Blackpool to Fleetwood 18th September 2021
Having been to Blackpool yesterday, we are a bit more familiar with the area. Today’s plan is to park at Preston and catch the train up to Blackpool. From here we will cycle the rest of the way up the Fylde peninsula past Cleverleys and on to Fleetwood on the northern tip. From Fleetwood the plan is to catch the little ferry across the River Wyre to Knott- End. This will be a surprise for Betty who never wants to know the details of the journey in advance. I’m really looking forward to springing it on her at the ferry jetty. This should leave us with sufficient time to cycle all the way along the coast and up the east side of the River Lune to Lancaster. That will just leave us with a train ride back to Preston, before picking up the car and returning to the caravan.
Parking at Preston Station presents no problems, but we are a bit phased by how many people are waiting to go to Blackpool. There is a member of staff manning a special barrier, with a long queue of mostly young men and a few young women, all of whom have just one place on their minds – Blackpool. No other platform has this arrangement. Evidently Blackpool is a popular destination on a Saturday morning. Lots of drinking time before the lights come on later in the day.
We are eventually allowed onto the platform where I am alarmed by how few of the travelling public are masked. It appears that the young men of Lancashire see themselves as bullet-proof when it comes to covid. As they crowd onto the platform, we step back and let them get on the next train. It is a good move as the following train is far less busy, enabling us to get our bikes on and take a seat.
Un-masked young men await the train to Blackpool at Preston Station
As the train departs, two young girls opposite are busy flirting with a young man. All of them maskless. They both exhibit permanent trout-pouts, acquired I assume through a course of collagen injections. Probably no different from scenes played out every day in the South East, but the soundtrack of Lancashire accents adds an odd, even exotic, twist to the whole thing. Disconcertingly one of the young girls starts to cough. A dry cough, which reminds me of the classic symptoms of covid when we were first warned about it in early 2020. As one, Betty and I get out of our seats and return to our bikes, where an open window provides a little reassurance.
Thirty minutes later, at Blackpool station, we let everyone find their way through the ticket barrier, before we follow at a discreet distance. From the station it is but a stones-throw back to where we were last night at the North Pier. The promenade is less populated than last night and our cycling is uninterrupted by any human obstructions.
We are soon cycling along Blackpool’s North Shore, where the promenade runs along the tops of cliffs, which are much more elevated than those further south. The views from here across the Irish Sea are impressive, with the high tide lapping at the base of the cliffs. Further out are masses of wind turbines and beyond these we think we can see any land, which turns out to be dark cloud, probably over the Isle of Man, or the Mourne Mountains of Ireland. I’d love to go to both places, but they will have to wait a their turn.
I can hear the sound of engines below us. Peering over the wall to an enclosed area below, I can make out half a dozen people driving go-karts around a tight track lined with old car tyres. In fact this is the location of a former sea-level boating lake, which was accessed by the Cabin Lift from where we stand over 100 feet above. The lift was built in 1930 to take visitors from the tram stop on Queens Promenade down to the lower promenade.
The former boating lake, now a go-karting track
The Cabin Lift – now a listed building
Two gentlemen breeze silently past me in a brace of Sinclair C5s. These 1980s electric vehicles don’t look at all out of place here on the promenade, which is ideally suited to them. Perhaps Sir Clive holidayed here and assumed that the rest of the UK was flat concrete, with an absence of cars. They never caught on, although ironically they became something of a cult after the receivers were called in. They now change hands for over £6,000 each, compared to their original £399.
A brace of Sinclair C5s pootle along the Promenade.
Finding the street level a little dull, we decide to make our way down to a lower promenade by way of a winding path between impressive boulders. On closer inspection I realise that these are fakes, made of Pulhamite, similar to ones we encountered at Ramsgate on one of our earlier legs. The whole of the cliff face here is made of similar material. As I stop to inspect and photograph the Pulhamite, Betty wanders-off on her own little exploration, oblivious to my fascination with all things geological, all-be-they fakes. Pulhamite is a kind of render, coated over solid rock beneath. This may be the local rock (which evidently was not considered pretty enough), introduced slabs, or even concreted beach pebbles. I suspect that originally, few of those passing-by would notice the ‘scam’, but subsequent erosion now reveals all. Further along, the local rock is revealed to be a reddish or sickly yellow sandstone. Above these lower exposures, the cliffs are steeply sloping and covered in uniformly cut grass. I marvel that some contractor is paid to cut the grass, perhaps several times a year and wonder why no-one has thought to plant shrubs instead. I’m sure they would be more interesting and probably incur less maintenance costs.
