"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.

WHAT A WAY TO GO!

Barnoldswick 
      & Earby Times

                                       KEEPING YOU IN TOUCH

NEWSFLASH!

GREAT FREEZE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM.

FORMER  EARBY POP STAR FOUND FROZEN TO DEATH.

The emergency services were called to the home of Kenny Ranson at 25 Gisburn Road, Barnoldswick, in the early hours of this morning after Mr I.Deliver, the local milkman, rang them in a state of panic saying,  “I always see Kenny wandering about when I deliver the milk and when I did not see him I felt very worried because he owed me two weeks milk money.”

Kenny was found sat rigid at his computer and written on the screen were the words:

“Would someone please water my tomato plants when I’ve go…………….ne”.

The coroner's verdict will be posted on Kenny’s Blog sometime this afternoon.

All contributions to be sent to BUGGER (Buggered Up Gardeners Great Exhibition Revival)

"WHEN I SHUFFLE OFF THIS MORTAL COIL"

Sat at my desk in my study I am attracted by movement through the window.

I live across from a church and am able to look down on all that happens in the large car park at the side.

Over a year I am able to watch the full gamut of life, christenings, weddings, funerals and, if I crane my head far enough around the corner of my window, I can see (on Saturdays at 9-30am and 5-00pm by appointment only) The Sinners, creeping surreptitiously through the side door into confession with a quick furtive  backwards-glance.

Today is the weekday early morning service, not very well attended this one, most people have other/better things to do.

"Father", a quietly spoken man (I have passed the time of day with him on a few occasions) can be seen striding purposely across the car park from the gate in the wall which separates his private life from his public one. Dressed in long black flowing robes he can (forgive me father …) on a dull morning look quite menacing, very different to the glitz and bling of special occasions.

One morning soon after he came to live here I spotted a plume of white smoke snaking up from above his garden wall. I rushed to turn on the TV news-channel expecting to see the news that a new Pope had been elected, only to be told later by a parishioner that Father smoked a pipe.

It's Sunday morning 10-29am, the bell is tolling, the car park is full of cars, not a soul (pun intended) to be seen except, and here he comes now, the one who is always late, always running in at the last minute. A sight for sore eyes, hair uncombed, shoe laces undone, tie askew but with a look of grim determination on his face, a look that seems to say "forgive me Father for I have had to feed the cat, water my tomatoes and 12 down in the Sunday Mail crossword totally stumped me".

It is easy to tell the devout ones, they are the ones that “volunteer”. These are the ones that water the flowers, cut the grass, clean the windows, the ones that will surely get “there”.

BREAKING NEWS: Just seen Father rushing across the car park towards the church, jeans, lumberjack check-shirt with sleeves rolled up to just under the elbow.

He has just returned with a piece of paper in his hand (list of hymns, today’s sermon?).We’ll never know.

It’s Sunday morning and from 10am onwards cars arrive in dribs and drabs until the car park is full. People dressed in their Sunday Best stand hovering around the entrance to the church (one last cigarette for a while for some of them) until as if at a command they slowly parade into the church and all is quiet until a car draws up and from within gingerly gets out a woman, possibly in her middle twenties, clutching in her arms a tiny baby (why do we say “tiny baby”, aren’t all babies tiny?) dressed in a long white gown. The driver of the car takes the hand of, and this is only an assumption, his wife/partner and together they walk into the church.

DEAR READER: There will now be an interlude of approximately two hours.

You may feel free to go and put the kettle on, to brew a cup of tea, have a wee or possibly prep the lunch.

DEAR READER: Quick they’ve finished (I have had a cup of tea, been for a wee twice and prepped my bacon sandwich for my lunch).

The crowd mingle (a welcome cigarette for some) around the car park but the centre of attention is a “tiny” baby, like a Queen Bee in a hive. Lots of cooing and cries of “Isn’t she lovely” (I feel a song coming on).

Adjacent to the church is what was once a school, but is now a parish centre, and slowly everyone gravitates towards it, stomachs are rumbling and with one  last cigarette for some they all disappear.

DEAR READER: I feel I must apologise, I have had my bacon sandwich, fed the cat and been to my allotment to water my tomatoes and when I returned the car park was empty. The only sign of a christening being a dozen squashed fag ends in the car park.

“Ah bless, doesn’t she look lovely”?

It’s Saturday 1-55pm the sun is shining, there is no wind, and it’s a perfect day for the wedding. The Bride arrives in an open top 1920’s car bedecked with cream ribbons and flowers. She alights, carefully smoothes down her dress (“what a beautiful dress”), her bridesmaids carefully arrange her train and they all walk slowly into the church, a scene of complete serenity. But if only she knew!

I have, at intervals, been watching the scene unfold, absolute chaos at times.

It’s 9-00am, rain is pouring down and the florist’s van pulls up outside the church door. Head bent against the wind and rain two people jump out of the van open the back doors and make numerous trips into the church laden with armfuls of flowers. Two hours go by and it is now 11am and the florist’s van draws away their work done (we can now send in our invoice).

