Word Of The Day

SPUME


Yup. That's your word for the day.
Get it into as many conversations as you can.
One point per …
Bonus point for approaching a total stranger, saying "Spume." and walking away.

Anyhoo …
Before we get to the pretty part of town, we have to amble (or mosey if you're reading this in America) away from the pier.
This newer end of Southwold is mostly Victorian and Edwardian but still has its picturesque spots, including this lovely little Sailors' Reading Room, built in 1864.


By the style of the building I would guess it's one of the Victorian Methodists' admirable attempts at improving the lives of the working classes.
I can picture some crusty old fisherman scaring the pants off Roger the cabin boy by reading him Moby Dick.


This scallop shell design can be seen on buildings all around the town.
However, I doubt the Methodists would have approved of these mermaids flashing their … er … tails to attract sailors away from the splendid public houses that grace Southwold (more of which later).


A little further along the promenade from the reading room we come to the start of the pretty end of town.
This is a gorgeous tumbled mess of Georgian houses, Regency villas and fisherman's cottages which I shall post about later, but here's a taster.
Nice, eh?


Of course, property prices here are a bit on the silly side as it's within easy reach of London. These beach huts currently start at £40,000 and there was a Bentley Mulsanne turbo parked outside one further along the dunes.


Bloody Londoners. Thank God Norfolk's too far away for 'em to want to buy us up.


This cute little shack tucked snugly behind the dunes is "Morningside".


When I was a little kid we stayed there for hols; not just immediate family but a whole mess of us jumbled up together.
It was more of a shed back then, with single glazed windows and holes in the walls and it was so cold and damp that Dad and Uncle Snowy had to forage the beach for driftwood to burn to keep us all warm.
A fantastic place for a kids' holiday though!
We had a splendid time. Very Enid Blyton and the Famous Five.
Lashings of ginger beer and lots of adventures capturing smugglers … or I might have imagined the last bit.
I wish I owned it now; it must be worth a bloody fortune!

Tune in tomorrow and things should get pretty.

Pier Perambulation

More aimless meanderings from last Sunday:

In striking contrast to the soul-sucking emotional bleakness and appalling plethora of chav tat festooning Great Yarmouth's piers (see last week's distressing photoblog), where they appear to have aimed for the lowest common denominator, missed it and kept on falling 'til they hit bottom, Southwold's pier is a refreshing oasis of Edwardian gentility.

For a start, the buildings on it are clean and they sell nice things like teas. There's nary a carnie or a pikey to be seen, and no greasy chippie! Woohoo!

All along the railings are nice little brass plaques commemorating folk who loved it here (or in some cases were actually conceived on or beneath the pier).

From a distance you can see how quaint and uncluttered it is, compared to the hideous Yarmouth piers, redolent as they are of Carnie-sweat, mingled with the stink of stale chip fat and vomit (you saw the photos so you know I'm not exaggerating) and aswarm with slot machines and racist seventies "comedians".
We get a different class of tourist here at Southwold, as witnessed by the polygamous Mormon family taking their hunchbacked child for a walk on the sand.

The locals fish off the end of the pier.

And with a view like this, it doesn't matter if they don't catch anything.

Halfway along the pier is this somewhat alarming contraption. It's a water clock … of sorts.


I'll leave you today with this happy pair of gents, trousers around their ankles, behaving as only the British do at the seaside.

Oystercatchers On Ice

So …
En route to Southwold for yesterday's cockle-fuelled innuendo-fest (thank you, ladies), we parked up near Blythburgh marshes and Old Dive crept, Elmer Fudd-like through the frost-hoared pinewoods to stalk Blythburgh Church (almost falling down a badger sett on the way … those stripey-nosed bastards seem to make a habit of digging bloody great holes in the ground and hiding them in undergrowth).


As you can see by the still frozen waters of the marsh it was fucking cold at that hour of the morning.
That's the beautiful, late gothic church of All Saints, Blythburgh in the distance behind the drowned stumps of pine trees and the avocet flying across the middle of the photo (don't argue; I've got the hi-res original and can see it's a bloody avocet. This marsh is where most of the blighters over-winter).
We'll be visiting the church in some detail later in the week, which is actually a lot more of a thrill than it sounds, because Satan appears, together with a dancing bear with a big cock, plus a man with a chamberpot on his head and a spectacular codpiece, but you'll have to wait for that.

In the meantime I am still trudging across a frozen marsh.
Oh, looky! A pair of oystercatchers keeping their feet off the ice.
What do you mean you didn't know you were signing up for a birdwatching course?

Another shot of old stumpy, just for the hell of it.

