Pier Review

by Jon Bounds

  'It's dangerous,' he shouts back. Something in his body language seems to say 'pesky kids'. I look at Jon. Again he just shrugs, so we turn back and head to the car. As we pull off and take a closer look at the pier, we see the angry clipboard man and the builder walking under it. Neither one is wearing a helmet.

  COLWYN BAY Victoria

  Opened: 1900 (Architect: Maynall and Littlewoods)

  Length at start: 316 ft (96 m)

  Length now: 750 ft (229 m)

  Burn baby burn? The pavilion theatre burnt down in 1922, was rebuilt the year after, then burnt down again in 1933. In 1991 vandals broke in, smashed it up, and set it alight again.

  During the seventies, the Dixieland Showbar hosted gigs by Motorhead, The Damned, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Elvis Costello, Slade, The Specials, Madness, and Cockney Rejects.

  Battles of ownership and restoration have involved groups called Pier Pressure and Shore Thing. Hopefully the locals' sense of humour will continue longer than the pier, which now seems unlikely to avoid demolition. The Heritage Lottery Fund has rejected bids due to lack of council support.

  The town looks tired and closed. The pier itself is returning to nature, with a tree growing from its mid section. We press on.

  * * *

  When it was first built as a jetty in 1858, the pier at Llandudno was tiny, a mere 242 feet long. It was pretty much a cashin on the rail connections that had just been opened in the town and a fuck you to the plans of a large-scale port redevelopment that was then in the works. In 1859 it was hit by the major storm that took 223 boats and as many as 800 lives that year in British coastal waters. The pier was repaired but essentially useless, as big steamers couldn't dock because it was too close to shore. Eighteen years later it was practically rebuilt and extended to its current length. And seven years later still, in 1884, it was extended again, but this time as an offshoot back towards the shore, so that it ended up having two entrances.

  The car is parked halfway up the pier at its original entrance. Getting closer, the sounds of an old Irish crooner drift towards us and get louder as we approach. It's coming from a stall that seems to specialise in music that I, specifically, don't like: folk classics next to Irish ballads and obscure music-hall performers. No doubt Jon knows and stubbornly likes at least half of them. I think back to the first night on the tour bus in amicable John's garden, when he played the singing milkman or something. It stuns me for a second, because it seems so long ago, lumped together with memories of things long past.

  LLANDUDNO

  Opened: 1877 (Architect: James Brunlees)

  Length at start: 1,234 ft (376 m)

  Length now: 2,295 ft (700 m)

  Burn baby burn? The pavilion was destroyed by fire in 1994 and never rebuilt.

  The pavilion theatre often hosted political rallies and conferences within its vast auditorium. David Lloyd George, Oswald Mosley, Neville Chamberlain, Clement Attlee and Winston Churchill all spoke there. It's said that at the Conservative Party's conference there in 1948, a woman decided to abandon her previous career plans and enter politics. Her name: Margaret Thatcher.

  Llandudno Pier is often used for filming Victorian and Edwardian seaside locations, including the 2002 update of The Forsyte Saga TV series.

  I've been to Llandudno before, many years ago on a family day trip. About 20 of us trailed round the streets, the adults looking for a bar, unaware that pubs in Wales didn't open on Sundays.

  The pier is strikingly traditional. Small shops at the entrance push those British holiday staples: country-music CDs and off-brand football tat. They should mix them up and have Kenny Rogers in a Newcastle shirt pissing over Willie Nelson. The only thing here that doesn't reek of bargain-market commerce is a bench and its plaque: 'Dave and Cath, together again.'

  A small boy wants to go on a ride. 'It's closed, look,' his gran says. 'The man hasn't come, he only seems to come at weekends. Perhaps he has another job.'

  'Why?'

  'Better money.'

  We make a detour through the arcade. I rest my hands and soon my face on an air-hockey table. The cool puff of air soothes my cracked skin.

  * * *

  'I just want to look in the town for a second,' says Midge. We've done the pier and before we make our obligatory shuffle around the town without really going into it Midge pipes up with an opinion.

  'What?' says Jon, more out of surprise than irritation. Midge doesn't look up from his phone.

  'I just want to go up there a bit,' he says, pointing towards the centre of town. Me and Jon shrug at each other and follow Midge as he power-walks away, head tilted more towards the phone than the busy roads or obstacles – like the numerous old people doddering around in that hunched shuffle they all seem to have.

  'What are you looking for?' I ask as we follow him blindly up another street. So far Midge has been happy to go with the flow and not really have much of an opinion on anything that's decided.

  'I want to check in on the Internet at the Job Centre – I've been doing it whenever we've passed one,' Midge says, trying to make sense out of the map on his phone. Behind his back, me and Jon make eye contact and squint at each other, but slowly we both realise this whole trip is just as pointless and born of the same innate male drive for completion that Midge is displaying now.

  Midge finally finds it and we walk back to the car. I stop for chips despite it being only midday, knowing that I am at the point in the hangover where something needs to be in my stomach. Jon goes green when he sees them and Midge shakes his head.

