“It is not an island in the truest sense, just by name. There is no iconic bridge that connects it to the mainland, and no ferry can take you there. No idyllic sanctuary is this, neither for man nor beast, not now, not ever.
Palm trees and yachts you’ll find for sure, not contained within harbour walls or a sun-drenched marina; they are on the fridge magnets and novelty ashtrays that pass as tuppeny souvenirs for sun reddened tourists, seeking a memento for a poorly grandparent for whom the traditional seaside fudge is too rich in texture, if not price.
Less than half a mile wide, the sand is more brown than golden today, as the deluge has dampened its lustre. No groynes are needed here for there are two snub nosed promontories of teeth like rock that both protect and gave birth to this cove, preventing longshore drift ever being any issue. It is these rocks, not the gaudy coloured teeth Rotters for sale with diabetes written through them in invisible, sugar laden letters that fascinate me so.
A geologist’s story book is carved here, the softer sedimentary rocks are there for all to see with their multi coloured striations, eaten away so that their retreat has now taken them out of reach of lunar forces and high winds. Perhaps this heralds only a momentary pause in a battle that has raged for aeons, but for the mayfly like existence that humans understand, this has proved time enough to make our own indelible mark, however transient and fleeting our own time on Earth.
As if to celebrate this ceasefire, a Caesarean laurel wreath of the victor, an emerald ribbon of trees and shrubs crown these rocks. Only rainwater will fall at the feet of this temporary cliff except for those century rare days when moon, wind and misfortune are unified in their determination to attack once more during the highest of high tides.
Above this canopy rises the mast of a ship, a mirage like epitaphic tombstone for the shattered wreck that lays beneath it, hidden behind the headland. If an imagination can recall the wider boundaries of its youth, one could conjure up images of bandana wearing, hook handed pirates and buccaneers. There are none though, only baseball capped, Elizabeth Duke ringed gamblers chasing fortune, if not fame, in the numerous arcades that litter the promenade.
The last pirate ship that flew the Jolly Roger in these parts could not be seen casting a wake in these silt filled waters. It still inspired fear and awe, but to view it would mean turning your back to the ocean and casting your gaze inland as its voluntary crew were lifted a hundred feet in the air and then swept downwards again. Future crew members ran amok, flitting between the Galaxy roller coaster and Fun House, with its rickety walkways, distorting mirrors and vertical death slide.
Logs were flumed and the Waltzers span their occupants in a nauseatingly choreographed corruption of their name, whilst the brave prospected in the wackiest of Gold Mines. The foolhardy and the fearless entered the Ghost Train, and the comatose and simple travelled to the far flung reaches of deepest Africa on the Jungle Boat ride. The Barry Island Pleasure Park was just that, a small piece of land close to the seas edge that served delight, candy floss and toffee apples in abundance.
Even now, as a desolate, barren spectacle it is impossible not to smile as the senses betray their own as the smells, the tastes and the bedlam and cacophony of childhood’s soundtrack allows the eyes to ignore what is etched so pitifully in front of them. The memories threaten to engulf me at this point as this place belonged to my father and I, at least in our minds for the few nights a year we would go there. A chance to see him with a sparkle in his eye watching his youngest enjoy the frivolity of the whole affair.
Averting my gaze before tears cloud such a perfect memory, I look again towards the sea. My daughter dances in the waves with a smile I remember that used to belong on my own face.
Despite the filthy appearance, the waters here are clean once again, the natural maelstroms and eddies of estuarine coast activity accounting for the less than appealing hue of the sea, rather than the raw sewage that once seeped putridly and unchecked for so many years. I laugh at once what was found on this beach and what can be found today. Kayakers paddle furiously against the vicious cross current and on the sands a giant schnauzer lollops lackadaisically in a feeble, half hearted effort to trap a less than enthused seagull.
My daughter and her friend are still chasing mythical sea monsters as I sit here writing. For all this island is, and equally isn’t, for this momentary escape from my own problems, from my troubled present and the shadows of before that threaten my future, right now, right here today, Barry is far more than an island to me. I never thought it could ever be, but this truly IS an idyllic sanctuary, a safe haven. It is perfectly imperfect and far more than I could ever wish it to be.”
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