The Sea and Castle
I'm sure there's a pub with that name somewhere in Britain.
Opportunities for travels become considerably lessened when one gets into the nine-to-five grind, but I've managed to finally get out a bit, and explore beyond the boundaries of Bristol City. The weekend weather was clear and mild, and despite sleeping in until 11:00am, I decided I would make the trek out to the sea. Well, the closest thing one can get to the sea for £5. That would be Weston-Super-Mare, on the Bristol Channel, the opening to Britain's west coast.
The bus ride to the resort town takes about fifty minutes, and ushers one through the rolling green hills of North Somerset. At the end of the line is Regent Street in the town centre of Weston-Super-Mare, the birthplace of such notable English figures as author Roald Dahl, Deep Purple guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, and comic genius John Cleese (who later went on to attend Clifton College, just down the road from my office). I knew a bit about the town from an Internet briefing, so I headed straight for the sea edge to catch my first real glimpse of the open sea since flying over it a few months ago. Naturally when I got to Grand Pier and the sea wall, the tide was out and the sea itself was nowhere to be seen. What was left was hard-packed rippled wet sand as far as the eye could see.
I walked out and stood on the beach for a bit, snapping photos and taking it all in. The wind blowing off the Channel was chilly and there was scarcely a place to find shelter. I hovered around Grand Pier, which when the tide is in, is a large hall at the end of a long causeway across the water. At this point, however, it was standing on solid ground, as though the sea had dried up. Being out of season, the pier was not open. The fish and chips stand at the entrance was in full operation though.
I continued on along the sea wall toward the north tip of the town. The sunlight was already beginning to fade. My plan was to stay until sundown, and then head back to Bristow by train. I hadn't very much time left. I headed up to Knightstone Island, hardly an island anymore, as a causeway connects it to the mainland. I poked around there briefly with other curious visitors, peeking in windows and stopping in at the marketing suite. The mix of new an old buildings are now apartments, currently filling up. The Queen herself opened the place.
Continuing up the coast, I found what I had come to see, Birnbeck Pier. This was the original pleasure pier at Weston-Super-Mare, where people would disembark to enjoy amusements, fish and chips and all the other resorty type things one would expect of such a place. With the advent of the trains, visitors found the pier too far from the train station, and eventually Grand Pier was built to replace it. Birnbeck now stands grey and abandoned, out in the sea behind locked gates. It is indeed an eerie sight to behold. I later found out that the island is the focus of an international design competition to redevelop the derelict site.
It was near Birnbeck that I found the actual water's edge. I'm not sure if the tide was rolling in or out, but the white noise it made was soothing and the images it offered were stunning. English people would likely laugh to hear me describe a place like Weston-Super-Mare with such favour, but a prairie boy like me doesn't see places like that very often.
On the walk back to the town centre, the sun disappeared behind Brean Down and the shutter on my camera went to work capturing great pinks and blues. I began heading toward the train station, past the pubs and amusement halls. It was only a four hour visit, but I got a good sense of the place. I'd like to come back in warmer weather and see it full swing, with the beach market, donkey rides, and all the other traditions of the English seaside.
On the train back to Bristol, a group of Vicky Pollards sat in the seats behind me. I had heard that these walking talking stereotypes existed but hadn't really witnessed it until then. At one point one of them asked (on behalf of her other friend) if I had a number. I just coyly laughed, and resisted the urge to say, "Yeahr, bu' no bu' yeahr bu' no..."
On Sunday I decided, as seems to be a habit, to go for a walk into new territory. I had things to do and had decided it was to only be about an hour's walk. I headed north, as I hadn't really explored in that direction yet. Soon I found myself in Westbury-on-Trym, known more curtly as Westbury Village. It was a quaint little area, with a charming town centre and a hilly topography. This was the point where I should have turned back toward home to meet my hour deadline, but I wanted to walk just a little farther. Then I saw a sign for 'Blaise Castle' and was too intrigued to turn back.
Up the road (and up a hill) I found an entrance into a lovely lea with unmanaged grass, dotted with twisty oaks. I thought again about turning around but wanted to see this castle. Further along I found a paved path that wound down to a creek (or perhaps it was the Trym) There were walkers and cyclists enjoying the late afternoon hours. I followed the path down and then back up, and at the end of the path was a large clearing with a stone mansion and wide open park. This was the Blaise Castle Estate, a country escape built by an Eighteenth Century Bristol merchant family. I stopped briefly there, to look around in the house, now a museum, and then walked past the massive playground to the tea house, where a hot cuppa awaited. I didn't actually make it out to the castle itself, a folly tucked in the trees of the estate, as the light was fading and I needed to get back to where I started.
After two wrong turns, I finally oriented myself in the right direction and re-traced my steps back toward Westbury. I stopped for a coffee there and then headed home, only two hours later than I had expected. Oh well, the exercise is good, and the discoveries made it all worthwhile.
Next up, a trip to London to meet up with friends.
