A finished manuscript had been sent off to BWL for editing prior to publication and, subconsciously, I was casting around for the next story. So what will I write about next, I asked myself. Most writers will identify with this sentiment even if they don't intend to start writing another book any time soon.
Then, on my daily dog walk, I happened upon a friend who asked me if I had visited the newly opened local Heritage Centre yet. I hadn't, but because he had been instrumental in helping to set it up, I promised to visit. When I did...I was BLOWN AWAY! There, in front of me, were stories galore just waiting to be discovered.
I live in a small coastal town in the north west of England. Although nowadays the population is approximately 22,000, locals still refer to it as a village because that is what it has been for most of its existence. As recently as 1900 there were still only around 5,500 inhabitants and before that the population could be counted in the hundreds. So as a southern city incomer (35 years and counting!) I had never taken much notice of its history, somewhat arrogantly assuming that there wouldn't be much of interest compared to the seafaring port where I grew up.
Of course I couldn't help but hear some things so I knew about the elusive footprints that can still sometimes be seen on the beach at low tide. What I didn't know was that some of them are 9,000 years old! Baked and hardened in the sun and then covered by sediment, these ancient prints of adults and children, red deer, roe deer, wolves, aurochs, cranes, dogs and horses have been extensively photographed and documented since erosion caused them to reappear in the 1980s. This is an important piece of work as, eventually, incoming tides will wash them all away. All this was explained at the Heritage Centre.
I knew the name of the town had Viking roots but I didn't know it was a derivation of a personal name, Forni's village, from a time when the area was settled by Norsemen. It was also news to me that many other local place names derive from either Norwegian or Danish settlers who mixed with the local Anglo-Saxon community and worked as farmers, fishermen and traders for hundreds of years.
I discovered how things changed slightly after the Norman Conquest of 1066 when the village became part of the Manor of Formby, owned by the de Formby family who were descendants of the original Norse settlers. It was then, as now, a coastal area of dunes and marshland, and for the next 700 years its inhabitants mainly led a rural life that continued to rely on coastal fishing and agriculture.
It was only when Liverpool, its nearest city, began to expand, that Formby's scattered farms became more entrepreneurial, providing food for city dwellers. This was when its most prosperous crop, asparagus, became celebrated nationally, with supplies regularly sent to London as well as Liverpool. The remnants of this historical asparagus farming can still be seen in the landscape today, and the one asparagus farm that remains attracts many customers for the six week asparagus season in April/May/June depending on the weather. I am lucky enough to live opposite the farm so its delicious crop is a regular part of our diet during its short harvest.
It was also, in this part of the late eighteenth century, that Formby Lifeboat Station was built. Although Formby has a wonderful wild beach backed by sand dunes, it is in fact situated in Liverpool Bay, so the Liverpool Dock Master of the time, supported by the Dock Trustees, arranged for Britain's first ever lifeboat station to be established in Formby, as quoted below:
On the strand about a mile below Formby Lower Land Mark there is a boathouse, and a boat kept ready to save lives from vessels forced on shore on that coast, and a guinea, or more, reward is paid by the Corporation for every human life that is saved by means of this boat, etc.’
The remains of the lifeboat station can still be seen today and this year is its 250 anniversary when there will be many celebrations. The remains of wrecked ships can also be seen at low tide!
By now thoroughly hooked, I kept looking and reading, and that was when I discovered that the local beach was one of the most active flying centres in the country in the early twentieth century, a testing place for five of Britain's pioneer aviators. Reports from that time state that crashes were frequent but injuries rare. With a beach stretching for 20 miles through neighbouring towns and districts, the area provided a long flat unpopulated area for these brave men who built the forerunners of the planes we fly in today.
A single visit to this wonderful Heritage Centre is definitely not enough. There are photos and memories of WW1 and WW2, including the tale of how the old lighthouse was demolished in WW2 once it was realised that its light was acting as a beacon for incoming German aircraft.
I also discovered that in 1939 The First Battalion King's Own Liverpool Regiment 's barracks was established close to the beach to train the soldiers who later fought in places like Burma and Normandy, taking part in the D Day Landings. What is now a conservation area of sand dunes and unspoiled beach was once a hutted camp with training grounds, rifle ranges and accommodation. Everything that was left of the abandoned barracks once the war was over is now the crushed and compressed base of a beach carpark.
