Most mornings, I’ll embark on a tour of the world. Not a real one, obviously – what do you think I am? Made of money? – but a tour with the use of webcams. I’ll visit the places I know and love and a few that I don’t know but still love. Today, I’ve already been to Arillas in Corfu, Arrecife airport in Lanzarote, Madeira airport, Blue Anchor train station in Somerset, Rotterdam and West Bay. Some places, I sit envious, gazing at at the lovely weather, some I just wish I could be there whatever the weather. West Bay in Dorset is definitely in the latter category.
I blogged about the little seaside town a few weeks ago, describing how I used to go there with my mum and grandparents. Beyond a harbour, a massive camping and caravan site, a few pubs, eateries and shops, there’s nothing to it. Today, in the pouring rain, I wish I was there.
Judging from the webcam, hardly anyone else wants to be there. As Don Henley so astutely put it: “Nobody on the road. Nobody on the beach. I feel it in the air. The summer’s out of reach.” Everything, apart from the shops and one of the fast food outlets, appears closed as holidaymakers and locals shuffle around, hiding inside their autumn clothes and beneath their umbrellas. What’s to love about that? Everything, at least to me.
West Bay hasn’t changed that much since I was a young boy in the late 1960s. The harbour walls have been improved. Gone is the narrow inlet through which the waters would flow. It doesn’t look as good but it’s more practical, safer for everyone from walkers to sailors.
Almost everyone on the front today is dog walking. The gloom never bothers the dogs who like to go out in all weathers. When I am in West Bay, I have a similar outlook.
Staying in a caravan, I would weave my way through the narrow roads to the road, passing the site venue where the entertainment takes place. I’d cross the bridge that separates the river from the sea, edge past the George Hotel and the Amusement arcade and come back to the road, which I’d cross and head into the local newsagent/gift shop, usually to buy something I don’t really need nor want.
The Bridport Arms, the first pub I ever went in at the age of 14 and got served in, is still there, more gastropub than pub these days and just along are the old flats where it was rumoured that soft porn star Fiona Richmond once lived. It is still a working harbour, just about anyway, with the odd fishing boat slipping in and out, but mainly this is a place relying almost entirely on tourism.
I never associate West Bay with the sun because it was never sunny when I went there as a kid, nor later as a grown up, except once when my partner and I were on a ‘Sun’ holiday and we actually managed to venture onto the beach. It felt like a different place altogether. I just wasn’t used to it.
My walk will take me all round the harbour and then onto the front. It won’t be particularly warm, not even in July, but I just don’t care. I’ll walk to the end of the front and then up the hill towards Eype, pausing to catch my breath even more frequently these days. The view is wonderful from up there, looking down on the harbour, out to sea, with Lyme Regis off to the right across the bay. I’m usually quite wet by now because it’s always raining, but again I don’t care. The thing about getting wet is that it’s quite easy to get dry again.
There is next to nothing to do in West Bay. There’s the odd bit of history here and there. If you are in a caravan, as I usually was, you’d spend a lot of time in it. Then, you’d go out to walk again, perhaps going to the same places but the other way round.
I love the smells. I am not a great fan of fish, but you can’t avoid it here, either the fresh stuff caught in the harbour and sold in the fishmonger or the fish that’s battered and served with chips. That smell is an abiding memory, fish, chips and vinegar, wafting around the area. I never get tired of the sound of the sea, swishing and swashing away, even on a still day like today appears to be.
It is the nothing to do aspect of West Bay that actually attracts me to the place. A major adventure can be to leave the caravan site from the opposite end and walk to the little town of Bridport, replete with its own Jobcentre, Wetherspoons and numerous independent shops, including food outlets. Bridport is noisier and slightly frantic, what with all the traffic that clogs it up all day every day. A pint in one of the independent pubs and it’s a long, lazy walk back.
Today, I’d imagine the caravan site is displaying the ‘full’ signs, although you’d never guess it from the webcam. It could be late autumn, maybe even early winter because, having been there in autumn and winter, that’s how it is. Gloomy, overcast and absolutely perfect. They’re indoors, keeping warm and dry, hoping the dark clouds will blow away, but knowing they probably won’t. Despite everything, they’ll be back next year because they – we – love it despite the weather, not because of it.
For the time being, I shall resume my world tour. Where to next?
