New Brighton Mists

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Last week I braved gridlock, grey drizzle and mists across the Pennines to take my mother on a birthday outing to New Brighton on the Wirral.

She was inspired by the nostalgic memories of wartime picnic outings tramping along the banks of the Mersey. I was naturally more inspired by the prospect of investigating another desolate coastal town on another desolate peninsula in dismal wintry weather.

Neither of us were disappointed.

We stood on the windswept deserted promenade contemplating the town plan in an unnecessary attempt to orientate ourselves (North east promenade? North west promenade? River Mersey?) and a passing gentleman reminisced with my mother about the past glories of the Tower Ballroom (now demolished).

I looked out across the pleasure sands towards Bootle and Liverpool docks obscured by fog, and imagined those post-war day-tripping Scousers, after the excitement of the ferry trip, sunning themselves on the beach with a stupendous view of gantry cranes, bridge cranes and overhead cranes.

A simpler age in so many ways.

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New Brighton beach with distant view of docks

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