind.

Can I see the doctor now?

No?

Then when?

And at long last, the clouds turned whispy and broke apart because after rain comes sun, always.