What’s that? Where’s that, you say.Knott End is a sleepy place in the east side of the Wyre, opposite Fleetwood. Which was neither exactly hubbub of the universe. Compared to earlier in the day, anyway.
Yes, I encountered Blackpool and survived. It was difficult to move forward at times, especially near the tower. Like Brighton on speed and without any finesse.
But soon enough the crowds were left behind, and I weaved in and out among the dormant illumination, nodding to Noddy and actually swearing at a few poncey pirates and dodgy dukes.
The prom was dull. Once out of town, the seafront failed to maintain the same interest as Hove, say. And there really was nothing at Cleveleys, despite the massive investment in a new prom.
Fleetwood ferry was, aside from the Mersey, my first working ferry since Salcombe. Unbelievable that Wales had none. It will be the last for a while, and I’ll need to cross several more estuaries by fair means or foul as I head around Cumbria. We need ferries and people need to use them
So I’m at Knott End. End of a knott (hill, I guess) that I cannot see. This is ‘not stand up time’, a time for stretching and just laying. And hopefully the early-days stiffness will ease out tomorrow.