Pier Review

by Jon Bounds

  We arrive around half seven. When we stick our head in the pub we find that it's painted coffee-house bland, obviously wearing a recent makeover. We ask the small, unwelcoming woman behind the bar where the campsite is. She tells us that we've parked next to it. She is managing to look harassed and busy despite the only customer being a very old gentleman wearing a suit who's impossibly balanced on a bar stool. We go out and discover the campsite is the small beer garden at the back. Hastily we put up our tent, eager to get some pub food.

  Back inside, we are joined by another customer, obviously a regular by the way he didn't have to order a drink. We ask to order some food.

  'Food's finished, kitchen's closed,' she says and goes into the kitchen switching off the lights. I'm looking at the menu that says the kitchen doesn't close for another hour, but she seems definite. We're obviously crestfallen.

  'Why don't you guys order a takeaway?' shouts the regular from his seat. 'You could eat it here, she'll give you some plates.' The manageress gives him a filthy look.

  'Would that be all right?' I ask.

  'I'm not having curries stinking up the place,' she says. I again can't help glancing at the menu, this time at the 'curries' section.

  'How about we have it ordered to here, and we take it into the tent?' She looks cross. The regular looks delighted at her discomfort.

  'Do what you want,' she says.

  'Great, could we borrow some plates and cutlery?' I'm chancing my luck but I want to punish her.

  'How will I get them back? We don't open till 12,' she counters.

  'We'll leave them on the table just inside the door.'

  'Course she'll let you have the plates,' shouts the regular, enjoying himself.

  'All right then,' she spits as she storms off to fetch us our plates.

  The pub shows no sign of what went on 32 years ago. I ask at the bar, but she aggressively pretends not to know what I'm talking about. I figure that I'm standing there like a tit anyway, so I elaborate further. Eventually she points me to a small display, comprising no more than a press cutting and the Angelic Upstarts vinyl single framed on a far wall.

  'I took over the place six years ago when the refit happened so don't really know anything,' she dismisses.

  The old man in a suit points to part of the wall above our heads. 'You can still see some bullet holes up there.'

  We look. You can't.

  As we get up to leave when the food arrives, the regular makes eye contact and gestures at the woman and the old man.

  'They've been miserable bastards since they took over this place.' He winks as we go.

  * * *

  I go back to the car to get something. It's still only closing time or thereabouts and I don't have a torch. I'm relying on the glow though the bar windows as I open the boot and start rummaging. I'm now not sure what I was after, but I can remember the feeling of being watched and turning around.

  'Dan, have you brought the torch? I can't find shit.'

  But it isn't Danny. Or Midge. The silhouettes don't match. Instead of a tubby, ponytailed guy and a matchstick punk there are other people, bulkier people. Silent and threatening people.

  The light from the pub throws them into shadow but reflects off the tallest guy's white baseball cap.

  And then it drops that these are the blokes from Walton Pier. They were watching us. They have followed us.

  'I hear you're not popular, yeah?' says baseball cap. 'The Cool White Dog has a message. Stop. Now.'

  'Stop doing what? Me and DANNY and MIDGE.' They must hear; the tent is only 20 yards away in the unkempt beer garden.

  'Just stop. There's nothing for you in it.'

  'Hey guys, what's going on?' Danny, fronting it as usual. Suddenly beside me, like he was there all along.

  We're outnumbered, at least four to two and a half. And crap at fighting.

  'Fuck off, I've got a hammer.' I have, a claw hammer from the car toolkit we've used to knock in tent pegs. But despite raising it in anger I can't bring myself to strike a blow. We struggle and flail, taking blows to head and body.

  I swing a kick at some bollocks and connect. It hurts him but it doesn't stop the pounding. I can taste blood and grit and feel warm from kick after hit. One of them feels strangely like a kiss. There's a loud blast from the pub and the next thing I know it's 6 a.m.

  The dawn chorus lulls me awake. Feeling hung-over and groggy, I remember that we went back to the tent last night and I was asleep before my head hit the takeaway. The dawn chorus is soon joined by some robust DIY from across the fence and I drag myself out of the tent. It's too early to wake the guys, though. I've a pain in my stomach like I've been hit in the gut. I'm hungry.

  We've no food, so I decide to walk through the village, hoping to come across a shop. The village is pretty, but nothing stirs. Eventually I turn back towards the pub car park where we've camped and pull a couple of apples off a tree on the way. They look edible, but I know nothing about what should or shouldn't be pulled off and popped in between one's lips. Biting in, it doesn't taste bad, so I grab a couple more and fill my pockets.

  * * *

  The shower has cobwebs everywhere that the jet of lukewarm water doesn't directly hit. It runs on tokens that were begrudgingly sold to us last night. The shower unit is a seventies cream and brown affair, with white streaks where drops of water run down through the thick dust. I look out through the gap in the door at a pale blue sky, a couple of long, thin, knobbly clouds running diagonally through it, looking how my back feels after another night of sleeping on the floor. My clothes and wash kit are on a garden chair that is the perfect distance away for them to be not at all in reach but still thoroughly wet from the shower.

