Weston Super Mere

Driver Jatt

Right. Weston Super Mare. Collect in Redditch, drop to Weston Super Mare. A wee bit of complications at both ends, which is just a polite way of saying the usual collection faff and a delivery address that took some finding. You know the score.

But the end result was the only one that matters: hit my daily target. Which means time on the clock is now my own. So obviously I went for an explore. The van could wait.

The tide was so far out it looked like it had given up and gone home. I walked for what seemed an eternity on this vast, muddy landscape that just doesn’t seem to end. It’s an optical illusion. You think you’re nearly at the water, but you’re not. The mud just gets deeper and more persuasive until you stop gambling with your life and your best trainers. Point conceded, Weston.

I headed for the pier instead. Got some good pics underneath it. That’s when you notice the mud proper. Under the pier, it’s a different game. It looks solid, almost gritty, but that’s a lie. It’s deep. Proper, sink-in-past-your-ankles deep. It can take you by surprise if you’re not watching your step. One minute you’re on firm ground, the next your foot’s going down and you’re doing a weird, wobbly dance to stop the other one following. It’s not quicksand drama, just a cold, clingy reminder that you’re on its time, not yours.

Had a few moments of proper geeky admiration at the engineering while I steadied myself. The sheer weight of the thing, and the fact it generally stays in place with the sea battering it daily. All those iron legs buried deep in that same muck that nearly had me over. It’s just iron and wood versus the entire Bristol Channel. You’ve got to respect it.

Saw some interesting boats just laying around on the mud further out, seemingly abandoned going by the decay. Looked more like skeletons. Gave the place a proper post-apocalyptic feel, which was only emphasised when I got talking to a couple of locals having a smoke by the shelters.

They asked if I’d seen the other one. The old pier. Birnbeck Pier. I hadn’t. They pointed north. The way they talked about it was fascinating. Owned by some private entity for years, left to rot, and now finally – finally – in the process of being dragged back from the brink. The Birnbeck Regeneration Trust has got it. There’s a plan to return it to a state where you can actually visit it. Eventually.

I walked round for a better look. From afar, there’s these grand old buildings in various states of dramatic disrepair, and the pier heading itself looks like it’s going to surrender to the waves any minute. It’s a sorry sight, but there’s a weird beauty in it. A proper monument to what happens when things are left. It’s important that we all play some part, even if it’s just paying attention, in restoring the country’s magnificent bits before they’re just memories and photos.

You can take a look at www.birnbeckregenerationtrust.org.uk for the full story. It’s a proper saga.

So that was the explore. Started with a complicated delivery from Redditch, ended with a history lesson on the mudflats and nearly losing a shoe. Another day where the job gets you there, and the curiosity takes over. Hit the target, saw something worth seeing, got reminded who’s boss by some deep mud. That’ll do.