Cheers.
Opportunities for travels become considerably lessened when one gets into the nine-to-five grind, but I've managed to finally get out a bit, and explore beyond the boundaries of Bristol City. The weekend weather was clear and mild, and despite sleeping in until 11:00am, I decided I would make the trek out to the sea. Well, the closest thing one can get to the sea for £5. That would be Weston-Super-Mare, on the Bristol Channel, the opening to Britain's west coast. The bus ride to the resort town takes about fifty minutes, and ushers one through the rolling green hills of North Somerset. At the end of the line is Regent Street in the town centre of Weston-Super-Mare, the birthplace of such notable English figures as author Roald Dahl, Deep Purple guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, and comic genius John Cleese (who later went on to attend Clifton College, just down the road from my office). I knew a bit about the town from an Internet briefing, so I headed straight for the sea edge to catch my first real glimpse of the open sea since flying over it a few months ago. Naturally when I got to Grand Pier and the sea wall, the tide was out and the sea itself was nowhere to be seen. What was left was hard-packed rippled wet sand as far as the eye could see.
I walked out and stood on the beach for a bit, snapping photos and taking it all in. The wind blowing off the Channel was chilly and there was scarcely a place to find shelter. I hovered around Grand Pier, which when the tide is in, is a large hall at the end of a long causeway across the water. At this point, however, it was standing on solid ground, as though the sea had dried up. Being out of season, the pier was not open. The fish and chips stand at the entrance was in full operation though.
I continued on along the sea wall toward the north tip of the town. The sunlight was already beginning to fade. My plan was to stay until sundown, and then head back to Bristow by train. I hadn't very much time left. I headed up to Knightstone Island, hardly an island anymore, as a causeway connects it to the mainland. I poked around there briefly with other curious visitors, peeking in windows and stopping in at the marketing suite. The mix of new an old buildings are now apartments, currently filling up. The Queen herself opened the place.
Continuing up the coast, I found what I had come to see, Birnbeck Pier. This was the original pleasure pier at Weston-Super-Mare, where people would disembark to enjoy amusements, fish and chips and all the other resorty type things one would expect of such a place. With the advent of the trains, visitors found the pier too far from the train station, and eventually Grand Pier was built to replace it. Birnbeck now stands grey and abandoned, out in the sea behind locked gates. It is indeed an eerie sight to behold. I later found out that the island is the focus of an international design competition to redevelop the derelict site.
It was near Birnbeck that I found the actual water's edge. I'm not sure if the tide was rolling in or out, but the white noise it made was soothing and the images it offered were stunning. English people would likely laugh to hear me describe a place like Weston-Super-Mare with such favour, but a prairie boy like me doesn't see places like that very often.
On the walk back to the town centre, the sun disappeared behind Brean Down and the shutter on my camera went to work capturing great pinks and blues. I began heading toward the train station, past the pubs and amusement halls. It was only a four hour visit, but I got a good sense of the place. I'd like to come back in warmer weather and see it full swing, with the beach market, donkey rides, and all the other traditions of the English seaside.
On the train back to Bristol, a group of Vicky Pollards sat in the seats behind me. I had heard that these walking talking stereotypes existed but hadn't really witnessed it until then. At one point one of them asked (on behalf of her other friend) if I had a number. I just coyly laughed, and resisted the urge to say, "Yeahr, bu' no bu' yeahr bu' no..."
On Sunday I decided, as seems to be a habit, to go for a walk into new territory. I had things to do and had decided it was to only be about an hour's walk. I headed north, as I hadn't really explored in that direction yet. Soon I found myself in Westbury-on-Trym, known more curtly as Westbury Village. It was a quaint little area, with a charming town centre and a hilly topography. This was the point where I should have turned back toward home to meet my hour deadline, but I wanted to walk just a little farther. Then I saw a sign for 'Blaise Castle' and was too intrigued to turn back.
Up the road (and up a hill) I found an entrance into a lovely lea with unmanaged grass, dotted with twisty oaks. I thought again about turning around but wanted to see this castle. Further along I found a paved path that wound down to a creek (or perhaps it was the Trym) There were walkers and cyclists enjoying the late afternoon hours. I followed the path down and then back up, and at the end of the path was a large clearing with a stone mansion and wide open park. This was the Blaise Castle Estate, a country escape built by an Eighteenth Century Bristol merchant family. I stopped briefly there, to look around in the house, now a museum, and then walked past the massive playground to the tea house, where a hot cuppa awaited. I didn't actually make it out to the castle itself, a folly tucked in the trees of the estate, as the light was fading and I needed to get back to where I started.
After two wrong turns, I finally oriented myself in the right direction and re-traced my steps back toward Westbury. I stopped for a coffee there and then headed home, only two hours later than I had expected. Oh well, the exercise is good, and the discoveries made it all worthwhile.
Next up, a trip to London to meet up with friends.
Cheers.
posted by Mark Bauche at 8:42 PM
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