first holiday

Holidays were a very rare treat in the 50s. Most working people only had one or two weeks paid holiday a year. Money was tight and few people had their own transport, so travel was difficult. It usually meant a train journey to somewhere-by-the-sea. I can’t remember much about my first, as I was only about 3 years old. Our family with my aunt and uncle, travelled to Sandsend near Whitby. We stayed in a ‘camping coach’ for a week. It was an old railway coach that had been converted into holiday accommodation. I think there was several parked on a piece of disused track that overlooked the beach. Apparently, they were a popular form of holiday at the time. A few years we had a holiday in Wales with our friends and neighbours, the B……. family.

Have a look at these photos taken at Sandsend. It was around May time and it looked cold. Nothing’s changed then! I like my dad’s beachwear, a suit and tie and trousers rolled up, seen here with us on Whitby beach. Leisurewear hadn’t been invented. Mum says that my aunt took her pressure cooker with her, to make meal times easier. Eating out wasn’t an option.

nettles

Nettles

Stinging nettles seemed to figure a lot in our young lives. They were a major threat to our wellbeing when "playing out". There always seemed to be a patch or nettles, often unnoticed but well placed somewhere to catch you out. I once tried to take a bend too fast on my trike and fell headlong into a patch. Man that was painful. The best “nettle story” I have though, involved a large patch of them at the side of the dirt track that ran down the end of the street and onto the main road. It was opposite the house of an old lady called Mrs Haycock. In those days, most old folk were miserable and complaining. Mrs Haycock was an expert at it, always telling us off for some minor indiscretion.

One time me and Barry started whacking these nettles with long, thin sticks that we had snapped off a tree somewhere. The nettles were in their prime, tall and succulent and a deft swish with the stick would slice the tops off them easily. We had a great time until we realised we’d cut them all down and created an unholy mess of dead nettles all over the place. Realising Mrs Haycock would certainly see it and find a reason to moan and complain, coupled with the certainty that she had probably witnessed us doing it, we figured we’d be carted away to the local jail if we didn’t do something quick. (We were always in fear of the law catching up on our “crimes” and on the off chance that she hadn’t actually seen us do it). So we set about frantically throwing the dead plants over the fence and into the laundry to dispose of the evidence. The other side of the fence was overgrown with grass and weeds anyway and would not be noticed. The adrenalin made us oblivious to the stinging factor of the plants for a while. Until we stopped and then. ……Bloody hell it was painful. You know how it is with nettles, they sting like mad for ages, then turn into itches until you scratch them and they start stinging again. Our hands swelled up like cows udders. We needed a lorry load of dock leaves to calm that down.

A few days later – we were down in the area playing when Mrs Haycock emerged. “Do you know who’s chopped all those nettles down”? She asked in her spiky, cracked voice. Fearing the worst, that they were somehow precious to her and that she would call the police if she found out, we instantly decided to lie.
“No”. We said (and got ready for a quick exit).
“Well they made a good job of it, it looks much better now”. She said. That was the only time I heard her say something good and it was too late to claim the credit!

the back street

The back street

We had a rough gravelly back street between the two rows of houses. This was one of our major playing areas and meeting place and resulted in quite few grazed knees over the years. Barry and I spent many hours, one at each end of the street kicking or throwing a ball to each other or playing cricket down it. At our end of the street was a tall, solid wooden fence that made a good goalmouth for the boys to play “three and in” taking turns to be either the goalkeeper or the striker. Once you scored three goals you swapped around. It was a bummer if the ball went over because behind it another house and the little man who lived there was slightly crazy and hated the infringement. Getting the ball back without him seeing us was like a commando exercise.

When there were more kids out, we used to play all sorts of games like “farmer farmer, may I cross your golden river in you golden boat”, “giant strides and fairy steps”, “black pudding”, “leap frog”, “French cricket” etc. The girls would sometimes do handstands against the stone outhouse walls. Skipping ropes came out there occasionally and you could send the gravel flying at high speed when the rope hit the floor. Sometimes we would climb onto the low roofs of the outhouses and sunbathe in summer. They were good hiding places too if you laid flat.

At the other end was an old green painted gas street lamp. It had two arms below the lantern part. We would shim up the post and try to reach the arms, grab one in each hand and then sort of dangle off them for a while. Dunno why, just a “boy” thing to do. The lamp was a focal point for us. We used to play hide and seek and whoever was doing the seeking would stand there with their backs to the houses and count to 100 while we hid, or sometimes they would have to grab it with one arm and sort of swivel around and around it a number of times. If you were hiding, that was the point to try to get back to before you were found. It was a meeting up point when the nights were dark. The light it gave off had soft warm, yellow glow that felt friendly and welcoming. When dusk came, moths would circle crazily around it.

