"TUDAY I GO ON HOLLYDAY"

(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) 90^o 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.