The winding path lined by Pulhamite geology
Close-up of eroded Pulhamite revealing a mix of pebbles and rock slabs beneath, supporting the smooth rendered skin.
Cycling this lower level is most enjoyable. It has none of the traffic noise of the top level and few pedestrians. A number of fishermen are busy casting lines over sea wall, where waves are at present lapping at its base. Having travelled down the Cabin Lift 20th century holiday-makers would have walked dogs and large black prams, taking-in the sea air. I have photographs of my parents as children walking along similar, perhaps even the same, promenade in the 1930s.
I get into conversation with two fishermen, busily casting their beach lines into sea from off the sea wall. They confirm that the current high tide is turning and they soon wont have any sea left to fish into. At this point they will go home, since the tide goes out so quickly that beach fishing would be impractical.
North of Blackpool the promenade runs seemlessly into the seaside town of Cleverleys. My initial impression is that this is a very nice clean looking place. The sea front is very modern-looking with lots of smooth stone structures adorning the promenade. The sea wall and steps consist of sweeping curves, with the new-looking stonework all pristine arcs and wavy lines. There is no sign of half-cut ‘twenty-somethings’ staggering along the prom here. No, I suspect Cleverleys is populated by grey tourists. Perhaps it says something about my age, but I definitely prefer it to Blackpool. Cleverleys is a more architectural/sculptural environment, almost the Cannes of the north west coast.
Cleverleys is all sweeping lines and modern stone street furniture
My impression of the golden sands of Blackpool, is that it has a pretty incredible beach. However, very few people these days seem to spend time on it, preferring the land-based attractions. This is in marked contrast to the 20th Century, when thousands of families would have crowded onto the beach to make sand-castles and paddle in the gentle waves.
Moving north of Cleverleys we come to Rossall Beach, whose beach is more gravel than sand. Interpretative boards dotted along the seafront suggest it is trying hard to sell itself as a wildlife watching location. North of Blackpool the beach is prey to the erosional power of the Irish Sea, with waves removing much of the highly mobile sand. A multitude of groynes have been inserted over the years, to hold onto what little sand they have. High seas and rising sea-levels have led to some significant sea defences all along this coast, including massive flood gates that can be closed if inundation is likely.
Massive flood gates are deployed when tides are extreme and Rossall Beach is dominated by groynes and beach pebbles
North of Rossall Beach we pass into Fleetwood. Here the sea is at its most erosive, taking the full force of the Irish Sea during the winter months. Large boulders (rip-rap) have been placed on the beach, both as groynes to disperse the power of the waves and as revetment to protect the concrete sea wall behind. Inland of the concrete sea wall an earth bank has been created by excavating material from a ‘borrow-dyke’ and is reminiscent of the south coast of England. Aesthetics has not been neglected in favour of engineering though, with poetry, waves and sea birds etched into the concrete of the sea wall. This is the story of The Sea Swallow penned by Cumbrian writer Gareth Thompson. I love the way the functional sea wall becomes an open-air art installation.
The concrete sea wall is adorned with poetry and art-work from The Sea Swallow.
Massive concrete revetment and sea walls, fronted by boulders (rip-rap) protect the exposed Fylde coast
Borrow-dyke North of Blackpool
The northernmost tip of the Fylde peninsula returns to sandy beaches and a sand dune coastline. We are now at Fleetwood and have turned the corner into Morcambe Bay. Such is the magic of the relationship between sea and land, that over a matter of a few miles we can move from a low energy depositional coastline, where gentle waves create acres of exposed sand, to a high energy environment. The later is subjected to the raw power of the sea, which can destroy all before it, forcing Man to erect towering defences to protect lives and property. But at Morcambe Bay we return to a vast area of sand and mud deposition.
