“Po-ta-toes,” said Sam. “The Gaffer’s delight, and rare good ballast for an empty belly. But you won’t find any, so you needn’t look.”
— J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Two Towers” (The Lord of the Rings)
Thursday April 17, 2025 was a big day for me. I took myself on an adventure. It wasn’t a big adventure. Just a day out at the coast. But it was the first time I’d taken myself out for the day in almost a year. Last time it was a trip into the city to see an exhibition of paintings by the renowned English landscape painter J. M. W. Turner. There was no aim or goal this time beyond a sense of curiosity. How would it feel to be out of my usual environment after so long? I’d chosen a day when the weather promised to be dry and bright, but beyond that I had only the loosest of plans. I’d catch the Metro train to Tynemouth, walk to the sea front, then head north. Maybe I’d walk on the beach. Maybe I’d paddle. There were any number of cafes, coffee shops, and pubs I might stop at for something to eat or drink.
The one thing I did want to do was buy chips and sit eating them by the sea. There were a couple of options. The fish and chip van that often parked just along from Tynemouth Aquarium. The fish and chip shop at Cullercoats. Either of those would be perfect. There was a fish and chip shop in Tynemouth too, but that wasn’t as close to the sea front. Whatever else happened, whatever I saw or did, a tray of chips — even better, a chip stottie — would make the perfect memory of my day out.
Tynemouth Metro station was deserted when I arrived. I took a few moments to photograph the stunning architecture. The broad central steps leading to the footbridge to the opposite platform. The sweeping ironwork of the roof, renovated in recent years. I made my way from the station towards the sea front. The main street of Tynemouth was as pretty as I remembered it, lined with pubs, bars, and gift shops. A display of rubber ducks in one shop window. I took photos as I went along and shared a few in chat with Fran for when she woke. It was a little after nine thirty. Too early to stop for food yet. I’d had breakfast before I set out and had a flask of coffee with me. The thought of chips later spurred me on. A walk first, to give me an appetite.
I stood for a while before the looming mass of Tynemouth castle. Beyond the railings the moat fell twenty or thirty feet, then rose again in a steep grassy slope to the gatehouse beyond. I thought of my unpublished novella Playing at Darkness which is set within the walls of the castle over the course of one day and night. A key scene plays out in and around the moat. If I half closed my eyes I could almost — almost — see the drama unfold in front of me. There’s a lot of me invested in that place, emotionally and creatively.
I turned away and began my walk north along the promenade. King Edward’s Bay opened below me to my right. Memories of time spent on that little beach over the years, alone and with friends. I shook my head to centre myself in the present. Pausing on one of the many benches I opened my diary and began to write, holding the pages flat against the breeze.
10:05 am. Tynemouth. A bench overlooking the sea.
Well, I finally committed to my little adventure! It’s a quiet day, not many folk about at all. I guess the question I’m posing by doing something different is “what difference does it make?” Why did I come here instead of spending another morning writing at Costa? Is this better? The same? Or is the question itself meaningless? There’s no scale against which to measure any of it. Do this. Do that. The universe doesn’t care — or even notice — what I choose to do or how I choose to spend my time.
I closed my diary and put it away. I continued my stroll north, stopping to take such photographs as caught my eye. The castle and priory. The sweep of the shore. Shelters silhouetted against the skyline. A small wooden rowboat, anonymous save for the number 12 painted on her stern, converted into a quirky planter for tulips. It was another echo of my novella, which recounted a different rowboat marrooned high above the tide. The overlap of reality and fiction. Then and now. Real and imagined.
The old rowing boat is nothing special. For sixty years she worked the mouth of the great river, plying the dangerous waters around Black Middens until the old trade waned. Now she is the last of her kind. Five winters weathered her boards on the steeply banked pebbles of Prior’s Haven. Then men took her, painted her gaudy in blue and white and named her anew. Now the “Northumbrian Water” rests high above the water line, berthed forever in the turfed earth beside the Gibraltar Rock.
Ahead of me in the distance I could see the wide white bulk of the Tynemouth Castle Inn. It would be pleasant to sit outside there with a pint. I’d done that once or twice before. It was still early, though, and I wanted to eat before I thought of beer. Maybe on the way back after I’d had my chips. Beyond the hotel, the aquarium. More memories, old and less old, general and specific. The most recent was some six years ago. January 2019. Sheltering in the doorway from the rain as I waited for a friend. A few hundred yards beyond the aquarium carpark was where the chip van plied its trade. I could see a large van pulled up there, but as I got closer I saw it was selling ice creams and drinks only. A minor disappointment, but I consoled myself with the thought that the chip shop still lay ahead. That would be better anyway.
It’s no more than half a mile between the aquarium and Cullercoats bay but I took my time. I sat for a moment on another of the benches that line the promenade. How am I feeling?I asked myself. Right now. What am I feeling? It’s only a year or so since I learned about alexithymia. It’s a term for the difficulty many people — me included — have in identifying and communicating their emotions. I’ve written elsewhere about alexithymia and how it affects me. In a very real sense, it was impossible for me to describe how I felt as I sat on that bench in the sunshine. I was feeling something but I couldn’t label it. Even distinguishing my feelings as “good” or “bad” was a challenge. There was a sense of satisfaction, that I’d taken myself out for the day. But uneasiness too, because I wasn’t sure that it was meaningful to have done so. I had no real aim, beyond that tray of chips.