There now appears one of the “devout ones” armed with brush and shovel and within minutes the place is spick and span

DEAR READER: See above and instead of “tiny” baby insert “bride”. (That’s saved me a lot of writing).

A cold and rainy Saturday morning and am looking down from my study into the church car park when slowly appear car after car, from which alight people dressed in black. Sad looking people, some crying, all hugging and kissing each other. And then “The Hearse”. Everyone’s last trip. The coffin is wheeled out and into the church.

DEAR READER: I don’t think I need to say anything more do I?

Will anybody be looking down on me “…when I shuffle off this mortal coil”.?

THE XBOX

“KNOCK, KNOCK”

It’s Friday night, 6-30pm, our eyes lock in a look of resignation, we know who it is. Every Friday at this time there is a knock on the door and there is stood

THE XBOX.

    “Hiyah, come in”.

“Sit down. How’s things”?

“Ok thanks”.

“Any new games lately”?

“Don’t spend too much time on that you will strain your eyes”.

“Fish fingers and chips”?

“Yes please”.

“Do you want a drink”?

“Yes please”.

“Night night Xbox”.

“Night night Pingu”.

“Night Grandma, night Granddad”.

...HEY UP

“Hey up”!

“Hey up”?

What’s that about?

I spend a lot of time walking and quite often walk along the canal bank, it’s easy walking and beautiful countryside.

It can get very busy at times, with walkers like me, dog owners who walk no more than a few yards from the bridge to “empty” their dog and then the cyclists (who henceforth will be known as They or Them).

“They” are all very serious nowadays, the bright lycra, the streamlined helmets, cycling shoes, cycles that cost thousands of pounds but what do many of them not have? A bell! That’s right, nothing to warn you “They” are about to flash past you at 20mph or more seriously “They” are going to collide into you from the rear.

“A bell”. A thing of beauty really, small and delicate, matt black, shiny silver or even colourful plastic and, best of all, cheap. I have just checked the internet and for a mere £2-85 I can get a (and I quote) “Huge 65mm chrome-plated 2 tone ding-dong bicycle bell by Coyote” postage extra. For customer review see below.

I always walk in the middle of the path on the canal bank and wait for them to arrive. It is ok when they approach you from the front you can see them and make your stance. Like a scene from High Noon the distance between me and “Them” diminishes. I stand my ground and slowly with each step I make I gradually walk nearer the canal forcing “Them”, with terror in their eyes, to steer nearer and nearer to a watery conclusion.

It is when “They” come at you from behind it is very concerting, for although having  a very keen sense of hearing sometimes “They” do slip past the radar with a shout of “Hey up!” which, depending on my mood at the time receives a reply of “Want a bloody quid for a bell?”

CUSTOMER REVIEW: I do like the look and the sound of this bell. I suppose I shouldn't have expected too much for the price. The bell is cheaply made and rings whenever my bike is in motion (and gets especially loud when I hit potholes). The sound when not being rung isn't as loud as actually ringing the bell (it sounds kind of like wind chimes). I've tried tightening and loosening the casing, but neither method solved the problem 

Overall, nice sound when it rings. It just continues to make sound at other times too. (honest, I’ve not made that up).

16th JUNE 2011

Fed up! Been painting since 7-30 this morning and its boring old magnolia. Must have used gallons of it over the years. Nearly finished, might just have enough paint left in the tin. Did get a new tin yesterday at B & Q. That drove me mad, miles and miles of racking full of paint. All I wanted was a small tin of magnolia matt emulsion, could I find it? Could I hell. Satin? Yes! Silk? Yes! A ten-gallon tin of matt? Yes! Being one who doesn't like to ask for directions when in the car I also dislike asking where I could find a small tin of magnolia matt emulsion, as I take it as a personal failure. Finally gave in and asked a man in an orange pinny where I could find the elusive aforementioned tin of paint.
 "Right behind you sir."

Last brush full of paint and I still have a square yard of wall to paint. Nope not enough. Up in the attic now and open the new tin of paint. "Bloody hell, it's WHITE"!

Going for a walk, a bit of exercise, fresh air and no sign of any magnolia matt emulsion.

Boots on, camera, book and pen in pocket, off for lunch and a walk.

Twenty minutes and I am at one of my favorite pubs:-

    SLATERS ARMS, BRADLEY

I order a pint and a beef sandwich and even though it's quite cool I sit out in the beer garden wanting to maintain my macho image:-

"Good afternoon sir, enjoying the Great Outdoors are we"?

"Enjoy your lunch".

("Stupid sod").

Look at the thickness of that beef, fairly tough. Why do they always have to put tomato on a plate, I hate the things.

Doing a circular walk today, along the canal bank and then back round to the pub.

That looks like a nice spot for a spot of lunch and feed the ducks.

I keep whistling this same bloody tune. I must drive everyone mad. And I can't for the life in me remember what it's called.

 Elderflower. Once made some fritters from them. Very nice with sugar and lemon juice on.

What is this tune called? Must have heard it recently.

