As a blogger of ill repute, I am often asked "Mr.Ashley, you have mentioned Ashley Towers on more than one occasion, and wondered if there was any chance that we may see what your home looks like?". Well, I would have done it sooner of course, but it's been undergoing a lick of paint recently. This has not been an easy task, and I'm afraid that there were a lot of meaningful, if not rather heated discussions, with my decorator about the colours I wanted. As you can see, in my absence he has played a little, if rather expensive, practical joke on me with respect to the house name.Of course those of you who are more alert and clear-headed than I am this morning will have spotted that this is in fact one of the fairground attractions at Blackpool's Pleasure Beach, shot yesterday afternoon on my first visit to this Lancastrian resort, having previously narrowly avoided it on my previous journeys to Fleetwood and Lytham St.Anne's. I could talk at much length about what I found, and probably will, but suffice it to say I could have stayed in here all day amongst the roller coaster and ghost train screams, and that sugary scent of candy floss. Roll up! Roll up!
7 comments:
I've never been a fan of Blackpool. I much prefer the charms of Morecambe along the coast. Surely you know Brucciani's untouched 1939 tea room?
I went to Morecambe from Blackpool, along a very twisty narrow road from Poulton-Le-Fylde. But just caught the newly-refurbished Midland Hotel bathed in diffused late afternoon light. I too enjoy Morecambe, like suddenly being shot into the sea like a cork from the crowded bottleneck of Lancaster.
I remember being at a very hoity-toity dinner where the women were upping each other in the exotic-holiday stakes. "And where do you go?" one 'sweetly' asked my companion. "Moricambi" she said without hesitation. "Eeoh," said the inquisitor, "Isn't that near Portofino?" My friend looked away, but managed to say "Yes, quite near there...."
Blackpool means all the kids from our estate going on a charra ride...it doesn't take much to please a five year old.
My mother was once in a charabanc that went under a railway bridge in Bedfordshire and then slowly tipped over and deposited them all into a ditch. Much laughter, no injuries. The day after she'd pointed the spot out to me, the Great Train Robbery took place at exactly the same spot.
True, a five-year-old is easily pleased. I was impressed by Mablethorpe when I was five, for goodness sake. Candyfloss, however, proved underwhelming once, after much cajoling, I finally got my tongue around some. Ever since it has been for me a symbol of the disappointments of childhood.
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