Published by gawatt in the blog gawatt's blog. Views: 150

Arrived at the Red Bank Farm site by about 3pm, a very nice farm on the edge of Bolton le Sands. There was a pleasant car park overlooking the flats, and as we navigated the steep hill past a train crossing, we saw two horses galloping over the sand, spray flying.

The pitch wasn't hard standing unfortunately, though had hook up - not that we really need electric. (saying that - it's handy for the fridge at least!)

The week has had a lot of rain, so once we positioned ourselves ready for the yellow levelling wedges, I tried to get up them, and poor Kit outside was shaking his head. The wheels were spinning in the mud, and the van was gradually digging itself deeper into the earth.

In the end we called it a day, but the van was listing quite heavily due to the self-digging, and the uneven pitch in the first place. We decided to make the best of it after I'd stormed around for a bit.

Next up, we made a list of all the things we'd forgotten. Pillows, Salad Cream, Eggs, Spanner for spare gas bottle... Oh dear.

We got some food anyway, and then had a walk along the coast to Morcambe, some 7 miles to the end of the town. It helped to chill me out a bit. We couldn't work out why people were staring. We're two blokes with cameras around our necks wandering along the shore. Once we got into the town itself, a car full of youths was parked up beside the main road.

"What lens do you use?" one of them shouted. "A cheap one," I replied and they laughed.

We moved on quickly. Very weird.

The town was completely closed. The costa had shut down at 5.30 and we were perhaps half an hour late for that. But in the town itself, other than the pubs, there was nothing else happening at all. Ghost town.

We took a couple of shots of the Morecambe statue (Morecambe and Wise), and a few more of the Midland Hotel (Poirot fans) then shuffled through the town quite quickly lest we should be waylaid down a dark alley. We should probably do a photo series on seaside towns off-season.

It struck me as a place that didn't welcome strangers. There were signs in the carpark (which of course before I bought a motorhome I'd never really taken any notice of before) saying 'no overnight stays', 'no motorhomes' and 'no camper-vans'. We were there, in town, with money to spend, but nowhere to spend it, but we didn't feel like the town wanted us there, and the signs just made me decide not to come through the town the next day.

On the bus back to Bolton, the driver asked us if we were professional cameramen, or if we did undercover surveillance. I answered negative to both, and he asked us if we'd like some surveillance work. With a very firm no from me, he took our £3 each (for one-way bus fair to a village 4 miles by road!) and we sat down for the journey back to the campsite.

The evening was crowned by my final mistake. I hadn't completely closed the clips on the dinette table, so when leaning on it to open an overhead locker, I managed to fling two wine glasses all over the walls and seats. Red wine. Everywhere.

I went to sleep with my feet pointing downhill.
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