I say Morecambe, but we actually went to a place called Hest Bank, just past the end of Morecambe prom. Lancaster and Morecambe, like most places nowadays, are made up of two main towns, with lots of little villagey bits and pieces scattered between and around them. I suppose you'd call this urban sprawl, except that I don't think we feel particularly urban around here.
Ah, our old enemy – stairs.
It's not actually necessary to climb these stairs to cross the railway because you can just walk across the track. But since we're exercising and trying to push ourselves a little bit, a few stairs were just the thing. Also, it's pretty cool to check out the view from up high.
The track in this direction is going towards the Lake District and Scotland.
Some rooftops and a jackdaw, which Matthew had real trouble saying.
M: Jackjaw, did you say?
L: No, jackdaw.
M: Drackdraw?
L: Jack. Daw.
M: Ah, jackdraw.
L: Yes.
Here you go: https://www.british-birdsongs.uk/jackdaw/
Hest Bank beach is nice, often very quiet, perhaps because it's not the prettiest stretch. I think I'd describe it as scrubby. But any bit of coast has some beauty to it, no? Judge for yourself.
It's a bit bleak and desolate looking, but there's lots to see here, which perhaps makes it more interesting for a walk than a beach that has perfect white sand and empty blue sky. If you're looking for interestingly shaped stones, this is definitely the right place. It used to be a great spot for shells as well, with great banks of them washed in. But they seem to have gone now, crushed under foot by many walkers. Maybe they're only washed in at certain times of year.
Gateway to the Lakes to the north, here:
Driftwood as well; you get some good bits of that here. This one is clearly a dragon of some kind:
Then, as you naturally gravitate towards the sand and the water, you fetch up on this green stripe and you can smell it very suddenly, the scent of the sea. I guess this is very fine seaweed and algae that have built up and hardened over a long period. It's at this point that I always remember I've worn the wrong shoes and this is going to get messy.
The cracks are deceptive because this isn't dry at all. That's where I stepped onto the sand and sank. I do this every time, and every time I forget. But this is a lockdown and we've nothing else to do, nowhere to be, nowhere to go. Does it matter if we get a bit mucky? It does not. Onward, then!
It was great fun! Squelching about in the mud, completely ruining my trainers. Matthew had come out in his pyjamas again, and my Ugg boots, because we're classy like that. Ugg boots not ruined, sadly – godammit, the things are too well made.
Slip-sliding all over, we made it this far – quite clearly, without wellies, it would have been very foolish to go any further because we'd basically have been in the sea. Or at least up to our shins in the water table.
Alright, I'm being dramatic – clearly the trainers will be fine.
There's part of an old jetty right in the middle of the beach. It's made of stone and there's no telling how long it's been here, but it's just a cool thing.
Up on the jetty – obviously, you have to walk on it because it's there! – if you get down low, you can see weeny barnacles. Aren't they cute?! I didn't know if they were barnacles, so I asked Matthew because he knows all about the sea, and he said that they were.
Back down on the lunar-looking sand-mud, we found tracks. Now, I think these are from redshanks, but I've spent 15 minutes Googling for confirmation and I'm finding nothing. I do know we have redshanks here, though, so let's assume this is what we're looking at.
And this is what they sound like (I think I've shared this one before): https://www.british-birdsongs.uk/redshank/
There's a lot of this black rock on Hest Bank beach. I'm guessing – which you're used to by now because guessing is how I make myself sound knowledgeable – it's some kind of volcanic rock. I've spent another fifteen minutes Googling to try to find out how volcanic rocks make their way to beaches, but I'm drawing a blank there too. Still, it's nice to ponder to oneself the mystery of how the hell this got here when we have no volcanoes in the UK and haven't had any for many millions of years.
Pondering such big questions, we decided it was time to go home and feed the family. Matthew wasn't keen on crossing the track so he went up over the bridge – there he is, waving, too short to look over.
I went over the track. When I was about five or seven or something, we were crossing a level crossing somewhere else, and I was in front when my mum shouted 'Linda, the train's coming!' (Edit: I should point out that the train wasn’t coming and my mum was joking.) I believe I screamed my head off and ran and then sobbed, and thenceforth had a healthy fear of railtracks. My mum hadn't known I would react so dramatically, of course, and every time we've mentioned this incident in my age we have both found it very funny. Even so, I still get the heebie-jeebies when I cross a level crossing. I mean, look at the picture – that's terrifying, right?
Trying to conquer fears seems to be a theme of these walks, so I stood here for as long as I dared, until my legs started to get a bit tingly and I thought I might lose control of my bowels (sorry, tmi!), which was approximately 13 seconds. Then I was off the track, breathing quite heavily, being thankful that the barriers hadn't lowered while I was in the middle.
As Matthew was coming down the stairs here, I noticed this scaffolding holding up the bridge:
It's probably quite tricky to see on this photo, but that whole corner of the bridge looks like it's collapsing. I decided not to mention this to Matthew until he reached the bottom, otherwise he might still be up there now, frozen, too heavy these days for me to carry.
Now then, since I haven't had today's walk yet, I'll go and do that now. Wonder where I'll end up ...
Until later, dudes.
WQ
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