The Only Way is Amman
I would like to tell you a tale of a town called Wells. Not the setting for the film Hot Fuzz but Wells-next-the-Sea, famous for beach huts and the world’s only use of an invisible preposition.
Though don’t be scared, the use of prepositions is otherwise encouraged by the everyday people of Wells. Walking along the quayside it is not uncommon to overhear a tourist asking a local: ‘excuse me, where is French’s fish and chip shop?’
‘Over there beside the arcade,’ comes the reply. Both parties breathe a sigh of relief and head over to share some deliciously battered fish and laugh about how silly they used to be.
They discuss the absence of seagulls. Are they hovering in the shadows or do they simply have impeccable manners? Lurking in the peripherals until the chip tray is empty then striking in the hope of a stray flake of batter. ‘What admirable gulls,’ they agree.
After bonding over fish, chips and gulls these new friends are likely to want a stroll. Naturally they go to Staithe street and enter a bookstore, only to be met by the icy stare of a woman wearing her glasses in that peculiar way that suggests: “WANT TO COME IN HERE AND READ MY BOOKS DO YOU? THEY’RE MINE, I’VE READ THEM ALL AND YOU’RE HAVING NONE.” Although out loud she says, ‘hello?’
In a panic they hurry upstairs and hide in a corner. After the atmosphere has dissipated they both pick up some books and head down. These, of course, are calculated to show how truly interesting they both are. Him a novel which states in bold on the cover that it is a “tour de force of feminine sexuality.” Her, a collection of photography and a book on terrorism. This intrigues him and they decide to discuss it further at the seaside.
Only a short ride by miniature train and they arrive at the beach. The tide is low, so low you can’t see the sea. They strip off and run down to a narrow but deep channel of water that leads all the way back to town. The water is cold, several seals flap their encouragement from a nearby sand bank.
They spend several hours exploring the vast miles of exposed sand. Picking up shells, prodding jelly fish and eyeing a drowned deer. A siren blares out somewhere behind them announcing the turn of the tide. They hurry back to the channel and swim across with jumpers above their heads and seals around their ankles.
By now this giddy pair are likely to be thirsty. A wooden boat called the Albatros welcomes them just across from the train’s final stop in town. The sound of a muffled guitar emanating from a hatch on the deck. Down the steep ladder they totter, and nestle in a corner surrounded by sea charts and a stuffed puffer fish.
Suddenly realising the hour they hurry back up on deck and onto shore, stopping briefly to reminisce about how they met only a few hours ago. ‘Beside the arcade!’ she says and they both fall about in hysterics. Seeing the bright lights of a games arcade they rush inside as rain begins to fall. Armed with a cups of two penny pieces they battle to the death to win a string of worthless tickets. They are ushered out after ten minutes penny poor but experience rich.
As the day comes to an end he remarks, ‘you know, they say that a day spent in Wells-next-the-Sea can often feel like a day spent a-bloody-long-way-from-the-sea.’ Thankfully she laughs and they walk off arm in arm, next-the-sea.