It’s been a week of highs and lows. Lots of weeks are. But not all of them involve the untimely and sudden death of a young, bright, professional woman in the prime of her life, with everything to look forward to…
Losing a work colleague in tragic circumstances I’m sure isn’t half as bad as losing a loved one, but the impact is still considerable for all concerned.
So sometimes the best thing to do is put some distance between life and death and go in search of space and clean fresh air.
People used to go to the seaside for lots of reasons – to recuperate when they were ill, to relax, to eat fish & chips and watch ice cream melting down their fingers and hands. There were amusement arcades, unfathomable waxworks dummies hanging out together in dark & dingy buildings, fairground rides, cafes, hot dogs, beaches and sea shells. Donkeys if you were lucky. Kiss me quick hats (don’t mind if I do), sticks of rock and the smell of greasy doughnuts in the air.
For anyone old enough to remember the black and white days, visits to the seaside were like picture postcard memories. The sea was cold, the tea was hot and the weather was always bracing. Did people wear handkerchiefs on their heads? Only men with anchor tattoos on their forearms apparently…
So visiting Morecambe in deepest, darkest winter, after the most miserable week ever, might seem odd. But going back in time sometimes can take you away from the present and can give you a new perspective on the horizon of the future.
We’ve returned to the iconic Art Deco Midland Hotel – where I’ve declared over breakfast that it’s my favourite hotel in the whole world. It’s undergone a massive restoration & refurbishment project over recent years and is subliminally beautiful in its restful position looking out over Morecambe Bay. The interior is littered with treasure and artefacts from yesterday, and although it is a little tarnished in places, its gems sparkle like the roaring 20s.
As soon as you step through the front doors, you step back in time – how good it feels to escape from the chaos of the present week. Views across the blustery bay, with a dark weather front rolling in, we feast on fine dining and drink cocktails in the rotunda bar, listening to gentle music from a forgotten time. Breathing life into the past is quite life affirming (as is the gin…)
Outside the doors, this once thriving seaside town struggles to find its place in a new world, its west coast a myriad of streets where Eastern Europeans have settled and its East coast a faceless shopping area. Waxworks and funfair sounds are long gone, hotels have been replaced with retirement and old people’s homes.
But glancing down the length of the promenade – through the fine mist of the rain where the gulls soar overhead – you can glimpse its glory days, get a sense of its historical prominence as a holiday retreat, remember its noise and chaos and the sound the seaside used to make. Remember when it was full of life?
Looking out over the curve of the bay to a horizon I can never see beyond, with the dying world of my youth behind me, I contemplate the meaning of life. Where have we been, and where are we all going to? The tide comes in, the tide goes out. People come, and people go. Traditions live, and then they die.
And as I stop to consider Eric Morecambe’s statue – now being pelted with rain and spray from the sea – I remember how he used to make me laugh, back in the days when seasides were full of life, and in the background the Midland Hotel puffs out its chest and the ghosts of a million memories saunter along the promenade – gone but not forgotten.
Life isn’t always about looking for the sunshine. Yes, bring me some by all means, bring me sunshine, and we will bask in its rays for as long as it burns bright. But when the clouds bring rain, hang on to the reflection, look over your shoulder to what may seem like better days, knowing the sun will shine again. Somewhere over the horizon.
RIP Tahnie Martin.
Mags Winthrop Blog 