Not West Bridgford No. 5

The underlying and essentially pointless theme of these “Not West Bridgford” pieces is the discovery, in some other place, that one’s surroundings are reminiscent of a scene in the archetypally suburban district of West Bridgford, Nottingham. As well as, subjectively, needing architectural and/or atmospheric qualities to be present in order for this to happen, there can be something about the Proustian ‘involuntary memory’ phenomenon in all this: the unexpected stimulus, the absolutely trivial occurrence that powerfully triggers recollection.

Therefore it’s entirely appropriate that one of Marcel Proust’s special places should feature here. Cabourg, on the pleasant Normandy coast between Arromanches and Honfleur, was fictionalised by Proust as Balbec, the location of happy seaside holidays. Improbably, given its location, it’s uncannily Bridgfordian.

Cabourg’s central area is geometrically planned, with extensive open spaces, its architecture is undeniably French; the town possesses a long promenade and a fine sandy beach, and it survives delightfully out of time. For those who know Albert Road, in West Bridgford – as you make your way from Tudor Square towards Bridgford Park - how about this for its Cabourg equivalent:

Or better still, continue round into Edward Road and find, just a block or so to your left, not the aforementioned Park and the cut-through to the Co-op supermarket, but the sea. The cold waters of the English Channel are just over the horizon up the road on the left.

If we revert to an earlier discussion about the role of fake Tudor style as a default design form for West Bridgford, we might want to head a few miles along the coast from Cabourg to Deauville, where we can enjoy this:

 
In a way this is not so much “Not West Bridgford” as “More WB than WB”, a long forgotten childhood dream where a maroon-and-cream WBUDC vingt et un is purring at the stop outside Ethel Llewellyn’s, picking up passengers for its uphill journey to the rue Alford.

Not West Bridgford No. 4

Bridgford Park is a small green gem, under constant threat of encroachment from unlovely shops and unlovelier car parks, close to the commercial centre of West Bridgford. Just a minute or two’s walk from Central Avenue it contains all the features one would expect of a suburban park, plus a couple of unexpected ones. Lawns, trees, flowers, flower baskets, places to sit, obviously; the usual amenities including tennis courts and a playground for children; but then less usual features like Bridgford Hall (a Georgian pile currently undergoing transformation into a hotel – expect more parking requirements), a set of stone steps from which one can mount one’s horse (although if one wants to mount it somewhere else I’m not sure what one is supposed to do), and – slightly less amusingly – a ha-ha.

The area between the central gardens and Albert Road used to be a treeless grassy expanse upon which several games of football or cricket could be played simultaneously. Several years ago trees were planted, transforming the appearance, and making the playing of games hazardously collision-prone. Such is progress. I’ll resist commenting on what “they” have done to the library.

 
The photograph is, of course, Not Bridgford Park, but the recreation ground adjacent to Wanstead High Street in East London. However, the view simulates the effect of looking into Bridgford Park from the Albert Road direction, with a vista under the large trees with their surrounding hexagonal benches, towards the Hall.