Here's the church later in the day, when the sun had burned off the ice and I was full of cockles.
I love these sunny Sundays; they give me enough photos to spin out a travelogue all week without having to think of anything to write about.
Hee hee.

As Seen On TV

Meet Mum's mate Darren.
Mum lives in Suffolk, near the coast and as it was another gorgeous, sunny February morning I picked her up and we toddled off to Southwold, home of Adnams' brewery and Darren's yummy wet fish shop.

This is Darren and Mum.
Darren was on telly this week, taking one of those celebrity chefs out into Sole Bay on his boat to catch sole, then cooking them on the beach.
He was well peeved as he'd spent the whole day with the TV crew and they didn't show his shop on the programme.
Bastards!

So here it is.

Go there.
Buy stuff.
It's brilliant.

It's like the tardis inside. There's a fabulous seafood restaurant out the back and - as the sign says "Bring your own bread and wine".
Fantastic! Great quality fish taken straight off his boat, cooked as you want it and plonked on a plate with no astronomical mark-up for wine and stupid bread. Grab a bottle of Chablis from the supermarket on your way over and save a fortune.

And this is the wet fish counter. Some of you were wondering what a wet fish shop was, well you're looking at one.

All of this is fresh caught and landed at the dock ten yards in front of the shop.

And this is the dock.

With some fat old man stuffing his face.

These are fucking glorious. Juicy, sweet fat cockles … That's cockLES, ladies!
Soft and melt-in-your-mouth succulent and tasting of the sea. Yum!
A splash of vinegar and a grind of pepper. Simple perfection.

This is what happens when you live too close to Adnams' Brewery.

More seaside frolics to follow.

I'm Too Sexy For The RIBA

I got in to the office this morning to find this rather bewildering email:

'This House Believes There Should Be More Sex In Architecture.'

In its most provocative debate yet, Building Futures hosts an evening looking at the role of sex and 'sexiness' in architecture both in terms of what is built and our perception of the profession.

What we build should encourage and inspire the next generation to take architecture on. The built environment is a key cultural asset and the profession is responsible for maintaining its quality and its reputation. Shouldn't we be promoting and encouraging a more energetic approach to building that celebrates vitality and daring? Does the current range of domestic architectural offerings promote the profession in the best way possible? Or is the pursuit of vibrant landmarks merely encouraging over the top, brash and, predominantly, masculine gesturing offering nothing but mere 'fizz' and ego? If architecture is to maintain its serious reputation in an era of very real challenges is it not more appropriate that we celebrate intelligent and responsive building forms that do not rely on gimmicks and veneers to represent the sum of an architects vanity? Does 'sexiness' trivialise and risk the reputation of the profession? Don't we need some sensuality in our everyday lives? Is architecture the best way to express it?

We know you all have views on this subject, so come along and have your chance to question the panelists and inform the debate. The evening features contributions from Will Alsop, Ben Addy at Moxon Architects and David Ubaka at Design for London, the GLA's delivery body for maintaining the quality of design in the capital and is chaired by Philippa Stockley, deputy editor at the Evening Standard's Homes and Property magazine.

This free event takes place at the BDP office, 16 Brewhouse Yard, Clerkenwell EC1 on Wednesday 05 March 2008 at 7pm.
There will be refreshments from 6.45pm for a 7pm start. The nearest tube station is Farringdon.
To attend the event or to find out more about the work of Building Futures at the RIBA, call the Building Futures team on email buildingfutures@inst.riba.org or visit www.buildingfutures.org.uk

If any of you want to go along and stir things up (Lynn perhaps), do feel free.
And take a camera.

I think my buildings are sexy enough as it is.

Having said that, we could always do with more sex in the office.

The Old Man And The Sea Defences

Righto …

Here are the final batch of photos from last Sunday's scenic mosey up my local stretch of the East Norfolk coast:

For the past few days we have witnessed the horrors of tourist-ville and the beauties of the Marrams and we have watched poor Happisburgh fall into the sea; today we'll just take a nice relaxing walk back along the beach.

This was the tenth of February.

The very depths of Winter.

And this was the raging, cruel North Sea.

Little wonder our local surf club was sitting disconsolately in their ramshackle hut-cum-café at Sea Palling, picking the fleas out of one another's dreadlocks (Listen up, dudes: white folk in dreadlocks? For fuck's sake! And perhaps you might like to try washing for a change) …

Actually none of them are local; they're mostly foghorn-voiced Australians with backpacks the size of Volkswagens and they're a friendly bunch; it's just that I've seen the state of the woman making the food in the surf shack and no WAY am I putting stuff in my mouth that's been within ten feet of her.
Eww …

These fishermen, on the other hand, were local.
They'd been here since Friday night and had caught fuck all, but they were happy as it got them away from their wives and kids every weekend; which must have made their wives and kids equally happy.
Perhaps they've found the secret of a happy marriage …
Perhaps not.

