It was the place to be on New Years Day 2018.
I am talking about
Fraisthorpe Beach, East Yorkshire.
I have been going there regularly since my schooldays in the
late 1970’s. In those early years it was for teenage parties, referred to for
the benefit of our parents as a "social evening and barbecue" but invariably
ending up a as an alcohol fuelled rave and fumble.
There was always the popular
game of trying to spot a Naturist making their way southwards along the sands towards
the designated nudist area. I seem to recall they were generally of a senior
age, tanned, sprightly and with a mischievous glint in their eyes.
Being at
Fraisthorpe felt, to me, like being at the very edge of the known world.
It was a bit
remote, a bit of a trek down a country lane to get there and then nothing but
the sea, sand and sky.
Of course, if you just glanced to your left, when facing
the expanse of the North Sea, there were the twinkling lights of the resort
town of Bridlington not far away and, if a bit murky farther out past the chalk headland of
Flamborough you could get a strafing effect from the lighthouse.
The only
buildings beyond the inland cluster of the village giving its name to the Beach
belonged to a bit of an untidy, sprawling farmstead. It must have been a hard
life squeezing an income out of a few bits of pasture and arable land which
terminated at the low cliff top. A wooden hut marked the entrance to an
informal parking area and if the landowners could be at all bothered to attend there
could be a few pence to be had from those making what had to be an intentional,
rather than an accidental visit.
Dotted along the shoreline were the concrete
structures of pill boxes and tank traps as surviving features of coastal
defences against possible wartime invasion. These were in a sorry state as
although almost indestructible in a mass density of reinforced concrete they had, in the proceeding decades just
rolled off the boulder clay of the cliffs and become deposited in a haphazard
manner on the beach itself.
The line of cliffs are some of the fastest eroding
in Europe and even on a fleeting trip out for a bracing walk it is common to
experience the sights and sounds of a fall of a section of layered turf, soil
and dark, rich clay from saturation with ground water.
Yesterday, the 1st
day of 2018 was bright, dry and with a light breeze.
The lane to Fraisthorpe
Beach was packed with traffic as families had simultaneously elected that this
would be the venue for a blow-out after a long seasonal binge.
The old farm
buildings from my youth are now a trendy coffee shop and there is even a toilet
block as an unprecedented level of amenity. Vehicles were double-double parked
on the muddy field edge above the short drop to the sands but well disciplined.
That wooden hut was still shuttered up although with signage on a narrow slit
of an honesty box requesting a minimum donation. I did not see anyone making
the short detour either coming from or going to their cars to make a
contribution. Perhaps the coffee shop was enough of a goldmine to make the collection
of loose change unviable.
At midday the beach was crowded.
In fact, it could as
well have been a summers day apart from the absence of any visible flesh other
than cold-reddened facial features beyond wrappings of winter coats, scarves, bobble
hats and boots.
The other big difference from the peak season was the extraordinary number of dogs.
The
ban on using the beach did not kick in until at least Easter and so all of the
family, canine (s) included could venture out together.
The range of breeds was
astounding from the tiniest of miniatures, typically being carried on the arm
of a fussy owner, to the gangling, ungainly oversized Great Danes and more
exotic Huskies and Akita’s. In between there was a good number of terriers from
Borders to Jack Russells, a few of those cross bred types with rude sounding made
up names, plenty of Labradors, Pointers and Collies and an encouraging
representation of Alsatians and Setters who, to me in recent times, seem to have become rather rare
sights.
Remarkably the hordes of dogs, most of them running loose, behaved
impeccably towards each other even when taking away anothers' favourite tennis ball
or seeking attention from anyone. The canine population there present were enjoying
every moment unlike many of their owners who seemed to have a permanent scowl,
no doubt a bit of a hangover and a desire to get back to the television and to finish
off the seasonal treats still in the house.
I did get the impression of a bit
of one-upmanship amongst the dog owners as they subconsciously scored or
deducted points for pedigree of breed, discipline and control off the lead,
cuteness of character, stylishness of any dog attire or grooming and fashionableness
of name. From the shouting out of instructions I can well imagine that naming
your dog could be as difficult, if not more so, as naming a child.
The sheer
abandonment and joy of an unleashed dog on the wide expanse of a safe space is
a joy to behold.
We walked about a mile southwards along the Beach. It was like
an informal motorway of passing human and canine traffic.
I tend to attract the
interest of dogs or at least they sense that I am a bit if a push-over and my ambling was continually interrupted by an obstructive but happy hound either
catching a sniff of me or leaving a sandy paw print on the lower reaches of my
jacket.
When it was time to make the return journey back to the cliff top car
park I sensed an even more concentrated volume of four legged animals.
This
confused me for a few moments until I realised that it was not an optical
illusion, tunnel vision or an ailment picked up from ingestion of dog spittle
but down to the simple fact that the beach was being squeezed to a narrowing strip as the tide came
in.
It was a good afternoon.
In fact, I had been so engrossed in the Crufts-like
surroundings that I will easily have missed spotting any nudists making their
way for an invigorating just above freezing session as a perfect way to start
off their own
2018.
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