The low and the high

Blackpool: for all the jokes about the place, it's very pretty and suitably cheap. My room overlooks the ocean and I cannot credit how quickly the tide comes in or goes out. I wandered down to the pier. This weekend is the FA cup final and there are footballers in town – I'm guessing on holiday, but also to fill the pubs and cheer. It's also Gay Pride weekend and there were a number of obviously gay people. Why do they have to try so hard? They wore outlandish clothes in a variety of colours that hurt the eyes; I didn't dare take photos - and I didn't see anyone else snapping away either.

I brought along the cheese I bought in Lincolnshire. I had no idea it was going to smell. Anyway, I did a bit of a shop – bought some Blackpool Rock for the nieces and nephews, just like my great aunt did for us way back in the seventies. I was looking at the various flavours when a group of youngsters walked in. One checked her feet, as if she'd stepped in something nasty. I had to cringe a little; I knew exactly what the smell was and after I got the Rock, dumped the cheese.

I also sat and replied to text messages from home. Didn't help the homesickness. After that, I walked along the promenade snapping photos of whatever took my fancy. In January, a cargo ship beached, and being an intrepid walker, off I went to take more photos.

The beached Riverdance, still fully loaded with cargo.

I think there's something... odd... about my genetic makeup. It was miles to the ship, the tide ever receding and my feet were beginning to hurt around the heels. These Brooks have soldiered on, but I think I finally did for them. I thought I'd catch the tram back to the hotel, since I'd walked miles, but as I approached the tram stop, one went by. Another one wouldn't come for another twenty minutes and so I started walking back. Every time I heard the zzt-zzt of a tram, I was between stations. As you can guess, I walked all the way back to the hotel, in the rain, which began when I was less than halfway back.

So here I am, absolutely knackered. And I was right: the runners are done for, the sole has split. Not badly, but enough to consider buying new ones before I depart these verdant shores. I have got to stop these marathon hikes; they're bad for my feet and my shoes. A dose of good sense is a terrific alternative. Still, I went out and found some Tandoori Chicken. Usually my favourite, but pretty ordinary here. In fact, the food has been ordinary all round. On the positive side, I got back in time to check out another episode of the new Dr Who.

This new morning, the sun is shining and the tide is coming in. Natch, I took a photo or two. Some lads arrived yesterday and last night attempted Karioke before heading out. Awful is an appropriate word, but it didn't last long and I had a good night sleep. This morning, they were waxing lyrical about how 'wasted' Fabio was, but when the lad in question turned up, it was hail fellow, well met. I left them to it after a breakfast of cereal and toast. Yesterday's full English – with fried bread – was a little too much.

On my way out of town, I saw two plods… er, police officers looking up into the sky. When I had a look, a World War II DC-10 flew by followed by a Spitfire! Cor! This was one photograph I had to get:

I think it was to do with a WWII memorial or celebration of the Battle of Britain. The day before, groups of helicopters flew over, but too high for me to see any markings. Anyway, I'm chuffed I snapped these planes - we don't see them in Aus. A piece of history. Maybe I'll find more at the next stop: Burnley, Lancashire.