What I did as a scribbler… Camber Sands

I love the high speed link from St. Pancras to South East England.  I associate it with remarkably brief train journeys to Canterbury and beyond, during the time I was working as a lighting designer in that town, or when going to visit family on the Kentish coast.  I love the way you can feel the acceleration as it hits the first tunnel, and how you look down at Stratford International and when you look up five minutes later, you’re already pulling into Ashford.

The fact, therefore, that my tickets were booked from St. Pancras to Rye via the high speed link, as step 1 of my journey to Camber Sands, boded well.  The fact that I was going to the SFX Weekender was something more of an unknown – after ten years of writing in this genre, this was, honest to god, my first ever SF/Fantasy convention, and while I didn’t know what to expect, I’ve got nothing if not an over-active imagination.  The fact that I had to run to St. Pancras straight from the day job, with steelies on the feet and spanners in the bag, was less of a good thing.  There’s nothing quite like having misplaced your railcard somewhere inside a mess of LX tape and cable ties to add to the stress of a journey.

There are a few downsides to the St. Pancras line.  In fact, there are three downsides, and I can name all of them.  They are, in order going north-south – Stratford International, a station in the middle of a building site, change here for a bus to anywhere sensible whatsoever; Ebbsfleet International, a station in the middle of no where, change here for??, and Ashford International, a station where you just change.  The ‘International’ part is a reference to Eurostar, whose route the high speed link essentially shares.  But let’s not kid ourselves – in practical terms, it remains purely a reference, with all the international glamour of a twisted ankle.  I’ve had some truly disgusting food on the platform of Ashford International, not least because in all the rush to pack the spanners and find the ticket, I kinda forgot to grab proper grubs.  It was also the station where I had to change from the shiny high-speed service, onto a two-carriage train that is South Eastern railway’s answer to the donkey. (And let’s face it, South Eastern is not a rail service renowned for its zippy zoomy qualifications.)

It says a lot about the SFX Weekender that, while changing trains, I could easily spot the people who were going in a similar direction to me.  The two gentlemen wearing Star Wars t-shirts by the coffee shop; the woman with bright pink hair and black leather jacket and, just to complete the picture, my ex-editor, iPhone surgically glued to his ear, who was joining a large contingent of science fiction publishers and authors heading down to the East Sussex coast for the weekend.  The return journey was arguably as surreal, being largely defined by the pair of identical twins, both of whom work in IT in the same floor or the same bank, and who’d spent the weekend in Camber Sands indulging their mutual love of all things science fiction/fantasy based.  To all of you… hello…

Arriving in Rye, and my publisher had very kindly, and aware of how uneasy I get going beyond the M25, arranged a cab from Rye to Camber Sands, and good thing this was too as all that lay between Rye and the final destination was darkness.  Not nice, fluffy, London darkness, full of street signs and shadows, but proper, countryside darkness, 10/10 black with a hint of epic flat horizon.

The final destination was Pontins.

Now…

… I’d never heard of Pontins.  My first exposure to Pontins came, in fact, from a deadly combination of the lovely stock controller at Forbidden Planet who fed me ridiculous amounts of biscuits while doing a signing, and the PR lady from Orbit who was in a cheeky mood at the time.

‘Pontins!’ quoth they.  ‘We’re staying in a Pontins – bring your own sleeping bag!’

‘Really?’ quoth I, all innocent.  ‘Won’t there be bedding…?’

‘Oh yes,’ they reply, ‘there’ll be bedding… but will you want to sleep in it…?’

The reality, in between tales of deadly danger and disinfectant, was that staying in Pontins was just like being back in halls of residence.  There was that special thinness of carpet, squishiness of pillow and odd quality of curtain that made the experience 99% my first year at LSE.  Throw in a high wall enclosing the Pontins compound, bungalows of identical faded concrete, directions intelligible only to the initiated, and a Nisa supermarket at either end, and you pretty much have the British student experience nailed.

I suppose in this context, the fact that the reception area was taped off behind billowing plastic sheets labeled ‘Warning – Biohazard Zone!’ and a giant robot was jiving outside the supermarket when I went in search of something to eat, shouldn’t really have come as much of a shock.  In fact, after the first half hour or so, being informed by a cyberman how to get cashback from the local store, felt really rather mundane.  And there were a few unexpected perks… for example, the TV channel showing nothing but the best of science fiction movies back to back all weekend long, couldn’t have been timed better for the full-blown gale that came lashing in off the sea throughout the entire weekend.  I had genuinely forgotten how much fun Jurassic Park was, and regretted deeply the missed opportunity to see Dr Horrible’s Sing Along blog on a bigger, better screen than my crappy computer, in the company of others who appreciate its genius.