  'Are you not sick of chips by now?' he says.

  I think for a second. 'I am, I really am.'

  Then and there in my head I resolve never to eat chips again, and it lasts. For the rest of the journey.

  * * *

  Midge and the dole office are reminding us that we have to get him back by Monday, but we're relaxed: five piers, one more night. This is the home stretch.

  * * *

  The quickest way to the next pier is driving along the Marine Drive toll road. It costs £2.50 but to be on schedule for The List it's worth it. But rather than take in the five miles of glorious vistas overlooking Anglesey and Snowdonia, Midge takes it as a challenge to his driving skills. For the entire trip he's been at least ten mph behind the speed limit, much to Jon's frustration. You see Jon's foot often flooring the accelerator that isn't on the passenger side. But for some reason, when faced with a cliff-side road with sharp bends and others driving slowly to take in its famous views, Midge has decided that the only way to approach it is rally-car style along the crumbling Victorianbuilt road.

  * * *

  Around the top of the causeway, it feels like we're flying. Speed and height combined get us to Bangor in no time. Everything's going well, my head is clearing and we are able to park on the road right by the gates to the pier. The pier floats away from an Edwardian square of terraces, tall and dark stone, reassuring if not homely. We're going to have a lovely time.

  There's a charge to walk the boards of Bangor Pier, but we're close to broke and we have to cheat the honesty box. It's hard to feel guilty in the warming sun, and we stretch out along the planks, which are comfortable and glowing.

  Dotted, one left then one right and so on, along the pier are small huts. Painted in a dark green but mostly glass, little lost conservatories or translucent sheds. Some are closed, with posters in the windows. Some sell ice cream, and some have their doors thrown open and are inviting us in. There are people to talk to, and we know that is what we've wanted to do all along, to get chatting to the people who live the piers. The next hut we come to has a lady sitting outside. Sixty-plus but lively and dressed to impress, she engages us in conversation as we pass. She's on the Pier Committee.

  'Yes, this is the Bangor that Fiddler's Dram sang about.' She shows me a clipping from a local newspaper. It has the band's singer Cathy Lesurf visiting again quite recently.

  'They were making something for Radio Four.'

&
nbsp; It's hard to overstate the folk-memory shadow that Fiddler's Dram casts over Bangor. I challenge almost anyone over the age of 30 to come here without the song playing in their head the moment they see a sign. It's a plodding folk tune from the seventies, and I can see the single now: a magnolia label with the artist and title in a very apt Cooper Black. As a tune it seems to wheeze along like the coaches that would have taken us on day trips, the accordion winding up and then down again. It's a perfect day out: community singing, flirting, the seaside, and all reasonably priced – the original sun, sea, sand and cider. It was played at every family party I went to for all of the eighties and nineties, when it prompted reeling around the living-room carpet, everybody linking arms and smiling. Rumour has it that it was really written about a trip to Rhyl, but that wouldn't scan. I love it and promise to listen to the programme next week.

  BANGOR Garth

  Opened: 1896 (Architect: J. J. Webster)

  Length at start: 1,550 ft (472 m)

  Length now: 1,500 ft (457 m)

  Burn baby burn? A cargo steamer hit it in 1914.

  It's the oldest surviving pier in Wales and used to be home to a one-legged high-dive act. The City Council bought the pier for 1p in 1974, but remain short of the necessary funds to restore it.

  By the time we get to Bangor Pier the hangover is changing levels, from 'shock and awe' to 'tactical targeting'. The headache carpets the concentration and emotion centres in my head and makes everything seem like a massive effort that ultimately wasn't worth doing once it is done. As we get near the gate two kids walk through past the 'voluntary contributions' stand as an older couple leave. They notice the two lads haven't voluntarily contributed so catch them up and give them what I immediately recognise as a stern talking to. So far we've passed these stands with varying degrees of seriousness, more often than not Jon paying the full amount for us, more I suspect out of karmic superstition than obligation. The wind is brisk on the pier, which stretches out straight ahead with small pagoda huts dotted along the sides. The first of these houses an information office. Midge, eager to talk to people who are not us, walks in and starts a conversation. Jon wobbles in, hand on notebook. I ask my brain for permission to go in and join in speaking to the lady. My brain looks in the hut and sees the lady holding up a tea towel to Jon and Midge. Permission denied, soldier: stand in the cold.

  Not soon enough Midge comes bounding out followed by a shuffling Jon. The wind chill is making it uncomfortable to stand around and I just want to be in my nest in the back of the piermobile snoozing along country roads. The next hut contains a gift shop, which sells fridge magnets, tea towels and interesting shells glued together. I follow them in to get out of the cold. Please don't say anything, please don't say anything, please don't say anything. The functioning part of my brain is pushing this thought at Midge.

  'What are you lads doing here?' asks the lady behind the counter.

