Sunday 11 October 2015
Knott End-on-sea, Wyre to Warton, Fylde
Great Birchwood Country Park
It had been a mild night and the morning got off to a good start when Jimmy and Lesley invited me into their caravan for tea and a croissant before I set off. I spent 40 minutes chatting to them before heading off to get the Wyre Rose Ferry.
Although divided by the River Wyre, there appears to be a strong connection between Knott End and Fleetwood, probably linked by their fishing history.
The Victorian town of Fleetwood was finance by Sir Peter Hesketh in 1835 and the layout was well-designed for a seaside resort. Some of the buildings designed by the noted Victorian architect, Decimus Burton, still remain, as do the parks.
Reassuringly British resort names such as The Esplanade and Marine Gardens abound. The town has the air of a once-renowned resort.
Upon leaving Fleetwood the scenery changed. From here onwards I felt like I was walking my way through the British class system. Apart from Rossall School, which has rather a grand old building in the middle of a large estate, Rossall itself was very rundown. It reminded me of Jaywick, the Essex ‘benefits’ town. Cleveleys was not that much better; although the facade and design of the apartment blocks was steadily improving.
In contrast to the down-at-heel look of the accommodation, money had been spent on the Cleveleys sea front. The Tarmac was new, there were sculptures and weird-looking lampposts. It was a complete contrast to most of the houses and flats just across the street.
A notice told me that £1.5M was being spent enhancing the sea front. This is in conjunction with £85M being spent on improving the sea defences at Rossall and Anchorsholme.
I had been following the promenade most of the way but was forced to leave the sea front just after passing the rather splendid coastguard lookout tower. There were local volunteers there watching birds and collecting litter, and the tower was open to the public. I didn’t bother going in because it was a dull day so not much was visible.
The sea front was closed due to the work to improve the defences and I was forced onto the main road at Anchorsholme. I jumped on a tram to take me along the front to Blackpool Tower. The trams are very convenient and cover 11 miles of the coastline, from Fleetwood to the Southern tip of Blackpool.
Blackpool; an assault on my senses even from the tram. It was teaming with people. To begin with every house on the front was either a guest house or a hotel. Then came the attractions – there was stuff to look at everywhere. I don’t even know what most of it was but it was all big and colourful and the people were loud.
I alighted the tram at The Tower and made my way back a street to the shops (I needed to buy another map). There were street entertainers and sellers everywhere. I thought placing the 99p shop directly opposite the Pound shop was genius – I know which one my mother would shop at! This place is not short on things to see and do!
I thought I might go up the Blackpool Tower, but at £35 for the privilege I decided not to. Instead I got back on the tram and headed to the terminus at Starr Gate.
Blackpool had made me smile. It is definitely the King of the seaside resorts.
The tide was going out and from Blackpool to St Annes is a big sandy beach protected from the road behind by large dunes.
It was nice to give my feet a rest from the concrete. Yet more people! This time they all had husky-type dogs with leads tied around their waists. There were also families out on the beach and I saw kids taking donkey rides.
St Annes looked more upmarket, although it does have a rather dilapidated-looking pier. The houses and flats were getting bigger and better-looking. The beach ended as I rounded the corner into the Ribble estuary and I walked along the road admiring the buildings. I walked past another large, rather posh-looking school and then came to Fairhaven Lake. Here there was a Spitfire MkVb mounted on a pole. It was a replica of Lytham St Anne’s Spitfire, bought by the town’s community when they raised £6,500 in 1940 to help the war effort.
Lytham was the final, and looked to be the richest, town of the day.
The large, detached houses overlooked lovely grassy areas in front of the sea defences. It even had a beautiful windmill.
I walked along the edge of the River Ribble marshland to get to my campsite, just on the outskirts of Warton.
This was possibly the worst campsite I’ve stayed at yet and, weirdly, really quite busy. I booked in at the saloon bar, which was a homage to all things Wild West (there was also a shop that sells Stetsons amongst other things but that was shut). Unfortunately it was populated by Neanderthals (I thought they were extinct but it seems they live on in this place). The presence of an outsider was clearly the cue for lewd comments. I pitched my tent behind some trees where it couldn’t be seen and hunkered down for the night. The shower block was filthy and the price I paid was a rip-off. I shan’t hurry back that’s for sure.