Beccles

an absurd travelogue: st michael the archangel; wetherspoons urinal; a deal with Anubis, guide to the underworld

Upon arrival to this Suffolk market town I was greeted by a ROAD CLOSED sign, which I promptly ignored.

Signs are not to be trusted. 

I drove down the closed road, not sure how far I would be able to travel, but I had a specific free car park in mind and when I’ve got a car park on my mind my god don’t even…

It was full. 

Undeterred, I continued down the narrow road until the lido appeared, next to the river. Signs announced, in loud lettering, that parking was for lido customers only. My gut said otherwise. In fact, it said ‘Don’t worry about that’ in a deep, masculine voice. It was an assuring tone, and oozed confidence. Signs are not to be trusted.

And so I parked, knowing full well that I was not going to be using the lido. 

I exited my car and admired the nearby advert for the Big Dog Ferry which offered trips 3 miles along the river to Geldeston. The titular Big Dog pictured on their logo was Anubis, long nosed and elegantly eyed. In Ancient Egyptian religion Anubis is a guide to the underworld, and I couldn’t help but question the safety of the ferry. As it was, there was no boat around to be seen, and I moved on without discovering what portals lay beneath the murky broad water of the river Waveney. 

The walk into town was a delight. I traipsed up a road named Puddingmore - which is a cosy, silly, English name if I ever heard one - and the colourful, quaint houses which lined the lane guided me gently onwards. I ascended to the high street via a set of stone stairs which led through the grounds of St Michael The Archangel, a wonderful medieval church on a high scarp. A hundred foot bell tower stands separately from the main church building, watching over the town and the river below, a sentinel in vigil. Without being too insulting, it doesn’t seem so well suited for the location. Once upon a time Beccles was a thriving market and fishing centre, and was the third town of Suffolk in the middle ages, perhaps then such grandeur would have made sense. Nowadays it is a gorgeous monument, sitting sleepy above a snoozing town.  

Upon seeing the high street I was struck by a sense of déjà vu 

I had been there before. 

Or perhaps not. 

I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve seen a tremendous number of barely memorable English towns in my life. This is not to say Beccles high street looks like every high street. It does not, for instance, look anything like the high street in Tonbridge. It does, however, fit a type. It’s brown, it’s white. It’s boxy. Square. And I don’t necessarily mean these things literally.

What Beccles has going for it, is independence. The shops, yes, but the vibe too is ceded from reality. Beccles is not a town, it’s a country. Towns like Beccles have their own culture. I believe that you can only really understand this by feeling it. Walk around, and you can’t help but feel that, despite there not being a lot obviously going for the town, people born in Beccles probably often die there too. 

Wetherspoons awaited. Not my proudest decision but Wetherspoons, for all its faults, tend to have lovely bathrooms and after the incident with Rt Hon Tom Tugendhat in Tonbridge I wanted a stress free toilet experience. 

The issue, as I could have foretold, is that a Wetherspoons at 2PM on a weekday will always be full of the type of people who would be in a Wetherspoons at 2PM on a weekday. Consequently, as I stood before the urinal a jolly fellow trudged up beside me, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers, and moaned with purposeful force. It was almost a scream. At first I thought he was in some sort of prostate distress, but then he declared, oh so loudly, ‘I NEEDED THAT.’

Oh good, I thought, now this man is going to try and speak to me (I have an ear for this kind of thing).

‘Nice day today,’ he said at a slightly more manageable volume. 

‘Yes,’ I said. Now, it wasn’t that nice a day but I wasn’t going to argue with him on account of my penis being out. Thankfully, my short response bought me some time as the gentlemen prepared his next topic, and I was able to pop my chap away and retreat to the sink. He finished, abruptly, and followed me over. 

‘Do you know Tom Davies?’ he asked. 

The mention of the word ‘Tom’ distressed me and I struggled to answer. 

‘Big bloke. Comedian.’

I did know who Tom Davies was, not only because he is a relatively well known public figure, but as I had once been an extra in a Warwick Davis web series which had featured the ‘big bloke’. I do not believe the series ever made it to air but this is a good thing, as I played a chav and I’m not sure that is something We Do anymore.

‘I know the one,’ I said. 

‘Funny guy. Saw him a few months ago.’

I couldn’t imagine why this was information you would pass onto a stranger at the toilet sink but I nodded and headed for the hand dryer. Did he mean he saw him in the street? On the television? At a gig? Over the roar of the air dispenser I heard:

‘Rob Beckett. Tom Allen. Richard Herring.’

I looked at the man, which I had avoided doing up until that point. He was wearing an all beige outfit, shirt tucked into loose trousers, with a brown belt not yet rebuckled on his waist. There was a noticeable wet patch on his crotch. I knew that he had sacrificed the vital shake to tell me about Tom Davies.

‘Yes,’ I said. I’m not sure he heard me over the hand dryer. 

‘Seen them too. Phil Wang. Jo Brand.’

The hand dryer finished so I sidestepped the man and pulled the door open. I hurtled down the stairs away from this maniac, but am fairly certain I heard a muffled ‘Zoe Lyons’ from behind the closed door. 

Finally away, I hit the hot streets of Beccles, and headed for Roys.

Roys is a do-it-all kind of shop. It is a supermarket, department store, and garden centre. I love Roys. The vibe is impeccably strange. Determinedly low key.  It is the kind of store which can only exist in our little country. In America you wouldn’t have this, it would be louder, brasher, bigger. Roys is a big fish in a small pond and it has absolutely no ambition toward anything else. I scooted around, enjoyed a video presentation for miracle mop heads, and rummaged through the discount section. In general, I was having a marvellous time. 

‘Rupert Danderbabble,’

I turned. 

No. 

It was him, the Wetherspoons blabbermouth, now wearing a Roys uniform. He was holding a broom in his hand like a sword.

‘Edward Fugundenbert.’

‘You’re talking nonsense now,’ I said. 

‘He’s very funny.’

I left Roys in a rush and though I spent some time meandering the streets of Beccles, the comedy-loving-spectre had ruined my sense of car and soon I was forced to retreat to the car where I thought I would take a look out over the river before I left. 

There, on the water, was a barge. It was in the rough approximation of Anubis, head and long muzzle as the bow, the curved hollow of a back making the deck, tail as rudder. It was skippered by a familiar face. 

‘Ye didn’t use the lido,’ he said. His voice had moved in a salty, sea-faring direction. 

‘No,’ I said. 

‘Yet ye used the lido car park.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. 

The captain of the Big Dog Ferry scratched his cheek. ‘Ye owe a toll.’

I nodded in agreement despite the pant-shitting fear that was rising inside me. ‘No problem’ I said, nonchalantly. 

‘Will ye come and see Charlotte Honk Honk live at the Corn Exchange on the 19th of September?’

I knew that no such person existed, and confidently gave my approval. 

‘Aye,’ said the captain. ‘Good.’ 

Abruptly, the ferry began to sink, as if being lowered on a lift into the brown water. 

I stood there for some time, gobsmacked, staring out over the water. Not a single bubble rose from the depths.   

Beccles in Summary :

Key Attraction: St Michael the Archangel.

Pros: Free parking. Independent shops. Roys. Access to the Broads. 

Cons: The comedy-loving-ancient-spectre of the town who will haunt your every step. Wetherspoons. Bossy signage. 

Final Score: C (*)

* stands for Comedy-loving-spectre