  As we leave, I try and post the plates through the letter box, but they won't fit.

  * * *

  Felixstowe is dominated by ships, big ships turning. I get a fair amount of time to stare out to sea. The pier is almost gone. Demolished, or awaiting demolition maybe. But what remains, electronic bingo and a cafe that uses those squat, thick, white cups, is closed. We're here too early.

  I'm scanning the horizon, looking at the ships and looking for windmills. I feel alone and helpless, hungry and powerless. I'd look to Danny and Midge for help, but I'm not sure they have the capacity to provide it. Dan is distracted and distant, and while I see Midge as a stoic and a strong presence, I can't get over how old and frail he looked this morning.

  As I watched him cross the patio area of the pub towards the shower in the grotty shed, I noticed that his hair was starting to grow. The pattern revealed just how little of his baldness is there by choice.

  If I really need help, they'll be there for me, but how much will they be able to do?

  The only chain of shops that seems to have made it to Felixstowe is Job Centre Plus, the sight of which unnerves Midge into a succession of wrong turns on our way out of town. A week left for us to get him back and 'available for work'.

  Waiting to get on to the main road, a bike gang burr past. The Iron Crows. As always, these gangs are not as scary as they first look, as they consist of guys in their forties or older. Whether it's just a weekend tribal thing for them or not, the idea that leather and a mode of transport are inherently scary or dangerous just doesn't wash. When we're scared of youth tribes, it's the youth bit that frightens us, because that's the bit that we know we can't compete with or hope to understand. You can research the past, we're trying to do that on this trip, but you can't hold on to the future. I know that this whole thing is an attempt by all three of us to stay young.

  Looking at the aches, the hobbling, the quiet we yearn for, it's not working.

  * * *

  We arrive at Felixstowe Pier. It originally had its own train station and used to be one of the longest in the country, but, as with a lot of piers, the seaward section was destroyed by the Royal Engineers as a precaution against invading troops. It's always chilling to imagine when you see these piers how close we were to being
invaded, exactly how close they thought that the enemy troops would get. And how much we were willing to sacrifice in terms of history, culture and architecture for the sake of a few hundred yards. At Felixstowe, disrepair has done the rest. Plans were released in 1996 for a £2.5m repair job but nothing came of it. And in 1999 a charity trust was set up, but quietly closed again soon after. In 2004 a demolition request was made by the owners.

  The amusements at the front of the pier are still open, however. The wheels of local government do turn slowly, but they don't turn that slowly, so maybe the amusements do bring in enough money to make ends meet. And maybe the owners could be persuaded to invest the money to do up the pier. With the recent rise in home tourism, it could happen. It's a sliver of hope, but it's there, and sometimes that's all you need.

  We walk under the pier and the light reflects off the pebbles, still wet after the tide went out.

  FELIXSTOWE

  Opened: 1905 (Architects: Rogers Brothers)

  Length at start: 2,640 ft (805 m)

  Length now: 450 ft (137 m)

  Burn baby burn? No fires. The pier was sectioned for defence reasons during World War Two and the seaward end was demolished after the war ended. In 2011 a hole opened in the floor of the building after one of the pillars shifted.

  A shorter, but wider, pier is due to open in 2017, which will mean the pier we visited will be replaced. The new pier is slated to have a huge entertainment complex with 'bowling and leisure attractions', which can only be an improvement.

  It's a cold day in mid September, and my phone buzzes thirteen. Southwold Pier is buzzing too, with pastel. Checking the day, I realise it's an end-of-season weekend. Despite the cold, the sun is striking the sand and the painted wood in a pleasantly bright way. The light blues of Southwold Pier give each of its hand-lettered signs, gouged and painted into swinging driftwood, a charming air. Even if their sheer number and their wordiness do give off a passive-aggressive vibe.

  Getting on to the main thrust of the pier means negotiating a busy bottleneck of steps around the side. Once on, you're immediately in the way of tea-taking older people. Wicker chairs and condiments, Saturday-job teens in black slacks and starched shirts, the deck is trying to do too much too soon.

  * * *

  The smell of lavender is giving me a headache and my vision is fuzzy around the edges already, softening what is basically a chocolate-box, Marks & Spencer, middle-class smugfest. The pier is aggressively pleasant; pleasant people, pleasant weather. The gift shop is also pleasant, and I'm beginning to think that's my problem. Everything is so bloody nice. I look at the organic nick-nacks. Turning over a hand-made pot I spot the price and bark out a laugh. Everyone is far too polite to stare, but the sideways glances make me glad I'm wearing the only clean T-shirt in my possession. Unfortunately it says 'piervert' on it and I have to wrestle down a snake of shame. That's why I'm so uncomfortable around the middle classes; they're so reasonable, so polite. They control us through our natural subservient inclination, whipping us sharply with shame. You alter your own behaviour and they expect you to be grateful for their tolerance.