Quiet now just the faint hum of the traffic and the bleating of the sheep.

That beer has soon gone through me, will get behind this bush...that's better.

 

Look! A butterfly and a damselfly on the same bush. Butterfly brown with white spots, need to look that up when I get home. Damselfly blue, so small in contrast to the dragonfly

Bluebell Wood. I wonder if that couple can see anything going on in there?

What is this tune called?

Hip's hurting now, better not stop or will never get started again.

A memorial to some Polish airmen who crashed nearby during the war and were killed. And now we want rid of them all because they get "our" jobs and "our" houses.

This is steep, used to run up things like this. Hip killing me now.

Got it! "Who's a fool now" Tim Hart, one of my folk-music favourites

  

Lots of flowers on the brambles. Nearly autumn!

Just gone through the worst winter for years and summer is never going to happen.

What's this tune I'm whistling now?

End of the walk. 

Must be nice to live somewhere like this. Do people who live in places like this appreciate it?

Shall I? No, better not.

Home now. Been a good day.

Good the paint's dried.

("Bet nobody will spot that bit I missed if I don't say anything").

ps. the name of that butterfly is Dingy Skipper

pps. and I know at least two tunes.

THE THING IN THE CORNER

Am in the house alone sat looking at it standing there in the corner staring at me, just a little red light at the bottom of it is the only sign of life. It's been there for years. Gets dusted once a week and costs me £145.50 every year, even if I don't switch it on. If I turned off the colour could I get away with just paying £49? They wouldn't believe me, would they?

Can never outstare it for it never blinks and I need to move now and then, to get a beer or go to the loo (you can't have one without the other).

Don't know what all these buttons do on "The Remote".

"The Remote!"  A thing of wonder, but more of that later.

Although being a bit of a history buff there are only three dates I can remember, my birthday ( I even struggle with that now at my age), the Battle of Hastings and the first time I can remember watching television. It was 2nd June 1953, the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. So I was seven knocking on eight when "the thing in the corner" loomed into my life.

I lived on a housing-estate, one of many built during and after the war to alleviate the housing shortage, bungalows made of asbestos (no Health & Safety Executive in those days). It was just after the war and nobody had any money, not that we knew we did not have any money, except "The Smiths". The Smiths were the only family with a car and the only one with a tv.

A TV? Still to this day I am not sure I understood what it was all about that sunny day in June. A large wooden box and, at the top, a small glass square on which was a black and white moving picture. I had seen moving pictures before at the cinema, but this one was different, this one was in someone's house, very intimate, although the room was packed with people who had come in from the street party to watch it. Don't think I stayed long, there was cake and jelly to eat and games to play and of course "God save our gracious Queen..."

We "upsized" when I was ten. The bungalows were demolished and fancy new houses were built for us. Still had no money and hence did not have a tv. But things were changing now, people were getting more affluent and it wasn't only "The Smiths" that had a tv the people next door had one as well.

"Does Kenny want to come round and watch television?" To true Kenny does, so every afternoon I would go next door and sit on the floor in front of the tv and be entranced for an hour. Muffin the Mule, Andy Pandy, Wooden Tops, delights without end.

No 24 hour tv in those days, just a few hours and then "The interlude". Timings of programmes (mainly live) were not very accurate in those day so interludes were inserted to keep the audience entertained. I can remember sitting for 3 hours watching a pair of hands trying to make a pot on a potters-wheel and sixty years later I don't think it's finished yet.

"We are getting a television." A statement from mum which gave me many sleepless nights until the day arrived when I came home from school and there it was, "the thing in the corner", in my corner.

No falling out over what to watch, you watched what was on. You watched for two minutes and then the picture would break-up and dad would jump up with a "bloody-hell not again" and he would spend what seemed like an eternity twiddling the "Vertical Hold" or the "Horizontal Hold" to regain the picture. I never saw a whole programme until I was in my teens.

22nd September 1955 (don't remember this date) the first day of ITV switch-over, we all sat with bated breath whilst dad counted to ten and then turned the dial (expecting the thing to blow-up) to be confronted by "Gibbs SR toothpaste" in large letters.

Got my own home now, no TV, too busy being married and decorating. I did get to see "Match of the Day" at a friend's house after going out to the pub on a Saturday night, and rushing back with fish and chips for supper.

Now got a black and white TV, did watch it now and then, cannot really remember what I did watch.

Walking through the town one day my attention was attracted by a crowd gathered outside a shop window. I slowly mingled with the crowd and made my way towards the front and there it was, Wimbledon, in glorious colour.

And then one day, "Light-of-my-life, the Olympics are on in a few weeks, do you fancy getting a colour TV"?

Growing older now, children arrive, too many things to do beside sat gaping at "the thing in the corner".

Still don't watch much, do not have the patience to sit for an hour watching it and the sound tracks to most programmes are far too loud. But I do enjoy sitting there with The Remote, flicking from one channel to another, much to my wife's consternation.

I still have a little smile to myself every time I see The Remote, for it reminds me of the day when I managed to pluck up enough courage to change channel without asking permission.