A Grand Day Out

Granny Smith Apples, Mr Whippy ice-cream, cider, conker fights, chicken curry, Terry Wogan, Wallace and Grommit, Rolls Royce, The Queen Mum, St Georges’ Day. There are so many things that embody the right-from-the-spring essence of Britishness.

Actually, scrub numbers 5, 6, 8 and technically 9 probably, but the absolute true embodiment of what it is to be English has to be the image of children and parents eating cornets whilst wearing Kagools and sheltering from the rain driven at them by a force-2 gale whilst walking down a pier.

The British sea-side, there’s nothing quite like it. Old couples sit drinking strong tea from a tartan thermos in their red Rover cars whilst looking at the sea with a look of surprise on their faces making it seem like someone really has just beamed them there from their armchairs at home. Children are taken over by an industrialness that would make Barrett Homes’ motivational team jump for joy as they merrily dig their way to Austalia with flimsy plastic shovels on the beach. Dads kick the footballs discarded by offspring around like it was really they who should be captaining the Welsh team to World Cup glory, whilst Mums sneakily ride around on their child’s scooter when they think nobody is looking.

Today was one such day, spent at that most institutionally British seaside destination, Weston-Super-Mare. Betraying the name that makes it sound like it should have been along the French Riviera, it was cold, wet and windy, perfect for the British day out. Chips on the pier, sheltering from the pitter-patter of the rain above our heads, followed by a walk to the end of the pier. Not for pleasure, but taken on as a challenge worthy of any Arctic Explorer as you try to remain upright in the wind.

It was an amazingy enjoyable day out though, partly because of the teenagers. Firstly I’d like to thank the guy driving the electric train/car up and down the pier, as he huddled himself up inside his blue parker anorak with the grumpiest look on his face, and then pulled away playing banjo music on his radio worthy of any wooden shack in the southern states of America selling Alligator shoes.

Then there were those who had no idea about the right clothing for the weather. Cotton is not an outdoor material. Okay, so the bit around the collar and across the chest that says ‘Binch’ or ‘Noke’ may well provide some protection from its plasticy paint, but this item of clothing is meant for the climate of the child ‘sweatshop’ it was made in, the cotton is just soaking up the water the sea doesn’t have an appetite for.

Still, they’ll learn. There’s not anyone over the age of 20 who hasn’t yet learnt to dress for all the elements when you go on a British seaside trip. Everybody’s got a particular seaside memory, but I’d guess just about all of them involve trying to eat your Mr Whippy with strawberry sauce before not the sun but the hail and snow dissolve it into thin air.