By Ember Birchall
As the sun peeked through the clouds, we gathered at The Peacock — a cosy pub where our shared love for music had first brought us together.
These friends, fellow open mic night enthusiasts, had become my companions for adventure. A few weeks prior, we’d strolled hand-in-hand through Birchwood, our laughter echoing among the trees. Risley Moss had welcomed us with its tranquil beauty, and we’d returned to The Peacock for hearty meals and more music. When the idea surfaced — like a seashell washed ashore — that we should venture to Formby Beach, we all agreed. The weather smiled upon us, and we pencilled it into our diaries. Formby, with its sandy dunes and whispering pines, promised a day of exploration. Squirrel Wood awaited, its ancient trees inviting us to wander. And so, armed with curiosity and camaraderie, we set off for our next chapter of shared memories.
The morning air held a promise of adventure as I stepped into The Peacock. The wooden floors creaked under my trainers, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered. I was the first to arrive, my excitement palpable. I was about to order a coffee, not realising how early I actually was, but after a quick glance at my watch — I had time and ASDA beckoned, so I dashed across the street. A baseball cap caught my eye, its brim shielding me from the sun’s eager rays. Bottles of water clinked in my bag, ready for our sandy escapade. Back at The Peacock, our open mic hostess, her fiancé, and I exchanged smiles. They arrived, hand in hand, their laughter filling the room. Soon, the others joined us — one with her young daughter in tow. We gathered a motley crew of music lovers and wanderers, ready to explore Formby’s secrets. The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows on the pavement. Our diaries held the promise of a day etched in memory — a day of laughter, waves, and the whisper of squirrel wood.
As our group converged at The Peacock, we split into two cars — the open mic hostess, her fiancé, and I forming a musical trio. Our adventure began with a pit stop at Starbucks, where caffeine fuelled our spirits for the day ahead. The car ride resonated with laughter and song, each of us taking turns as DJ, selecting tunes to blast through the car speakers. I, usually a silent observer at open mic nights, found myself humming along. The road stretched before us, promising hidden trails and salty sea breezes. The melodies swirled around us, weaving a soundtrack for our journey. And there I was, lyrics escaping my lips, surprised by my own willingness to join in. The car windows framed passing landscapes — the green of fields, the occasional glimpse of the sea. As we approached Formby, anticipation buzzed in the air. The scent of pine mingled with saltwater, and the road curved toward the dunes. Our laughter echoed through the car, harmonizing with the engine’s hum. We parked, stepped out onto the sandy ground, and looked toward the horizon. Until that moment, the journey so far had been fairly easy, but it was only when we realised the cost of parking that we started to panic, none of us thought to bring money for parking. Between us, we all scrambled around for change, and before long, we were able to put together enough to pay for both cars. In the distance, the beach awaited, its waves whispering secrets. And so, with music still lingering in our hearts, we set off — friends bound by melody, ready to explore the canvas of Formby’s beauty. And there it was — the vast expanse of sand, the distant pinpricks of seagulls, and the promise of squirrel wood beyond. Our footsteps left imprints, our laughter carried by the wind. As the sun climbed higher, we shed our worries like old coats, embracing the day. The open mic night had brought us together, but this adventure would etch our bond deeper — a symphony of shared moments, sung in the key of friendship.
