Tourist to Tourism Marketing Officer - Part Three

19th June 2019

Categories: Latest News

Read this installament of the 'Tourist to Tourist Marketing Officer' blog documenting my first year in Weston-super-Mare

Breaking the news of my intention to move to Weston-super-Mare was a nerve-wracking prospect. I knew that most people would be happy and excited for me to explore this next chapter, but I also knew that some might be worried.Making a relationship successful over a distance had presented its difficulties, and D and I had certainly had our ups and downs throughout the two years we’d been working on ours. As any open book (and I’m certainly one of those – hello, I’m writing a blog?!) would do, I had confided in my friends, family and colleagues along the way, sharing my worries, my hopes, our highs and lows. So understandably, when I announced I would be leaving behind my life of thirty-two years in my home town to make a leap of faith two hundred miles away, there were some that questioned my decision.

I’d like to think that twelve months later, any proof that might have been needed, has more than been supplied; I can honestly say that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and relationship and career aside, the actual day-to-day living in Weston specifically, is a huge factor in that.

Anyway, I digress…

Making the decision to move when we did, suggested its own timeline; it was April and so S had one full term left at school before the summer holidays and the tenancy on my flat was up for renewal in July. It made sense to engineer the move so that we’d be in Weston in time for school restarting in September which gave us a few months to get things organised without having to disrupt the lease on my flat. So it was settled, we’d make the move on the August bank holiday weekend, seventeen weeks and counting.

The idea of the move was all-consuming; the plans, the details, the ideas, the excitement. I vividly remember an evening video chat with D, only a week or so in when he laughed and said ‘this isn’t going to be all we talk about for the next four months is it?’ At the point, I couldn’t honestly be sure!

Luckily for him, once the dust had settled on the idea, and common sense prevailed in that we had plenty of time decide which brand of loo roll we’d buy or which cupboard the plates would ‘live’ in, real life continued with other topics of conversation available to explore. However, my excitement piqued again, when I returned to Weston for a long weekend in May – on my own this time, no S. We'd decided that this time we would experience some of the more ‘grown-up’ treats that Weston had to offer (no, not like that…) which I’d later learn meant vigorous walks up numerous hills but also visiting numerous pubs and numerous evenings spent dining out - two outta three ain't bad, eh?

Cast your minds back to last summer; The Floss was still cool, George Ezra was happily still riding ‘Shotgun’, the England team were gearing up for a surely-nailed-on World Cup victory (it never did come home, did it?) And, the weather was in-cred-ible (ahem, not like this summer so far). One bad thing about hot weather is travelling on hot coaches, made all the more unpleasant when on my way down to Weston, somebody sat behind me decided to eat their lunch - a very pungent - and quite frankly, antisocial lunch of something involving curried fish... Uggh, the smell.... 

Moving on. Weston was as glorious as ever, the sun was shining and we had three days of fun planned for my stay. But not before ticking off another milestone – it was time for me to meet D's long-suffering best friend. It was Friday night and so D and I were going out for a drink and we'd meet up with M outside The Cabot. Before he arrived, the drinks were flowing (Dutch Courage on my part) and the two of us sat at tables outside the front entrance, taking in the view out to sea and watching another gorgeous Westonian sunset. 

‘What are you smiling at?’ D asked

‘I just can’t believe I’m going to live here’ I replied. And I genuinely couldn’t, so much so it catches me off guard, even now - I live somewhere that people choose to come on holiday to. How lucky am I?!

‘It is nice, isn’t it? A run down seaside town, eh? Rubbish’ D said, mocking one of one of the negative opinions I’d told him from someone back home. 

The seafront hotel bars and patios were buzzing with revellers and as dusk fell, the bulbs and neon signs along the front lit up, throwing coloured spots of light along our view. To my mind, far from run down; Weston was vibrant, beautiful, fun, inviting. I picked up my phone and took a photo, uploading it to Instagram - ha! That’d show the nay-sayers. What did they know? They’d never even visited Weston, fools.

That person has visited Weston now and has since admitted that is a nice place, I'm not one to say I told you so, but... 

Question: What do you decide to do in and around Weston on the hottest day of the year so far?

Answer: That’s right, you climb up Brean Down. At midday. In a maxi dress…

We chose to pack ourselves a picnic for our ‘gentle walk’ (as it was described to me) so popped out to the shop to buy supplies. It was during this trip to the supermarket that I experienced one of the finest examples of the West Country accent I’d heard since visiting Weston. And, just to be clear, this isn’t me making fun of or being unkind about all you lovely locals, my observations are meant wholly with affection - my Nan's from Taunton. Okay, so to give you some background; whilst his accent is obviously different to mine (Yorkshire Lass with a definite Yorkshire accent), D does not have a particularly pronounced Somerset accent - or at least not like some I’ve heard.

So, we’re in the supermarket and a Dad is pushing a trolley along with a toddler sat in the baby seat and as he passes us, I hear him ask the little one:

'What would you like for your tea; ravioli?’

His pronunciation of that last word was one of the greatest things ever, and I can no longer say or hear the name of that wondrous pasta parcel, without repeating his voice and chuckling to myself. Of course it’s difficult to describe this in text, so if you want to know how it went, you’ll have to pop in to the Visitor Information Centre and ask me in person! It's always the little things that demonstrate our differences in life and since I've lived here, I've found countless more examples of accent and dialect idiosyncrasies that I love about being 'down here'.

Right, back to Brean Down and our 'little walk'.

As I’d mentioned before, a good number of the places D had taken me to visit whilst I’d been spending time in Weston, were locations or attractions he’d not been for quite a while. I suppose it’s easy to ‘forget’ about or become blinkered to these places when they’re on your doorstep – they’re just part of Weston and you’ve grown up with them. Brean Down was one of these places, with him having scaled it only once before, a few years ago – and tellingly, long enough ago to have ‘misremembered’ the effort involved in some of its endeavours…

First up, the steepest set of steps I have ever climbed in my lifetime. I’ve never used steps that had to have passing places along the way for you to catch your breath at. Although as laborious as going up was, it was nowhere near as scary as the descent later that afternoon, not helped by the fact that I do have a greater-than-average fear of falling down stairs. Don't laugh! 

After catching our breath, both flaked out on the grass on the first ridge of Brean Down’s top, we set off towards to Fort and found somewhere to dig into our picnic. The sun was beating down as we tackled every uphill stretch, D would say ‘I think this might be the last one’, only to see another climb ahead of us as we reached the top of each peak. We laughed each time as he misremembered the walk towards the end of the headland, not that I minded, I do like a walk, but had I known it would quite so physical, I’d have gone for shorts and a T-shirt instead of a floaty summer dress.

Eventually we did reach the end, and the view was entirely worth the walk. Looking back across at Weston from this unique angle and still being able to pick out the building of D’s flat was a special moment for me; knowing that in only a matter of weeks, it’d be my building too. We mooched around the dark rooms of the Fort’s buildings, reading about the history of the site and both snapping photos as we went. It was a really great trip out together, and definitely one that S would not have appreciated being a part of – she does not like a walk!

After Brean Down, D suggested we called in at Uphill church on the way home. Why not? More worthy climbs for more spectacular views and photo opportunities. Stood together at the top of the old windmill, we gazed around at the 360° view, with not another person to see for miles, I felt physically and metaphorically on top of the world. And once again, I turned to D and said, ‘I can’t believe I’m going to live here’.

That night my Fitbit (other fitness trackers are available) congratulated me on having climbed the equivalent of 100 floors that day, and my legs felt every, single, one. What they needed now was eight hours of rest sat on a coach, even if I was gutted to be leaving my future home.

Thirteen weeks and counting…