Janet Gogerty's Blog: Sandscript - Posts Tagged "seaside"
Sandscript at the Beach Hut
This year is the centenary of Dylan Thomas, he was born 27th October 1914 and there are many events celebrating his life. One of the most original is the touring writing hut. The original hut still stands on the cliff edge looking over the River Taf estuary at The Boat House, Laugharne, Dylan’s final home. The touring shed is an exact replica, down to curling papers and cigarette butts. It is travelling on the back of a truck visiting schools. A friend suggested we put our beach hut on the back of a truck and tour around getting publicity for my books. A tempting idea; envious of friends with camper vans, I have often thought it would be fun if we could take off and travel.
A dream; the hut would probably fall to pieces if we tried to haul it onto a truck and then we would have to buy petrol. Perhaps it is best to stay put and continue paying rent to the local council for our tiny square of concrete.
Having a beach hut is almost a way of life, though most huts are small and you are not allowed to sleep in them or even stay after sunset. As there is no room to sleep, no windows and Calor gas the only power, life is primitive. Water is fetched from a standpipe, but it is all part of the fun. If you strolled along the promenade you would assume that most people enjoy sitting outside their huts in the sun, with the whistling kettle telling them it’s time for tea. But more is happening; the beach hut is basically a store cupboard for everything from swimming costumes and buckets and spades to small canoes and kite surfing gear. Our beach hut neighbours are often on the beach or have even disappeared over the horizon.
At our hut we swim, sun bathe, read, have picnics, friends for coffee and I write. In long hand by choice; the beach hut is free of electronic gadgets. Is there any difference writing here than at home or in cafes? The sound of waves is a soothing background and the writer cannot be distracted by dishes to wash, meals to cook, telephones or doorbells. If sunny it is so pleasant one is liable to fall asleep. If the wind has whipped up you can shelter inside and enjoy watching the waves. In torrential rain I can look out smugly at holiday makers and walkers scurrying for shelter … and carry on writing.
Visit my website for words and pictures about beach hut life.
http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter...
A dream; the hut would probably fall to pieces if we tried to haul it onto a truck and then we would have to buy petrol. Perhaps it is best to stay put and continue paying rent to the local council for our tiny square of concrete.
Having a beach hut is almost a way of life, though most huts are small and you are not allowed to sleep in them or even stay after sunset. As there is no room to sleep, no windows and Calor gas the only power, life is primitive. Water is fetched from a standpipe, but it is all part of the fun. If you strolled along the promenade you would assume that most people enjoy sitting outside their huts in the sun, with the whistling kettle telling them it’s time for tea. But more is happening; the beach hut is basically a store cupboard for everything from swimming costumes and buckets and spades to small canoes and kite surfing gear. Our beach hut neighbours are often on the beach or have even disappeared over the horizon.
At our hut we swim, sun bathe, read, have picnics, friends for coffee and I write. In long hand by choice; the beach hut is free of electronic gadgets. Is there any difference writing here than at home or in cafes? The sound of waves is a soothing background and the writer cannot be distracted by dishes to wash, meals to cook, telephones or doorbells. If sunny it is so pleasant one is liable to fall asleep. If the wind has whipped up you can shelter inside and enjoy watching the waves. In torrential rain I can look out smugly at holiday makers and walkers scurrying for shelter … and carry on writing.
Visit my website for words and pictures about beach hut life.
http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter...
Sandscript on Sand
Why would you go to the beach then sit in a wooden box, commented an Australian visitor on viewing rows of beach huts. Of course, beach hut owners hope to be sitting outside them in the sun, stepping inside only to get changed with modesty; after all, beach huts started as bathing machines wheeled down to the water. But most of them are boxes, similar in design to a cardboard box laid on its side with the flaps out. If you want a designer beach hut with style and bunk beds it will cost you as much as a house.