I learned, too, that once there was a working windmill, a power station, a Cold War monitoring post and bunker, a magistrate's court and council offices. These have all gone the way of the barracks, the lighthouse and the lifeguard station. Nowadays our small town is a cross between a retirement village and a dormitory town for commuters, except in the summer when visitors arrive to enjoy the beach and the hundreds of acres of what is now a protected conservation area of woods, fields and sand dunes.
We consider ourselves very lucky to live here. We found Formby by chance when jobs moved us north in the 1990s. We spent two weeks holidaying in the area when we knew the move was coming, looking at schools, journey times, and everything else we deemed important if we had to move several hundred miles away from where we had lived for more than 25 years. Fed up with driving around different towns and villages, we took a day off and went to what looked like a wide beach on the ordnance survey map (this was before GPS and iPhones). We parked outside the house that is now our home. Talk about serendipity. And I think my recent visit to the Heritage Centre might just be a case of serendipity too.
Although some of my books are partially set locally, they are too well camouflaged for this to be noticed. However, Reluctant Date is different. While a large part of the story is set in Florida, some of it is local because the protagonists work to protect nature, and today Formby has some of Europe's most important dune systems. These support unique plants and insects. Its pinewoods are also home to the iconic red squirrel, while its heathland and dunes are inhabited by endangered natterjack toads, sand lizards, rare butterflies and wading birds.
It's a lovely place to live but for me, now, it has an added attraction. It's very own Heritage Centre, a small museum with so many artefacts, photos and stories that I will be able to research to my heart's content while I look for my next story.
Extract from Reluctant Date
Claire's spirits lifted slightly when he returned carrying scuffed hiking boots in one hand and a thick weatherproof jacket in the other. If he came equipped for walking each time he travelled across the Atlantic, then he must be serious about wildlife. Maybe her decision to spend more time with him before she made up her mind about his job was the right one after all. A day fighting the elements would not only clear her head, it would show her exactly what Daniel Marchant was made of.
* * *
An hour later, protected from the wind by a thick padded jacket, and with her hair bundled into an old woollen hat, Claire led the way across the open heath. In the distance were the miles of undulating sand dunes that provide a wind and sea defence between the land and the beach. Daniel, similarly clad, followed her, a pair of powerful binoculars swinging from a leather strap around his neck.
They had barely exchanged half a dozen words since leaving the house but somehow it didn't seem to matter. For the first time since their original meeting Claire felt at ease with him again. She could see from the expression on his face that he was as focussed as she was, his eyes alert for any sign of wildlife, his interested excited by the unusual terrain.
Over breakfast she had given him a potted history of the area. Now she was eager to show it to him.
The morning passed quickly as they trekked through pinewoods busy with red squirrels, and across uneven scrub where flocks of grazing birds rose in noisy protest as they disturbed them. Time and again Daniel raised his binoculars to his eyes with an exclamation of delight, and time and again Claire had to force her fast beating heart into submission as she responded to his enthusiasm and tried to answer his questions.
Eventually they moved shoreward, clambering across the sand dunes until they had an uninterrupted view of the sea. It was black and wild under scudding clouds that occasionally parted to reveal unexpected patches of pale blue sky. The beach below them, deserted except for an occasional dog walker, stretch for miles in both directions.
Daniel was silent for several long minutes as he slowly took in the panoramic view. Then he turned to Claire, his face full of barely repressed excitement.
"Look at those dunes! They go on forever. It's amazing."
Claire stared at him, startled by his over-the-top enthusiasm for what, to her, was just a familiar hike, somewhere she enjoyed for its peace and wild, windswept beauty.
When he saw the surprised expression on her face, he chuckled. "You have absolutely no idea that this dunescape is one of the most important nature conservation areas in Europe, do you?" he teased. "To you it's just home, but I've read all about it, and to me it's a conservationists's dream. Don't worry though. I'll get over it. I tend to forget that most people aren't turned on by coastal erosion. Now how about lunch? I think you mentioned a local pub.