Then there were a few downsides.  For a start, I have never really encountered the concept of the ‘off-season’ but wandering down what appeared to be the main street of Camber Sands, with the weather doing its thing at full tilt, I did come to appreciate the concept in a new and slightly creepy way.  When even the chippy at the English seaside is closed for winter, you know things are bad.  Camber Sands also lived up to the second part of its name… because oh yes it was sandy.  The sand dunes tower above the bungalows of the town, and on my one rash venture down to the beach with a cry of ‘I’ve spent time on the North Sea, I can handle this!’ I probably lost as much skin as honour before beating a hasty retreat.  The sand was coming out of my hair, shoes and jacket pockets for several days after.

A hasty retreat having been beaten, back I went into the Pontins compound in search of the Orbit team and adventure.  And I gotta admit, it was like nothing I’ve quite ever experienced before.  I’ve been to a few conference/convention thingies.  After LSE, I did the obligatory job fairs in which I was told that I was exactly the kind of woman that an international packaging company really wanted on its team.  (No one else seemed very interested.)  At a charities convention, during my brief time as a volunteer for a few bods, I managed to profit a grand total of one biro and a lot of comments on my youth.  At the annual events organised for theatre technicians, my prime ambition is to leave with the latest swatch books and a vague idea of how LED technology is doing this year and whether I might one day be able to afford it, as well as, if we’re lucky, a catch up cuppa tea with my favourite lighting designer.  But generally speaking, I keep my head down; sorry truth being, I’m not good with crowds and even worse when it comes to bold self-assertion.

This latter defect became a bit of a problem when I actually had to sit on a panel at one of the SFX events.  All attendees of the convention had been issued with wristbands, but mine had been broken long before I arrived and so I was just wandering around with a badge around my neck.  While generally this was alright, the security guy on the door to the aptly named ‘screening room’ (located just behind the gaming room and next to the amusements arcade) couldn’t quite accept my bare wrist and it took every ounce of charm I had to convince him that I was there to talk about fantasy, rather than, say, spy for the romantic novelists association.  I should probably also take this moment to say that as one of only two female writers in attendance, I can understand his skepticism, but that’s a different rant…

Above the screening room was the main hall, and this truly was a place of wonders.  It was here, for example, that a parade of moon wraiths passed by the signing desk during the hour I was sat, sharpie in hand, half an ear open to the sound of Terry Pratchett talking on the far-off stage.  Just as I was on the way out past the tables of competitive Top Trumps players, another parade of giant trolls were beginning to muscle through the crowd, pushing past the storm troopers, wizards and dragons jostling for places in the various queues.

And I’m not gonna lie… as someone who spends a lot of time in darkened corners of various theatres quite carefully avoiding anyone wearing anything that looks even remotely like a silly hat, it was a weird experience.  Sure, I’m a geek, and I embrace being a geek as being someone unafraid to enjoy their interests and take satisfaction from their knowledge, but in the same way that my understanding of physics is just enough to realise I know nothing, so my geekiness is a mere shimmer upon a much deeper sea.  It’s just not a world I really know much about, which is shameful considering how much time I spend trying to contribute to it in my own scribble-tastic way.

But it is, to both my relief and my delight, actually a rather joyous world.  Joyous in the sense that in the time I was there, wading very much out of my depth, I didn’t meet a single person who wasn’t friendly, cheerful and, above all else, deeply passionate for their subject.  It’s rare in this day and age to meet either true passion, or more, people willing to admit to true passion, since ‘being cool’, that deadly ideal, often requires a rather literal interpretation which undermines shameless delight.  I had no qualms about chatting with strangers, queuing with hobbits or asking directions from vulcans, and while my soul will remain perpetually in a stage left wing hiding from sight, I can appreciate both the passion and the pleasure that went into the SFX Weekender.

So…

… to everyone I met and who was kind, warm, welcoming and generous…

… especially the lovely ladies who offered me some Toblerone at the start of an unlikely panel, and to the loser of the Orbit editorial air hockey match…

… I will return your jumper, damnit!

… hello!