I learnt to balance a two-wheeled bike for the first time along the back street. When learning, Dad would run behind me holding the saddle to balance me. Then one time I got to the end and looked around to see him still stood at the far end. He had let me go and I rode the whole length on my own. I was elated and that was the start of mobility and freedom to explore places further afield.

first explorations of the natural world

Before I started school, I was on my own much of the time. My sister and Barry had started school and my other friends were sometimes not evident. Dad worked at night and slept during the day, so I guess mum kept me out of the house as much as possible. Mothers didn’t worry about their children getting abducted or coming to harm. The two small blocks of houses where we lived formed our boundaries most of the time, until we got older and were allowed to venture into the unknown world. This small area was the place to start my explorations of planet earth. While mum did her housework, I was usually outside in the yard or front garden and left to amuse myself. Having few toys, I spent time looking at plants, puddles, soil and insects and anything else that was within three feet of the ground. The sights, sounds and smells, were all new stimuli to be explored by my inquiring mind and no doubt started my love of nature.

There was a small gulley running by the path that stretched the length of the five houses. Water would seep out of the small boulder walls that held back the garden soil. It collected in small pools here and there, which to my mind were lakes. Small leaves or sticks would become boats, which I could float in the water. I encountered various insects, which were all fascinating to watch. Tiny red mites ran crazily around the boulders, apparently confused. I loved to watch the exotic centipedes as they snaked their way back to shelter after having their hiding places disturbed. Tiny spiders sometimes seem to arrive from nowhere. We were told they were ‘money spiders’ and meant good luck. Worms were fascinating creatures, moving along by alternately stretching and contracting. I was told they had an amazing trick. If you chopped one in half they would become two complete worms. I still don’t know if that’s true!

Various bees and hover flies popped in and out of the nasturtium flowers that grew abundantly on our patch. The leaves were home to various green, black and yellow caterpillars. In later years, Barry and I would catch bees while they were inside the flowers, using jam jars and a piece of cardboard to trap them. We lined them up along the path, seeing how many we could catch, then shake the jars to infuriate them. Then we plucked up courage to tip the jars over and release them, hoping to not get stung.

There were plants to explore too, some with unexpected surprises. There was a small weed called plantain. It had a small, plump, yellow bud and if you crushed it with your fingers it smelled of apples. Tiny purple and yellow snapdragons grew amongst the boulders and if you nipped the back of them, they opened up like a gaping mouth. A friend would hold Buttercup flowers under your chin and if it reflected yellow light onto your skin, it meant you liked butter. Apparently we all liked it. Dandelion flowers, when picked, oozed a milky white liquid that later turned dark brown on your skin. I doodled patterns on my hands with it, until someone warned me it made you wet the bed. Nettles were a painful discovery but could be eased by rubbing the sap of dock leaves on the sting. My favourite discovery was the fantastic smell of the small, purple flowers that grew on a shrub in the corner of the back yard – lavender.

the den

I briefly mentioned the “Nazi” den in a previous post. I’m not being un-pc when I talk about this and no offence meant to anyone or race. As you can appreciate WW2 was not long behind us and boys’ comics and books were full of exciting war stories that we used as stimulus for our made-up games. It was always more exciting to be a “Jap” or “Nazi” soldier hiding out in an imaginary jungle or bunker somewhere than a British one.

One summer I noticed my older friend Barry seemed pre-occupied and rather secretive about something he was doing around the back of an old disused garage at the end of the street. Behind it was a small plot of land which was rough and overgrown with weeds and grass. I pestered him for a while and eventually he said he’d show me but I had to swear to absolute secrecy. He took me to the plot of land where his work was now evident. It was a small hideaway den made up of old window frames and cupboard fronts. It stood about three feet high and 10 feet long and emblazoned on the front and roof was a bright red swastika sign and “keep out”. My worry (fed by Barry’s warnings) was that our Royal Air Force spotter planes might see it and thinking it was a renegade German soldier still undiscovered and hiding away after the war, would either machine gun it or bomb it to smithereens with us in it. Parents must not know about it either or they would surely demand its demolition or report it to the authorities when it would then be attacked by a troop of British foot soldiers, maybe even send a tank in to smash through it.