  My brain drowns out Midge's explanation because it's screaming swear words at him, trying to psychically cause him to have an aneurysm. But then I realise this is just me being a grumpy bastard. The couple are genuinely warm and interested. The bits where I drift into the conversation they are finishing each other's sentences in the way only old couples do and telling Midge and Jon about their son. I feel a bit of a prick, actually, for being so grumpy, but the older gent can see I'm being left out so comes over and talks to me directly. His face is close to mine and he touches my arm occasionally, which makes me wonder about the last time I touched another human being, apart from the blonde bear and pixie punk I share a tent with.

  'You see them.' He points to a basket on the floor, kid height, filled with plastic army soldiers with a folded parachute on their back.

  'Oh, I used to have one of them, you throw them and they float to the ground, right?'

  The old man nods patiently and I see him smile. His face is close to mine and I can see the red capillaries across his nose and cheeks.

  'We sell them for 25p, but I have to drive a couple of towns away to get them,' he says.

  'You can't make much profit on that,' I reason, 'what with the drive.'

  He shakes his head with pride. 'No profit at all, but sometimes we get families and you can see they're struggling. It's nice to have something they can afford to treat the kids with.' You can see he's proud and he has every right to be.

  For that moment, I do not fear getting old. If I can find a wife to sit in my hut and share toys with kids on the thin end of the plank then my future has no terror. All the things you supposedly give up and lose when you age I would gladly trade for a small quarter of my own and the wisdom to truly know wealth comes from what you give.

  * * *

  We reach the end, where there is a bench and a shelter. Even the hoodies sitting listlessly staring across the water are smiling.

  I smile too. We can see our next pier, Beaumaris, across the bay on Anglesey. Four to go. Danny opens a bottle of cider. The wheels go round.

  We're about to leave the mainland for the second time. Anglesey is an island that feels old. The bridge across to it is narrow and even though it's just a hop across from Bangor it suddenly seems further away once we get there. There's something wet and leafy about the place, and the buildings are greyer and more imposing. It has a vibe that suggests autumn, suggests wet Sundays in autumn in particular.

  * * *

  The Isle of Anglesey is a wild old place, and one of the first Welsh names for it was Ynys Dywyll ('Dark Isle'). Once the last holdout against the invading Romans, in the right mood you can still see hooded Druids in the trees eyeing you as you drive past. You can see the stones where they worshipped and glimpse the old ways still evident in the scratches and runes in rocks that are now covered in litter and grime.

  Of course the pier is closed. A renovation by the local council who now own it, which includes a widening of the original width and a small visitors centre, has turned it into a small concrete jetty. As we walk up to the metal fences a fine rain starts.

  'Hey Jon – look at this,' I shout.

  'What?' he shouts back.

  'This seagull has caught a massive fish,' I say, gesturing down to the beach. Jon comes over.

  'That's not a fish,' he says. I look over again. 'It's a flattened, plastic pop bottle.'

  'Really?' I look hard.

  'Yep, fish are not rock hard, flat and light blue.' Sure enough the seagull finally finds purchase on the bottle and lifts it up. It is kind of fish-shaped though.

  BEAUMARIS

  Opened: 1846 (Architect: Frederick Foster)

  Length at start: 570 ft (174 m)

  Length now: 570 ft (174 m)

  Burn baby burn? The T-shaped head was destroyed in the sixties due to deterioration – as well as a drop in pleasure-boat dockings due to the popularity of 'motor buses'.

  It was the docking station for Blue Peter II, a lifeboat funded by the 1976 BBC Blue Peter Appeal. For some, the addition of a 'grotesque' floating pontoon has spoiled the pier.

  Men in hi-vis move things back and forward behind a red plastic fence. We walk up as far as we can go, and then back. I dawdle, looking at a dog trotting down the pavement. As I reach the road I nod to a guy I think I know. He says he has a place to go to nearby at Rhosneigr and he strides off, a man with the tired contentment of a job done. He deserves a rest. We're all soon to have one, as there are only three stops left and then we'll have done it. As we get back into the car, I turn to Dan in the back seat.

  'Piece of piss, this was, wasn't it?'

  'Yeah, but we won't tell people that.'

  Midge starts to drive off, but the car doesn't. It whirrs and wheezes but doesn't catch. Fuck. He tries again. Nothing.

  * * *

  The car makes a sound. It's a familiar sound, but it's not a welcome one. We freeze for a second, none of us quite believing it. Willing it not to make that sound again. Midge turns the key again. It's the same sound. We all sit there. The engine turns over a couple more times
as Midge guns at the key.

  'Midge, leave it for a minute or you'll flood it,' I say, beating Jon pretty much word for word by seconds. We sit still for a couple more beats.

  'Bollocks,' says Midge.

  Jon just sits there in the first stages of a panic attack. We get out of the car and Jon gets in the driving seat, his mistrust of Midge's driving skills finally manifesting itself by checking it wasn't anything Midge was doing that was causing the car not to start. He turns it over a couple more times and pops the bonnet.

  Looking at the engine, Jon reaches in and twists a couple of things. Midge is standing to one side, clearly hoping it isn't something he's done.