I was trying to blend into the crowd milling around the Promenade at Bridlington but my pin striped two piece business suit was a bit conspicuous. Day trippers gave me a wide berth thinking that I was a police officer, or someone who may entice them to sign up to something, Utility or Charity based. The shopkeepers and Arcarde workers eyed me with suspicion in case I was from the Council, the Performing Rights Society or Trading Standards.
A few small children in buggies pointed at me expecting me to produce a rabbit from under the folds of my jacket in an impromptu magic show as they had been made aware that the circus was in town for the season.
I was firmly in work mode and was genuinely surprised to find that other people were actually on their annual holidays.
It was not the best of the weather for a friday in August. For most of the visitors this would be the last full day before packing up and going home. A disappointing day. Gawdy coloured shorts were just visible below drab coloured cagoules and wind cheaters. The showers had abated for a few moments but it was not worth stripping off and stowing away the bulky jackets. Flip flops and sandals made a soggy sound on the puddled pavements. Faces were equally dour and grumpy. I could read the thoughts of mums and dads that Bridlington was not that dissimilar to Leeds on a damp day apart from the beach and sea.
Still, a British coastal vacation was after all an institution that had to be tolerated like most other institutions. It was their duty to walk up and down the prom and harbour many times every day, play a bit of crazy golf, hire a deck chair and eat batter encased foods before being allowed back to the Guest House or out of town caravan park.
In addition to the footfalls there was the raucous tannoy system from the sea-front funfair. I was early for my appointment at the Alcazar Holiday Flats and found a bench in an ornamental gardens to sit and wait for the keyholder to get through the pedestrian and slow, congested road traffic. It was just across from the dodgems and waltzers. I soon found that the patter and musical accompaniement to entice visitors onto the rides was on a short loop of Michael Jackson, Fat Boy Slim, a pop anthem I recognised from the 1980's and the raving and ranting of the bulky lad in the booth selling the tokens for the attractions.
The Alcazar formed part of a sweeping Victorian Crescent of great grandeur at that time but now somewhat ragged and tired. The lodging houses gratefully receiving passengers from the railway station will have been well patronised by the city dwellersand industrial workers of West Yorkshire but were now part vacant, boarded up or advertising cheap rate accommodation of flatlets and bedsits. One of the ten or so 5 storey buildings was putting up a determined fight to survive recession and staycation trends having been the subject of significant investment in boutique style rooms. I knew however that it was being marketed for sale on an internet business site at well below the recent refurbishment budget.The peak season in Bridlington. at about 12 weeks, gave little chance to claw bck a financial return. The neighbouring building was being maintained by the workforce of a Social Housing Provider and was the best of the bunch. The upper floors did have a sea view if you ignored the regular intrusion of the swinging pirate boat in the amusement park in the foreground.
The gardens followed the sweeping line of the Crescent,. 100 years ago it may have been necessary to compete gracefully for a seat in the gardens as part of the great seaside experience but on this day I was quite alone. There continued the regular passage of holidaymakers across the entrance on some determined quest for entertainment, food or souvenirs but with no glancing interest whatsoever in the manicured lawns, tropical shrubbery and pavings.
I felt awkward and even more conspicuous in my situation. The keyholder for the flats picked me out easily so there was at least one advantage in looking so much out of place and time.
The Alcazar was in a sorry state.
On the upper floors those mystical things not openly seen, baby pigeons were in residence flapping against the sealed up windows as though trapped but I could clearly observe the scudding grey clouds through a large breach in the roof. Greenish black mould clung onto the plaster covings further speckled with bird whitings and graffitti from previous trepassers. Floorboards had been heaved up in the search for lead pipework and cables. Mounting brackets on the walls were hanging loosely having been ripped apart with the forcible removal of multiple radiators. Internal doors hung sadly on loose hinges. The deep section skirtings and architraves were creased and soft with rot and decay. Ceramic plaques remained on the outer door of each former holiday flat. Primrose, Heather, Daffodil, Daisy, Petunia, Forsythia, Tulip and Freesia. Peaceful and fragrant names for a building so far now removed from its Halcyon days. The smell was also overpowering. Damp, humid, organic and fusty.It was a genuine relief to step back out into the open air and the hubbub of a seaside environment.
I celebrated completing my job with a metre long liquorice whip purchased for the extortionate price of £1 from a concession next to the dodgems. I could not stretch to 3 for £2.50. It was difficult to grip, greasy and slippery from countless days or weeks of being displayed and possibly handled by the public. The shelf with the mass of brighlty coloured candy strands was just about at a level for small hands to be thrust out from a buggy before being drawn back quickly under parental chiding.
It was strange but, sweets in hand, I felt that I had instantly blended in with the holiday crowd with the sensation of intense happiness and contentment.
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