Sometimes there are places that are so sacred you want to keep them to yourself because if somebody else got to know about them they might crack and eventually shatter; it’s like letting somebody into your morning rituals that are built for you and only you. How would somebody else be able to fathom why you do those sit-ups lying on the living room floor or why you listen for the central heating coming on like a cellist might listen for the note before the one they are about to play?
It’s like that with me and Cleethorpes; my wife’s family have an almost umbilical attachment to it built from memories of splashing and sandcastles and donkey rides in happier, simpler times. I have grown to love it as I’ve taken my children and grandchildren there and watched them build their own donkey/splash/sandcastle memories.
So when, sometimes, my professional life takes me to Cleethorpes, I have to steel myself to let people into the private and sandy room in my soul, I have to hold a little bit of myself back, keep it safe for when I return. A few years ago I presented an evening for Radio 3 based around the idea of the sea, and produced by the great poet of nature writing Tim Dee; he asked me where I’d like to go to make a little ten-minute feature to insert into the evening and one of the places I mentioned was Cleethorpes and I almost instantly regretted the decision because I would be letting light in on magic.
I said that I’d like to wander along the sands and improvise a kind of spoken word piece about that part of the East Coast, and because I was given more or less free rein I’d said I’d like to invite the great jazz saxophonist Snake Davis along to improvise around my words and maybe perform some duets with any gulls who happened to be passing in search of chip-bounty.
We met Snake and his son on the seafront; there was a slight breeze, as there always is at Cleethorpes, and it melded with Snake warming up his instrument as his son sat on a bench and filled in a colouring book. Tim recorded it. The music and the colouring; when you’re making this kind of what’s now called Slow Radio, you record everything and shape it later, just like history does.
I walked up to one of those otherworldly telescopes that you put a pound in and then you can gaze at the horizon until you’ve had your money’s worth. It worked, which in my experience is unusual, but it also creaked spectacularly, like a pub sign in a high wind.
I looked at Snake and he put his saxophone to his mouth and began a duet with the telescope as I rattled it around on its axis. I’m a fan of avant-garde music, the kind of noise that empties the room, and let me tell you that this was in the vanguard of the avant-garde. It was off-season in Cleethorpes and there were very few people around to witness this world premiere (and last ever performance) apart from a man in a hi-vis jacket who rode by on his bike and rang his bell enthusiastically, adding to the soundscape. It felt exhilarating and sublime and somehow it also felt that because it was so unusual it didn’t threaten to pop the bubble of my family memories of the place; it felt self-contained, as though I was looking at it through a very different telescope to the one I normally gazed at the resort through.
We decided to walk to the sea and record me talking about the sound of the waves to the accompaniment of the saxophone; because the tide was out, this involved a walk that almost took us into another time zone. Eventually we arrived at the edge of the sea; it was fairly quiet, although some wrinkles in its face told us that it might have turned, that it might be coming back in.
Snake took a Japanese flute out of his bag and began to play; the tune was so beautiful that even the occasional cloud that smudged the sky seemed to be listening. As Snake played and the waves whispered, and I described the scene in hushed John Arlott-like tones, another sound began to impinge on our consciousness; a buzzing, rattling sound, as though a tiny bee had made a miniature music box but had somehow got themselves trapped inside. Snake played. The tide played. The noise got louder. The breeze seemed to lift it into the air and because of that we all looked up, expecting to see a light plane.
Suddenly Snake’s son pointed; a jeep was zooming across the sand towards us. We were disappointed; the moment had been broken and Snake stopped playing. We thought the jeep would be packed with young joyriders intent on tearing the silence to pieces but it wasn’t. The driver was the only occupant and he was a lifeguard.
‘Come on, the tide’s coming in! You’ll be cut off!’ he shouted. Tim recorded his words and the roar of the jeep and then we looked around and the tide was indeed wandering in; indeed, it was doing more than wandering in. It was rushing in. In my flute-based joy I’d forgotten about the treacherous tides round here; the lifeguard gestured to us to climb on to the jeep and we all did and he whizzed across the sand. ‘Don’t do that again!’ he shouted and, despite the turbulent journey, Snake played a riff that got us safely back to the path along the seafront. The lifeguard drove away, waving to us. Snake played him a farewell melody and we all went to the Ocean Fish Bar for haddock and chips.
It felt like a dream then, and it still feels like a dream. I’m sure it happened, though. Well, fairly sure. What do you think, Snake?