Bit of a strange one this one. I went up to New Brighton this morning on my bike and rode along the promenade.

When I got to the roundabout by the clown statue, somebody has stuck little wooden plaques on the few remaining timber pieces on the concrete sea wall, they all refer to Malcolm Lowry and some of his written works, there is about ten of these homemade plaques, anybody any ideas on what is the purpose of them?

I should have taken a photo, but if anybody is up that way tomorrow or wants to do a bit of detective work, lol, I know who Malcolm Lowry is courteous of Wikipedia, but seems as though somebody thinks he should be remember in Wirral.

He was born in New Brighton

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Handsome, talented, privileged, alcholic - it took a strong woman to keep it together.

Handsome? Talented? privileged? Alcoholic? Who's been reading my CV? lol.

Handsome? Talented? privileged? Alcoholic? Who's been reading my CV? lol.

Lol, Fil, an impressive CV then

Sorted, it was the guy who videoed them for youtube that put them up.

Clicky

There were some of these glued to the new model boating lake wall last year, but somehow they ended up in it.

His most famous book is called 'Under the Volcano'. Wirral memories are borrowed and intertwined in the following excerpt:

'And this was how M.Laruelle came to Leasowe.

It was a kind of grown-up, civilized version of Courseulles on the English north-west coast. The Taskersons lived in a comfortable house whose back garden abutted on a beautiful, undulating, golf course bounded on the far side by the sea. It looked like the sea; actually it was the estuary, seven miles wide, of a river:white horses westward marked where the real sea began. The Welsh mountains, gaunt and black and cloudy, with occasionally a snow peak to remind Geoff of India, lay across the river.During the week, when they were allowed to play, the course was deserted: yellow ragged sea poppies fluttered in the spiny sea grass. On the shore were the remains of an antediluvian forest with ugly black stumps showing, and farther up an old stubby lighthouse. There was an island in the estuary, with a windmill on it like a curious black flower, which you could ride out to at low tide on a donkey.
The smoke of freighters outward bound from Liverpool hung low on the horizon. There was a feeling of space and emptiness.
Only at week-ends did a certain disadvantage appear in their site: although the season was drawing to a close and the grey hydropathic hotels along the promenades were emptying, the golf course was packed all day with Liverpool brokers playing foursomes. From Saturday morning till Sunday night a continuous hail of golf balls flying out of bounds bombarded the roof. There was pleasure to go out with Geoffrey into the town, which was still full of laughing pretty girls, and walk through the sunlit windy streets or to look at one of the comical Pierrot shows on the beach. Or best of all they would sail on the marine lake in a borrowed twelve-foot yacht managed expertly by Geoffrey.'

I forgot to mention that this book was published in 1947.

There was a 'Malcolm Lowry Day' last year at the Bluecoat. I am not sure if this was a one-off or regular event.