To build a folly is a marvellous achievement, a bricks-and-mortar ‘I’m alright Jack, bugger you’ to the world. To construct a folly is to do so in the full knowledge of its obsolescence. These mortared whimsies didn’t come cheap, though, so imagine the shivers of pride that you, the indentured worker, would have felt on gazing up at the baroque gazebo your employer and landlord had ordered built atop some impossibly awkward outcrop, whilst you scrabbled around in the undergrowth looking to grab a rabbit for your meagre table. Extraordinary.

However, to spend centuries attempting to force purpose on a group of buildings determined to resist any such nonsense smacks of desperation. Yet so it is with Brean Down fort, famous for being half-destroyed by an errant, most likely half-cut conscript loosing off a few rounds rather too close to the ammo dump. This was its crowning moment, proof positive that the only way this bumptious block of concrete was to see any gory action was at the hand of its idiot keepers.

Originally conceived as a way to stop ol’ Boney from sneaking into England via the Bristol Channel, the fort sits at the tip of a beautiful headland a spit away from glorious Weston-super-Mare, a town we shall surely revisit in these pages. Obviously, nothing exciting came their way, so at the end of the 19th Century, the buildings were converted into tea rooms. Far more sensible. But then, of course, came the 20th Century, and Brean didn’t want to miss out on any of the mayhem destined for Weston and Bridgewater.

Lonely gun emplacements.

Sadly, the mayhem decided to give this careworn corner of the country a miss, so they had to content themselves with trying out some experimental bouncing bombs and getting thoroughly bored. No shot has been fired in earnest from this fort, which I suppose makes for a more light-hearted historical trip than is usually the case.

Brean bay from the headland

There are various other inducements to visit the site. The plunging cliffs, scrubby heath and its location, a fair way out into the salty waters of the Channel, make the headland a great spot for bird-watching. You can spy the kittiwakes, guillemots and gulls wheel and cry above you, along with the huge flocks of geese droning their way up the Severn Estuary in the direction of Slimbridge.

The main draw of the area, though, is Brean beach, an enormous, sweeping bay, kept in check by a three-mile sea wall and sharply-organised squadrons of static caravans. It is an exemplar of the type of beach that Britain does fantastically well – a vast swathe of sand inviting all manner of activities, none of which involve lolling about on a towel. Instead, healthful pursuits or earnest reflection are encouraged, far more suitable outlets for the national id than leathery sun-worship.

There are some decent pubs not a million miles distant – the Crown at Churchill being the most highly recommended for you rheumy, ill-fed lot, in need of a hearty dose of stew and a proper pint of stuff.