They certainly weren't catching any fish …

Here is Norfolk's answer to Japan's Torii Gate.
Boy, that sea was fucking cold!
If you head north from here you go straight to the North Pole without hitting any land. In fact the first land you hit is when you're going down the other side of the planet; a little bit of the Russian Kolyma Peninsula that almost joins up with Alaska, and there's only a few miles of that before it's sea again all the way down to Antarctica.
Brrr …

The skeleton remains of yet another attempt to save Happisburgh from its inevitable watery grave.

And more.
Either that or it's a primitive, local fertility symbol.
Is it just me? Or do those … er … never mind …

The Old Man And The Sea.

Or at least the wreckage of an old man standing amidst the wreckage of a village that's falling into the sea.

So … I'll be out and about, ambling around with my camera again soon.

Other than our Daily Photo Squad, most of you don't show us around your local areas.
I'm a nosy fucker, so get your cameras out and let's see where you live.

Cynical Invective Day

What with all the Coast posts, I'd completely forgotten it was that time of year again.

What I said about it last year cannot be improved upon and bears repeating, so here it is again:
"Ugh!

Yet another Hallmark Shareholders' Smirk Like A Twat Day.
A day when I'm filled with hatred and bile toward a disgusting capitalist shithole of a company that thrives on people's guilt.
Every year sees yet more spurious Hallmark Days where we are suddenly made to feel like uncaring or uncharitable asswipes unless we cough up and pay the cock-faced Hallmark tax.
Fucking hypocritical, profiteering, wank-brained, manipulative, thieving, shit-headed, emotionally blackmailing cocksuckers!

I make no apologies for the swearfest as it's been thirty years to the day since I received a genuine Valentine's Day card and I'm in a right strop.

I'm going to go home and slam all the doors."

Right … That's cleared the air.
I'm gonna be skulking in the house today, behind locked doors. It's a leap year and I don't want any of the scary, turnip-faced local weemen proposing to me.

When Coastlines Attack

And so to Happisburgh … or what's left of it.

This is the pretty church; surrounded by the graves of brave sailors and fishermen who will soon find their rest disturbed as they are exhumed and moved to a safer location.
And here's the reason why:
While most of Norfolk's beautiful coastline is actually growing through saltmarsh and sandbank and is home to hundreds of square miles of spectacular nature reserves, one part is rapidly disappearing.
Poor, helpless Happisburgh.
The erosion rate is currently around forty to fifty feet a year, but in the worst case a whole twelve acre field disappeared in one night's storm.
Twelve acres is fucking huge!
Gone … in one night.

And the village of Whimpwell has submerged completely. It lies to the seaward side of Happisburgh and indeed is rather moist these days. In 1987 the local sub-aqua club found the old quay heading way out to sea.

This is me standing on Whimpwell Road.
The stretch of road I stood on the last time I was here you can see halfway down the cliff.
The village is underneath the blue bit at the top of the picture.

This hole used to be a house.
Below it you can make out successive lines of trashed sea defences.
The North Sea gets kind of funnel shaped around here and when the 110mph winter storms come tearing straight down from the North Pole like the wrath of God the tidal surge gets stuck in the funnel and the whole lot gets thrown at Happisburgh.
Thrown rather hard.

This is where the last stretch of the road tumbled down the cliff.

And these were houses before last month's storms.

Property prices round here are kinda silly.
You can buy a beautiful house for the price of a decent meal, but you're not going to be able to enjoy it for very long.

This will be the next one to go. Perhaps before this coming spring.
That pointy piece of sand is probably gone already.
And that's one of Happisburgh's problems: it's not exactly built on rock.
More like a very soggy sandstone with the consistency of a nice French cheese.

This is the new bay that has appeared within my memory and swallowed the southern half of the village.
The government's current policy is called "sustainable coastlines", which basically means they're not going to spend any money on protecting Happisburgh as none of them lives there.
The most they've done is to roll a load of rocks down onto the beach, which - as you can see by the cliffs behind - hasn't really helped at all.

So …
If you want to visit Happisburgh, you'd better be quick.

The Truth About Everything, Pt.2

Before we go and watch Happisburgh fall into the sea, I must just say one thing:
Hoorah for Mike!

After my posts praising the delights of Great Yarmouth (I should get a medal from the tourist board), he took my "Pleasure Beach" photo …

… and mixed up the letters to reveal the sad and tawdry truth behind it all.


Hee hee hee.

For an explanation of "The Truth About Everything", check out one of my very first posts which should make everything in your world just a leetle clearer.