14 of 24 - River Severn to Blackpool and Fylde

After a stint in a Cheltenham guesthouse, four of us ex-Holman lads rented a flat above a butcher’s shop in a village near the Severn. Night-shift work meant I often drove us all in, bleary-eyed and half-fed. One of my flatmates owned a motorcycle. My licence said I could legally ride one, though my experience was limited to farm tracks and a brief flirtation with a moped at the Royal Cornwall Show.

One afternoon, I decided to borrow the bike. No permission, no warning—just me, his helmet, and a vague sense of entitlement. I rode into Gloucester, then turned back, coasting down a dual carriageway with the wind in my hair and a feeling of freedom unmatched by any car. I could see over hedges, into fields, and into a version of myself that felt untethered and alive.

Then I looked back to the road.

A roundabout loomed. I panicked, grabbed the front brake, and promptly launched myself into the hedge. Helmet and spectacles in the grass, broken indicator on the tarmac. A pristine white Ford Granada pulled up in front of me. The driver—a kind man with the air of someone used to rescuing fools—helped me gather my things and right the bike.

“Get back on immediately,” he said. “Don’t let this deter you or you may never ride again.”

I took his advice. Got back on. Kick-started the bike, let the clutch out, and rode directly towards his lovely car. At the last second, I yanked the bike sideways and wedged myself neatly beneath the boot. Gravel burned but generally unhurt, and thoroughly humiliated, I lay there pinioned until the good Samaritan, now slightly less serene, pulled me from his undercarriage.

It cost me quite a bit of money to repair the bike and the car, and, naturally I earned the ire of my flat mate who muttered when told I had gravel burns “shame he didn’t break his neck”.

I’m sure he may not have meant this.

The Old Passage Inn

The Old Passage Inn sits at the tip of a horseshoe bend on the River Severn, where the Severn Bore rolls upriver like a watery stampede. It’s stood there since at least the 17th century—once a ferry point to Newnham, a coaching stop, and a droving route for livestock. The river dictated the rhythm of travel and trade. For me, it was a pub.

A place of leisure, laughter, and quiet rituals. It’s where I met the girl I’d stay with for the rest of my life. Forty-three years and counting.

I remember the moment. A voice behind me asking, “Has anyone got a cigarette?” I turned and offered an opened pack of Marlboro Red. That was it. No grand gesture, no sweeping overture. Just a shared moment in a riverside pub, and everything changed.

We put Hazel O’Connor’s Will You? on the jukebox. She gave me her phone number.

The next day, I phoned from the local red phone box. The familiar sounding voice answered, and I said how much I’d enjoyed our very late evening together. There was a pause. Then: “Oh, why—what did we do?” I began to recap to “ Oh yes” and “ Did we?”

It was at that point I realised I wasn’t speaking to my new friend at all. I was confessing everything to her aunt.

Blackpool Sands

I had decided to try to gather some other qualifications and got a place on the Technical Authors course at Blackpool and Fylde College

There are areas of soft, shifting sands between St Annes and Blackpool that can behave like quicksand under certain conditions. The wide tidal range of the Irish Sea creates vast stretches of flat beach, and when the tide goes out, it exposes wet sandbanks and channels that can be deceptively unstable.

The St Annes Sand Dunes, stretching from the pier to Blackpool South Shore, serve as natural sea defences and wildlife habitat—but the beach itself can be hazardous. Visitors are advised to check tide times and avoid walking too far out, especially near wetland slacks or areas where water pools and drains slowly.

It’s not Hollywood-style quicksand, but it can trap feet and legs, especially if you're caught unaware or the tide turns quickly. The RNLI and local councils regularly issue safety warnings for this stretch of coast.

That’s what happened to me when I took a shortcut over the sands from St Annes to Blackpool to attend my course. It was straight out of a Victorian cautionary tale—fog rolling in, the sea whispering close by, and me trudging off to college only to be swallowed to the knees by the sands of Lancashire. I escaped without help and arrived at college wet, sandy, and slightly shaken. It was a potent life lesson: never trust a shortcut across a shifting shore.