Across Morcambe Bay we can pick out the rising peaks of the Lake District, but before we can dream about exploring this area we still have to negotiate our way up the northern end of the Lancashire coastline.
To our right, the immediate landscape is dominated by Fleetwood Golf Course, where as for much of the ‘Golf Coast’, wind-blown sand is ideal for laying out fairways, greens and bunkers. In fact there are few other land-uses that could utilise this particular environment. Sand dunes however, provide an excellent habitat for wildlife, with golf courses increasingly encouraged to manage their land appropriately.
At the northern end of the golf course a strange looking building heaves into sight. At first viewing it looks as though the sea has undermined its foundations and it is tumbling into the sea. Closer inspection reveals that the floors are in-fact level, but the walls are leaning seaward. This is Rossall Tower, which houses an art gallery and observation decks for bird watching.
The ‘Leaning Tower of Rossall’.
It is less than an hour since I was talking to fishermen casting their lines into the high tide at North Blackpool. In that time the sea has rolled back to reveal the sands of Morcambe Bay and it is easy to see how the returning tide can engulf the unwary explorer to this apparently benign sand-scape.
It is about 1.30pm as we approach Fleetwood and our rendezvous with the Fleetwood Ferry, which will take us the hundred-or-so metres across the River Wyre. 1.45pm is the next sailing, but it runs regularly throughout the afternoon, so there is no rush. Somehow the Fylde coast sucks us in and we lose all sense of urgency as we cycle along the promenade. Spotting an ice-cream shop I offer to buy Betty an ice-cream, which we consume greedily as we sit on a wall and look out across the bay. The beach here is excellent for sand-castle building and a number of kids, watched-over by doting mothers, scrabble around enjoying this most traditional of sea-side activities. Then ice-creams finished, we wend our way into Fleetwood town.
Fleetwood offers a number of interesting buildings, not least the North Euston Hotel created by Decimus Burton. His father James Burton and he were responsible for much of the architecture to be found in St Leonards-on-Sea, not 10 miles from where we live in East Sussex. So I am delighted to see the curved Georgian facade of the hotel, built in anticipation of visitors en-route to Scotland in 1840. At Fleetwood they would have got off the train from London Euston Station and boarded a steamer to take them up the coast from here, since no rail line to Scotland existed at the time.
The North Euston Hotel
However, we have our own ferry to catch before continuing along the coast towards Morcambe. AS we arrive at the ferry, I reveal my secret to the unsuspecting Frances – we are to cross the Wyre by boat. She is delighted and we wheel our bikes to the top of the slipway where a number of passengers are disembarking from the ferry.
“That’s the last one of the day I’m afraid.” Says a cheery lady as she passes.
“Yes of course.” Say’s I thinking she is taking the mickey. After-all I checked the ferry times last night and it runs until 5.30pm.
Then a man’s voice shouts up at me from the ferry. “That’s the last ferry of the day!”
I’m agog. Speechless. All my plans for the day come tumbling down about me. In fact it seems that all my plans for the whole expedition are sunk also. What are we to do? Betty consoles me, but I am totally flattened by the revelation. We gamely decide to cycle the busy roads south, cross the Wyre by way of Shard Bridge at Skipool and then on to Knott End, where the ferry should have taken us. This is the most frustrating and disillusioning hour of the whole holiday so far.
10 miles and an hour of cycling later, it is 3pm and we realise that there is little point in continuing with today’s journey. Energy is low, the distances still to cycle are too great and the September day-length is not in our favour.
Defeated, we cycle the short distance back to Blackpool and catch the train back to Preston. At least it is not packed with unmasked youths. They will all be happily ensconced in their bars drinking themselves silly, prior to contracting a guaranteed dose of Covid-19.
Despite the black clouds hanging over us at present, we have to take consolation from still having our good health and several more days ahead to make amends for our disappointment.
The Wyre at Shard Bridge – the far bank beckons, but it might as well be Calais.