Bandstand, Hunstanton

I've said it before that no place with any sort of get up and go can afford to be without a bandstand. So what if it sits (or is that stands?) there empty for 99.9% of its miserable existence; it is a testament to where a town wants to be ... a bandstanded kind of place. And so what if when it is actually being used for it is intended (and not as trysting place for malfeasance)  no-one stops to listen; they just think a band playing on the prom by the seaside on that one warm day in July (Tiddely-om-pom-pom!) is just so right and fitting that they float on by in a nostalgic revery.

The weekend in black and white is here.

Groyne Strain

Now there can few pleasures as great as a stroll on a beach on a chilly, cloudy day in late February, especially when the wind is blowing at a steady 30 mph and gusting fit to lift you off the ground and dump you in another county. Such delights are best taken in short measures and so I didn't overindulge my stay on Hunstanton's famous beach. It's a funny old beach for a seaside resort; you might imagine miles of golden sand but this is split into short stretches by numerous groynes and the sand is well peppered by vast numbers of large pebbles in various sized and colours, red, white and creamy, having come from the cliff whereon sits the lighthouse. (I didn't have the opportunity to see the cliff from the beach but I saw it many, many years ago and can confirm that it is indeed two toned; red and white). Generations of youngsters and oldsters have enjoyed the beach over the years so it can't be all that bad.

Don't ask what the poles with odd attachments at the end of each groyne are for because I haven't a clue.