As I continued my walk, the broad sweep of Cullercoats bay came into view. I could pick out the lifeboat station, the slipway, and the steep slope that led down to the beach from the road. Across the road, the row of buildings that included a cafe, a couple of bars, the community centre I visited last year with my friend Aimee to attend a mental health event, and the chip shop. Maybe I’d take my tray of chips down to the beach. Or just sit looking out across the sea as I’d done many times in the past.
The chip shop was closed.
It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock so I wandered a little further to photograph the bay from the opposite direction. Eleven ten came and passed. Eleven fifteeen. There was no sign of light or movement from inside the shop and no indication of its opening hours that I could see. It might open at midday but that felt too long to wait around. I wasn’t sure what to do. The cafe was open but looked busy. There was another cafe around the corner and a coffee shop a few minutes walk away. I didn’t want a sit-down meal, though, and I still had coffee in my flask. Nothing I could think of was what I wanted.
I had a flashback to 2020 when hospitality began reopening after months of lockdown. I took myself into Newcastle city centre with the sole intention of revisiting my then favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero at St Mary’s Place opposite the Civic Centre. I arrived to find a note in the window explaining they couldn’t muster enough staff to open. There were other coffee shops in Newcastle. There were at least two more Caffè Nero stores, any of which might well have been open. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I caught the next train home. I recalled how other people had reacted to my story. “If you’d held yourself open to opportunities instead of getting all huffy you might have had a great time, just a different time.” That was true, of course. But I hadn’t been huffy. Not really. Disappointed, yes. But by heading home I wasn’t giving up on my day. I was honouring my folorn hopes and aspirations.
It didn’t look like I was going to get any chips. It was a disappointment, for sure. More than I’d have imagined. Maybe I’d tied my hopes too tightly to the idea that at some point I’d be sitting on a bench with a tray of chips. Maybe a chip butty. With salt and vinegar and a dash of brown sauce. I could practically taste it. I took a few more photos of the bay and began walking back the way I’d come. I couldn’t think of anything else — or better — to do. What did “better” mean, anyway?
Passing the park my attention was caught by a flash of movement. White sails on the boating lake. There’d been none earlier. I recalled there was a model boat club that met at the park. I hesitated, wondering if there was any point in crossing the road to take a look. Without consciously deciding to, I found myself sitting on a bench in the park as maybe a dozen radio-controlled yachts raced back and forth across the water. For the first time in my day I felt fully engaged with what was happening around me. I watched the yachts for a while, recording a short video to share with Fran later. It was getting close to the time for our call. It was pleasant sitting there, but a bit breezy for a video conversation.
I found a shelter a few hundred yards along the promenade and settled in out of the breeze. While I waited, I recalled other times I’d been disappointed by events that failed to meet my hopes and expectations. One evening walk during covid came to mind, when a succession of small grievances left me feeling cold, wet, and grumpy. I smiled at myself, remembering it only too well. Other potato-related disappointments came to mind. The takeout meal that arrived without the chips that had been ordered. Another takeout, at my friend Aimee’s this time, when the chips had been so disgusting I couldn’t eat them at all. I smiled again. Potato-related disappointments indeed!
Fran messaged to say she was free for a call and in a moment I was no longer on my own with my thoughts. She told me she was proud of me for taking myself out on my little adventure. Rather than ask how I felt, she invited me to share what I’d been doing, knowing that’s much easier for me to describe. I recounted my day in brief, from my arrival in Tynemouth. I did share one emotion. The one I had no difficulty labeling. My disappointment at the lack of chips!
I told Fran about the boats on the lake and sent her the video I’d recorded. We discovered we each had childhood stories of owning a model yacht. As I described mine to her I could see it clearly. The solid wooden hull, the metal keel, the buff coloured sails, the rigging with its nylon fittings. The small flag I’d added, cut from a scrap of red fabric. Memories swirled around us as we shared our respective stories, like the sailboats on the lake.
After talking a while, we moved on. As we walked, I shared with her the sights and sounds of the coast. It reminded me of other times I’ve walked with friends beside the sea. We watched a huge container vessel as it made its way towards the mouth of the river. I showed her King Edward’s Bay and we stopped for a few minutes by the castle and moat. Fran recalled that I’ve taken her there on calls in the past. Prior’s Haven, and along the pier to the little lighthouse. It warmed me that she remembered.
Marshalls Fish Shop was open, but by now I’d settled into the idea of not having that particular expectation met, and we kept walking. We stopped by the stern bronze statue of Queen Victoria to say hello, but she declined to smile. We got back to the station and crossed the foot bridge to the opposite platform. Our train arrived within minutes. Fran stayed with me on the call most of my way home. We parted easily, both grateful for having shared my adventure.
Once home, I went through the many photos and videos I’d taken, posting the best to social media to share with my friends and followers. I may not have had my chips, but I’d had a good time and I was glad I’d taken myself out. Later in the day, I checked online. The chip shop in Cullercoats opens at 11:30 am. If I’d thought to check while I was there, or stayed another twenty minutes or so, I could have had my chips after all! It was fine, though. There was no more — and no less — meaning in my chip-free day than there would have been if my hopes had been realised.
When the chips are down what matters, what makes things meaningful, is less the things themselves — what you do or where you go or what you eat looking out over the sea — and more the opportunity to share them with a friend.
Photo by Martin Baker, Grand Parade, Tynemouth, September 2018.