Our toes sank into the soft sand, and the salty breeze tousled our hair as we stepped onto Formby Beach. The little girl, wide-eyed and giggling, revelled in the sensation of sand between her toes. Her excitement was contagious, and we followed her lead, leaving footprints in the damp shoreline. Wildflowers adorned our path, their vibrant yellow petals mirroring the ribbons that adorned her hair. Clutching my camera, I was eager to capture the rugged beauty around us — the dunes, the distant sea, and the play of light on the waves. Formby Beach, located on the Sefton coast in Merseyside, offers miles of unspoiled coastline with an abundance of bird and plant life. Its spacious stretch of beach is backed by extensive sand dunes, giving it a much more rural feel than its neighbours. Beyond the dunes lie sweeping coastal pinewoods, which are home to the elusive red squirrels⁵. These charming creatures add to the enchantment of the landscape, darting among the trees and creating a sense of wilderness. As we continued our wanderings, the open mic hostess hummed a tune, her fiancé joining in with a harmonious whistle. We became a chorus of wanderers, our steps in sync with the rhythm of the tides. But then, as if scripted by British weather folklore, raindrops began to fall. Not a gentle drizzle, mind you, but a sudden downpour. Undeterred, we laughed, our spirits undampened, and dashed toward the boardwalk. The wooden slats provided shelter, and we huddled together, raindrops tapping a staccato beat on the roof above us. Formby Beach had woven its magic, leaving us with memories of both sunshine and showers.
Lunchboxes emerged — one by one — from our bags. Sandwiches wrapped in foil, slices of cake, and fruit. We shared stories, passing around Tupperware containers filled with memories and laughter. The sea, now a distant grey expanse, whispered secrets to the rain-soaked sand. Our lunchtime sanctuary became a haven of camaraderie. The open mic hostess strummed an imaginary guitar, and we sang snippets of songs, our voices blending with the patter of raindrops. The little girl, her cheeks flushed, told us about her favourite dinosaur and how she wanted to be an astronaut when she grew up. Minutes stretched into moments, and we forgot about schedules and diaries. The rain persisted, but our laughter drowned it out. The camera stayed tucked away — I realised that sometimes memories are best captured in the heart, not on film. We were a patchwork family — music lovers, poets, and dreamers — finding solace under the boardwalk, savouring the unexpected magic of a British summer shower. And so, as the rain played its symphony, we feasted on sandwiches and shared our hopes for the future.
As the raindrops dwindled to a gentle mist, we left the shelter of the boardwalk and retraced our steps toward the cars. The beach had been a fleeting affair — like a whispered promise — but we weren’t ready to surrender the day. Determined not to waste a moment, we piled into our vehicles and set off for Squirrel Wood. Squirrel Wood, located within the National Trust’s Formby Red Squirrel Reserve, is a captivating woodland in Merseyside, England. Here, the enchantment of nature unfolds, inviting visitors to explore its hidden corners and embrace the simple joys of being among the trees. At the car park, a National Trust van awaited its windows adorned with colourful activity sheets. The little girl’s eyes widened as she clutched one, her excitement palpable. We were armed with a mission: to explore the heart of Doncaster’s woodlands. The trees stood sentinel, their narrow trunks inviting us into their leafy embrace. Hide and seek became our woodland anthem. We darted behind oaks and beeches, our laughter echoing through the forest. The little girl counted, her voice rising with anticipation while we scattered like leaves in the wind. My camera clicked incessantly, capturing the interplay of light and shadow. The woods revealed their magic — the dappling sunlight, the ferns unfurling, and the earthy scent of damp soil. I attempted to pen a poem — a tribute to the rustling leaves and the way the forest whispered ancient tales. As we emerged from behind a gnarled oak, the little girl squealed with delight. “Found you!” she declared, tagging one of our hiding companions. We laughed, breathless and exhilarated. The woods had become our playground, a canvas for imagination and camaraderie. And so, amid the rustling leaves and the scent of pine, we wove memories. The little girl’s laughter, my lens capturing fleeting beauty, and the whispered lines of my unfinished poem — they all merged into something timeless. Squirrel Wood embraced us, rain-kissed and wild, as we revelled in the simple joy of being lost among the trees.
After our walk through Squirrel Woods, a name that seemed oddly mismatched given the conspicuous absence of squirrels, we retraced our steps to the waiting cars. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest floor. My legs ached from the miles of winding trails, and the impromptu hide-and-seek games had left me breathless. As I settled into the backseat, the gentle hum of the engine lulled me toward sleep. Back at The Peacock, we gathered once more. Laughter echoed off the walls as we promised to repeat this adventure, eagerly anticipating the next location, chosen by someone else in our merry band.
