(Grandad in middle window,
brother Les in right-hand window)
The excitement grew and grew,
as day by day the days were ticked-off on the calendar, until the morning
arrived when I woke up, jumped out of bed and dashed to the calendar, and there
it was, written in my eight-year-old’s writing in very large capital letters
"TUDAY I GO ON HOLLYDAY."
Mum and dad were woken up, and younger
brother, not yet four, was prodded into life (an event that, fifty-seven years
later, he still reminds me of).
And so the day began of the
most exciting week of a young lad's life.
For year after year holidays meant a week in
North Wales in a wooden bungalow, on a holiday
site a stone's throw away from the sea, beyond the most wonderful sand dunes, accompanied
by grandma and grandad (whom I think paid for it).
The large sturdy suitcase packed, dad would
check his wallet(once again) to ensure that the large white, five-pound note
was still there that had taken all year to save-up and the short walk from the
estate where I lived(known affectionately as The Ranch) to the railway station, was made.
I stood on the platform as near to the edge
as I dare (or my mum would let me), neck craning, watching for the train to
appear in the distance. And there it was!
Smoke billowing into the
sky, the clickety-click sound of the wheels on the track and the majestic beast
ground slowly to a halt in front of me. My heat thumping I climbed the steep
step into the train, a posh train it had a corridor and a toilet!
The suitcase was put, with a certain amount
of struggling, onto the luggage rack and all were seated, me next to the window,
so I could look out and devour every minute of the trip, and my brother (already
asleep) on my mum's lap.
The guard waved his green flag, blew his whistle
and the train, with a great deal of hissing of steam and blowing of whistle,
slowly left the station but within minutes was going at full speed. Five
minutes into the journey, under the pretence of wanting a wee, I went exploring.
At each end of every carriage was a door and the window could be let down with
a leather strap, this was duly done and the exhilaration of sticking my head
out and letting the steam from the engine flow across my face told me that my
holiday had started.
It wasn't until many years later, as an
adult, that I discovered how long the journey took, for the moment I fell
asleep was the same instance that my mum shook me awake saying "we're
here," and mysteriously my grandma and grandad were now sitting across
from me.
With dad carrying the large suitcase and mum
carrying my brother and gripping my hand tightly, a slow progress through the
thronged station was made until, finally, we all stood slightly bewildered
outside the railway station.
"Taxi!" shouted
dad and within minutes we were on our way to our final destiny, "hour hollyday."
After what seemed an eternity the taxi
pulled off the main road, drove along a small lane, over a bridge across the
railway line (I was asleep when the train went under this bridge) and there,
stretching for miles, were the most amazing sand dunes, almost desert-like they
seemed to carry on forever.
The taxi slowly drove along a rough rutted
track which ran parallel with the dunes, (alongside of which were dozens of
caravans, chalets, converted railway carriages etc) until it stopped outside a
large green wooden bungalow, which was to be my home for the next week.
Our accommodation was a wooden bungalow
which, judging by the other ones around it was quite posh. A short distance from
it was a little wooden shed, which, to my amusement, was the toilet, a chemical
toilet, which at varying periods of time was carried by two adults (names drawn
out of a hat) as far away from the bungalow as possible, a large hole dug (hopefully
not in the same place as last weeks) and the contents disposed of.
At all the crossroads of the tracks
throughout the site was a water stand-pipe.
Grandad used to take me to
help him fill and carry a bucket of water. They were our precious moments
alone. He would ask me how I was getting on at school and, when no one was
looking, he would give me a 6d piece out of his waistcoat pocket. I loved him
(and still think of him).
At the rear of the bungalow was a swing on
which was spent many happy hours.
Every morning, very early, a van from the
local newsagents/grocery store would drive slowly along the rutted track that
ran along the length of the site by the sand dunes. My job (and my first paid
one) was to go and get the daily paper, a loaf of bread and a pint of milk for
which I was given my daily wage of 6d. I would take with me a small wheelbarrow
to carry back The Wagon Wheel which
in those days were 18" in diameter and weighed one and a half pounds and
would get the comic of the day. After taking the bread and milk back to mum I
would escape into the dunes and sit on my own to read my comic and savor every
last crumb of The Wagon Wheel.
Grandad's job was to peel the potatoes, he
would sit outside in the sun, even though the temperature was (as it was in
those days) 90o F. He always wore a jacket, pullover and tie. A very
quiet, gentle man, he would quietly puff away on his pipe as he methodically
peeled away. Grandma on the other hand was always cold and had a hot water
bottle in bed throughout the summer much to grandad's consternation.
Dad had relations, aunties, uncles, cousins,
who lived in Liverpool which was only an hour's
drive away, or in some instances a four-hour cycle ride away, and most days
there would appear some of them, all happy to have a day out at the seaside and
the hopes of a free lunch (I was cynical even at that tender age).
It was always sunny so tea was had on the
beach. No one had swimsuits in those days so the men took off their sweaters
and rolled up their sleeves whilst the ladies hitched up their skirts to just
above the knee, apart from grandma who loosened her scarf and took off her
gloves. But there was one uncle who took all his clothes off and put his
underpants on back to front "in case it popped out".
Sandwiches, cake and buns
were carried across the track to the dunes and a sheltered spot found. A large
brown teapot was carried back and forwards throughout the meal with a fresh
brew.
There were other kids about and I soon made
friends. One of them was my age who had a brother the same age as mine. We
would spend hours every day on the beach (photos in album) and by the end of
the week we would be black with the sun. Sun cream? And what a sight when
stripped off for a bath.
He was staying in a
converted railway carriage, of which there were many, and we would often go in
and play cards with his mum who, to my downcast eyes, had only one arm and I
watched with wonder as she dealt out the cards with only one hand.
Despite the basic accommodation and, I suppose,
not having much money (think grandma and grandad were comfortably off) meals
seemed to be quite formal, all sat around a large table waiting for my mum’s
contribution to haute cuisine, “Fray Bentos Steak and kidney pie in a tin”.
It’s still a standing joke that my mum’s pastry came out of the oven whiter
than when it went in.
A walk along the beach to the nearest
village set me off on a lifelong love of pubs. Neither mum or dad were big
drinkers but twice during the week we would sit outside the pub on wooden
benches and wait for dad to appear with a tray laden with a half pint shandy, a
bottle of Mackeson, two glasses of lemonade and two packets of crisps (only
potato flavour in those day with a small blue packet of salt).
And then one year we had a car, well a
quarter share in a car as they did in those days and we went “on holliday” in
it. The contents of “the large sturdy suitcase” were stuffed in the small boot,
sandwiches were made and flasks of tea made to sustain us on our epic journey,
which nowadays would take one and a half hours.
With everyone seated (brother asleep
already) we set off and as soon as we got around the first corner the car spluttered
to a halt. Out of petrol! Dad was always loath to spend money and always waited
until the dial on the fuel gauge disappeared from view. And who had the job of
carrying an empty can and walking a mile to the nearest garage, which was at Salterforth?
Year after year until I was ten this
happened, the same week every year but the calendar now said “Today I
go on holiday”.
Many wonderful memories
remain, photographs(which I still have), plastic triangular stick-on badges "We've been to
Prestatyn" filled up the car windows until you couldn’t see out, and the
garage I walked to with an empty can has long since been demolished but I still
smile when I drive past where it had been.