  Holding my breath I make it to an exit and suck in the sea air. Okay, I'm not that annoyed. Strong smells tend to do that to me, overwhelm the other senses. The weather is perfect, and the whole vista is like a day at the seaside as described by a child, or an idealised memory recalled by an adult. The beach is the perfect, platonic ideal of a sandy beach and a row of brightly coloured beach huts, which delineate the beach from the Tellytubbyland green hills behind.

  I make eye contact with Jon. Jon is as bolshie as they come, and we recognise each other's discomfort. Various families run about being 'delighted' at things and for the first time on the trip I feel like an intruder rather than a visitor.

  * * *

  Everywhere is cramped, and busy. This is a popular place. It's got telescopes, a cafe and a shop that manages to replicate the end bit of a garden centre, but it's got a quirk to it too. We gather with the rest of the crowd at a quarter past the hour to hear the clock strike. No one is sure what will happen or which angle it's best viewed from.

  'Is that it?' I ask Midge.

  'Dunno, maybe it's better on the half hour. I like the guy who built this, he does good stuff. Hunkin, his name is.'

  Midge is a hacker and machine builder too. We bullied him into making a steady-hand-buzz-wire machine for a summer fete once. He's a talented man, who can turn his hand to all sorts of practical and technical things; I've often wondered what makes him unemployable. Polite, clever, handy, but jobless. I resolve again to actually ask him at some point, knowing that I won't.

  The arcade here is the most individual we're likely to see. I change a note and wait for families to leave space. The machine I want to try is called Rent-A-Dog. I've never had a dog and the more gambolling, panting companions I see on the road, the more and more I want one. Danny's panting is not comforting, and his gambolling is limited by an old back injury.

  I step on to the treadmill and grasp the lead, the metal hound cocks his head at me and we are off. The lead tugs, the path moves and the screen shows a suburban street from a dog's point of view. I pull away from cars and am pulled towards other dogs. I am held back and dragged forwards. All in all, the machine isn't exactly fun, but like the others here it's an idea executed. The fun is to share the idea.

  Paying a quid to simulate a quotidian experience like this is somehow deeply English. The whole pier has a deliberately eccentric bent, a middle-class one, a Reggie Perrin or The Good Life suburban eccentricity. The clock, the signage, everything has just enough quirk not to spook the posh. Our working-class-hero inner dialogues are spooked a little, though.

  SOUTHWOLD

  Opened: 1900 (Architect: W. Jeffrey)

  Length at start: 810 ft (247 m)

  Length now: 623 ft (190 m)

  Burn baby burn? A T-shape at the pier head was washed away in 1934 by storms (but rebuilt in 1999). A drifting sea mine struck the pier in 1941, and more storms in 1979 reduced the pier to 60 ft.

  The Rough Guide to Britain named the Under the Pier Show – the arcade machines and simulator rides of inventor Tim Hunkin – as number nine in its 'Top 10 Things to Do in Britain'. Jon went back a year or so after our trip. He's still not clear what the clock does.

  Southwold Pier has none of the grubbiness of other piers, no tacky branding intruding and none of the sticky charm of the piss-cheap, candy-apple wrappers that seem to blow around the feet of most piers. It's nice, like waking up in someone else's dream.

  Just off the end of the pier some posts stick out of the sea, freestanding and level with the rail. Onto the flat ends people have thrown coins. I root around in my pockets for any of the loose change I didn't spend in the arcade, wondering if people made wishes as they threw them. I get five pence balanced on my second try but don't wish for anything. I never do.

  And so with a back that is getting more uncomfortable and our pockets getting ever emptier, we head to England's most easterly point.

  * * *

  On our way out of Southwold, passing through real rural England with its rusting cars in gardens and Sunday-morning football, we spotted a sign to a 'maize maze'. But we drive up to where we think it is and can't see any evidence of it. We must have missed a turn.

  'We must have gone too far.'

  'I didn't see a turning.' Is Midge taking this as a slight?

  I'm trying to Google, but can't find anything. Midge sighs and does a three-point turn up a dirt track. We drive and we miss again. We turn again.

  'Let's get back to where the sign was, it must be near there.'

  It isn't.

  'I'm aware of the irony,' I say, 'of getting lost trying to find a maze.'

  By this point I've developed a verbal tick – 'all grist to the mill' – to wipe away bad things. I say it now.

  * * *

  From now on we will be in the east. A place casual with history where, according to the peasant tr
aditions of the moors dwellers whose language goes back further than records, travelling widdershins around any fairy ring puts you at the mercy of the fey folk. These are not the Disney fairies of the films, but the fairies of England, a wild feral personification of nature's cruel sense of humour. Will we come under the influence of the Seelie, those kind, good-natured wood spirits? Or the Unseelie, dangerous agents of disruption and change? Are we here to create or destroy?

  I've never believed that journalism is neutral. Any quantum-science pervert will tell you that the act of observing something changes it. Are we here to chase images of our childhood, and if we are, what can we do with them? Pin them down like butterflies under glass? And if we do, would other people even see them as butterflies? Or just half-transformed caterpillars? Or as cocooned, liquefied words still squirming with nostalgia and defiance.