I'd never been to Morecambe before. 10 miles north and 3 years back we were in Silverdale just off the bay. The village was in the throes of being adorable, decked out in crochet to celebrate the Queen's platinum jubilee.







Surrounding woods seemed elven but I never got anywhere near them cos a hot tub kept getting in the way. We made our way down to the beach and found it forlorn, almost eerie, the sort of place where you might hear the notes of a lone flute for minutes before realising you're alone on the beach.

The name Morecambe is said to be derived from Brythonic or something, words for 'crooked' and 'sea.' The bay has a tragically well earned reputation for being dangerous. I recall reading somewhere that the river 'moves' but I don't know what that means. At least four rivers pour into this estuary, there's growing patches of quicksand and notoriously fast tides. It is possible to cross from one side to the other though since the 16th century local wisdom has suggested asking the King's (or Queen's) Guide to the Sands for help. I wouldn't mind doing that. There's an art project here somewhere, crossing and trekking around this strangely beautiful place, taking photos and/or painting its moods.

None of this could be guessed on Sunday. The skies and seas were azure as the south of France, and Morecambe town seafront was chocker with folk enjoying their sudden realm of sun factor 50, a great place to hide behind a cocktail. On to the gig, These Wicked Rivers headlining, and then gallant mates decided to go on a midnight quest to find the graves that grace the album cover of The Best of Black Sabbath. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Best_of_Black_Sabbath#/media/File:Best_of_BS.jpg

I couldn't join them. 11.30 pm and I was beat, unable to do much beyond walking back to the hotel.

We got back yesterday morning. Thanks to friends, our grief has become bearable and even the cats have resumed eating. I have had a great time but it is good to be here. Now the healing needed is of home and quiet and time.