Our train pulled into Morecambe Station just after 2pm. It was raining, so we took shelter in the waiting room in the hope it was a passing shower.
Twenty minutes later we had read every leaflet and transport timetable of interest, and the rain had only got heavier.
Keen to ditch our bags, and with empty stomachs, we started out towards the boarding house. I was uplifted by the smell of salt in the air. My gaze ever-turned towards the watery horizon, where jagged hills loomed in the distance. The bay was so much smaller than I remember it being in my childhood years – a reminder of how perspective changes between the ages of seven and thirty-seven.
Once we’d spent some time mooning over the Art Deco dreaminess of The Midland Hotel, we ambled along in the wild and wet to our B&B just off the sea front. The hotel turned out to be managed by a good-natured Glaswegian who carried my bags to our room even though we had paid a modest sum for our board.
He asked what brought us to the bay. I wanted to tell him I was a writer. That I’d spent many a childhood Sunday in Frontierland – the theme park that was now a Morrisons supermarket, just around the corner from where we were standing. I wanted to tell him I often write poems about the ocean, and that I would probably write a few while I was here.
But I didn’t.
Talking about what I’m writing is always so beyond me in the early stages of a project. There are so many questions that I don’t have the answers to at that point. So I gave the manager an awkward smile and said ‘we are just away for a few days.’ My husband smiled and corroborated my story. He’s good like that.
The next day, we awoke to a view of the bay that was much cheerier than the night before. Friday’s dusk had been moody, smudged in charcoal, which somehow made it even more miraculous that trails of water managed to glitter across the sand like stardust.
That morning though, the Irish Sea was a blend of aventurine green and stonewashed blue. A storm of seagulls cycloned above it whilst the lines of distant hillsides, like the spines of sleeping giants, hunched their backs against the sky.
We swiftly dressed for breakfast, which we were informed was served between 8.30 and 9am. When alone in the room we laughed over the strict timings, though I accept it is the perogative of boarding houses to set less-flexible meal times than the lavish hotels. I’ve worked the hotel breakfast shift myself and know they don’t have to pay staff just for the serving, but for the setting and cleaning. The washing and drying, and the setting for the next meal.
When we went downstairs, we found we’d been given by far the best table in the breakfast room. As I sat down, I thought how lucky this was, especially after arriving the day before to find we had been given an ocean-view room. It wasn’t until I’d devoured a substantial pile of scrambled eggs that I discovered the source of our good fortune.
When booking the room, my email signature had betrayed the fact that I am the author of two novels. I had completely forgotten that signature was even there. Not surprising given my last novel was published a good 18 months ago and in any case, I didn’t think anyone read email signatures. I was wrong.
Whilst I was contemplating a second glass of orange juice, the lady who co-owned the hotel approached me, saying: ‘You’re the author, aren’t you?’
It took me a few moments to work out how she could possibly know this. I replied that I was, and explained a little about my projects when she asked. I promised to send her my poetry if I wrote any about Morecambe. She promised to look up my books and was delighted to have me as a guest.
This, of course, meant all the conversational side-stepping I’d done on arrival had been pointless. I had given myself away as a writer before I had even arrived.
After breakfast we walked down to the sea front so my husband could take in the air and watch me hunt the foreshore for sea glass, rocks and shells. As I looked across the bay, some of the hills in the distance looked like ghosts in the mist. As though I was looking back through time at apparitions of hillsides that once stood thousands of years ago. Before erosion and tectonic shift moulded the landscape into the rugged beauty on offer today.
Right then I decided I would write a poem about this place, and, when I got the chance, maybe update that email signature.
A poem about Morecambe Bay is included in Helen’s bestselling poetry debut: Water Signs.
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