But our little six foot boxes have their charm. In summer the contents of the huts are spread out on the promenade, creating a home from home with tables, parasols, bottles of wine and BBQs leaving little room for passers by. Our hut is ‘upstairs’ on a narrow balcony, more private, but without much room for visitors. If everybody used their beach huts at the same time it would be chaos. With an inch between neighbours there is an etiquette of sorts; hello and remark about the weather on arrival, then allow them to return to their book or paper.
This summer the sea is further away from our hut, the beach has been replenished. In the natural order cliffs crumble and turn into sand, replacing the beach eroded by tides and currents. As soon as humans improve their access to the sea, with promenades and zig zag paths, beach erosion becomes a problem. The cliffs still crumble, but take with them houses and cliff lifts.
During the winter and spring our view of The Purbecks was obliterated with two storey portacabins and War of the Worlds mechanical aliens. Pile drivers dug down twice the height of a man, digging out old wooden groynes and implanting new ones. Then the dredgers appeared out at sea, huge pipes snaked along the beach; sand and water were pumped from the Solent.
So there was plenty of beach to sit on in the recent hot spell, but not yet smoothed by the tides; swimmers fell into the water and clambered back up steep shingle banks.
But the crowds were enjoying the summer weather with only the occasional beach prat of the day. From our beach hut we heard angry voices, was this an 'incident'? No, a man was sitting at the water’s edge, ignoring his family, his flailing, gesticulating arms the clue that we were listening in to a conversation on his mobile phone.
That wasn’t the only disturbance, the little used hut next door came to life with the family from hell. Different people each time, but we assume they are related, because there is a familiar pattern of behaviour. Children return from the sea, loud discussion ensues about what they want to eat, adult voices get louder as whining children refuse everything on offer. Then one child hits another, the prolonged crying out of all proportion to the injury received. Other beach hut residents might wish there were sharks in the Solent and the situation is not conducive to creative writing.
Read about a very different visit to the beach in a previous blog.
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Visit my website for pictures of local beaches.
http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter...
But our little six foot boxes have their charm. In summer the contents of the huts are spread out on the promenade, creating a home from home with tables, parasols, bottles of wine and BBQs leaving little room for passers by. Our hut is ‘upstairs’ on a narrow balcony, more private, but without much room for visitors. If everybody used their beach huts at the same time it would be chaos. With an inch between neighbours there is an etiquette of sorts; hello and remark about the weather on arrival, then allow them to return to their book or paper.
This summer the sea is further away from our hut, the beach has been replenished. In the natural order cliffs crumble and turn into sand, replacing the beach eroded by tides and currents. As soon as humans improve their access to the sea, with promenades and zig zag paths, beach erosion becomes a problem. The cliffs still crumble, but take with them houses and cliff lifts.
During the winter and spring our view of The Purbecks was obliterated with two storey portacabins and War of the Worlds mechanical aliens. Pile drivers dug down twice the height of a man, digging out old wooden groynes and implanting new ones. Then the dredgers appeared out at sea, huge pipes snaked along the beach; sand and water were pumped from the Solent.
So there was plenty of beach to sit on in the recent hot spell, but not yet smoothed by the tides; swimmers fell into the water and clambered back up steep shingle banks.
But the crowds were enjoying the summer weather with only the occasional beach prat of the day. From our beach hut we heard angry voices, was this an 'incident'? No, a man was sitting at the water’s edge, ignoring his family, his flailing, gesticulating arms the clue that we were listening in to a conversation on his mobile phone.
That wasn’t the only disturbance, the little used hut next door came to life with the family from hell. Different people each time, but we assume they are related, because there is a familiar pattern of behaviour. Children return from the sea, loud discussion ensues about what they want to eat, adult voices get louder as whining children refuse everything on offer. Then one child hits another, the prolonged crying out of all proportion to the injury received. Other beach hut residents might wish there were sharks in the Solent and the situation is not conducive to creative writing.
Read about a very different visit to the beach in a previous blog.
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Visit my website for pictures of local beaches.
http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter...
Sandscript
I like to write first drafts with pen and paper; at home, in busy cafes, in the garden, at our beach hut... even sitting in a sea front car park waiting for the rain to stop I get my note book out. We
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