We played games of soldiers in it, taking turns to be English or German with the attacker throwing lumps of hardened earth which we called “soil bombs” at it, pretending they were grenades. Well the secret probably lasted about a week when our sisters found out about it and wanted to join us. The whole thing suddenly became rather more domesticated and girlie than we would have liked. They insisted we put an old carpet down on the damp earth floor to deter the creepy crawlies that abounded and my sister bought some lilac coloured paint from “Woolie’s” to brighten the inside. We built a small annexe with a curtain across it that contained a bucket. That was supposed to be the bathroom. We dared one another to actually use it but nobody ever did. One end of the den had an old window for the roof giving us much needed light, a sort of primitive conservatory. When it rained we would place the loo bucket and any other old tins we could find under the many dribbles of water that seeped through the roof and just enjoy the comfort of crude shelter from the elements. We spent many hours in the hot, damp and stifling atmosphere of this summer retreat. A private world away from adults where we could make secret plans, have surreptitious feasts of biscuits, scones and fizzy pop we had seconded from home or when mum wasn’t feeling so generous with the goodies, just dry stale bread and lukewarm water from an empty pop bottle we had filled from the tap. I remember one time the girls collected long dry grass and spent hours in the den sewing them onto old bras and pants to make Hawaiian grass skirts. There was going to be a hula-hula dance, performed for us come bonfire night but I think the cold weather won out and we were denied that treat. Good times.

early years

I have a vivid memory of standing in a cot in the corner of my parents’ bedroom. It was early morning and they were fast asleep. My older sister had come into the room and was standing in front of the cot, beckoning me to climb out. I couldn’t manage it and so she climbed in with me to play. This must be my earliest memory and I can’t have been more than about 2 years old. Early years centred on our home and small family. My sister was my first friend and playmate. Here’s a very early picture of us both, with me in the super luxury pram of that period.

Look at this photo of us both in our front garden. No I’m not an astronaut in training or a budding fighter pilot. Money was tight and mum used to make a lot of our clothes. The natty outfit was one of her creations and known as a ‘siren suit’. I guess the fantastic hats in the photo above were her handy work too.

Here’s another corker of us – it looks like we are at Custer’s Last stand with our Indian headdresses. Don’t ask - I have no idea why we were both wearing them!

friends

Friends tended fall into one of several categories. The best true friends were the other children that lived a few doors away. Sure we would “fall out” occasionally over some small unimportant issue but there was a sort of loyalty and protectiveness with them, more like family. If I ever had a fall out with one, it would leave a hollow feeling, like I had lost something valuable, which indeed I had temporarily. So differences would soon be overcome and friendships re-forged in short time.

There were school friends, other children that you had forged a special bond with. Some of those you never saw outside of school but a few special ones would call around when we got older. Then there was what you might describe as “enforced” friends, those that were introduced by our parents – perhaps children of their friends or acquaintances who weren’t really our friends at all. Friends are more than acquaintances, they are people you have a special bond or affinity with – people you like to be with.

My closest neighbourhood friends, who I will talk about frequently, were Barry and Shirley B. (surname withheld). We lived in the end house of one block of five and they moved into the house at the other end when I was about three or four years old. They would be my closest friends throughout most of my childhood. My sister, also called Shirley, would complete the gang of four. Shirley B. was my age and Barry B. and my sister were both about three years older. Our four parents all got on well together too and sometimes we would have family get-togethers. Barry was a loveable rogue with a good imagination and not frightened of much. Being three years older than me, he was the closest I had of a big brother but without the dominating attitude that older brothers often have to their siblings. We rarely disagreed and I don’t ever remember him hurting or fighting me. He would lead me into all sorts of adventures and games that I would never have experienced without him. He was generous too, always allowing me to play with his toys and games that seemed so much more exciting than my own.

His sister Shirley was pretty and I always enjoyed being in her company too. She had an air of aloofness at times that both frustrated and attracted me. There was another family in the opposite block of five houses who were there before the B’s arrived. The oldest girl was my age and called Susan. She had two younger sisters, Jeannie and Christine. At the age of about four, she had agreed to be my girlfriend and marry me when we were old enough. When Shirley B. arrived shortly after, I was smitten and wanted to marry her instead. I dutifully informed Susan that I thought Shirley was prettier and was going to marry her instead. Susan who was actually just as pretty wasn’t too cut up about it and we all got on well as friends.

A few years later Brian, a year younger than me, arrived with his mum and dad. He was a highly-strung boy. He had pulled a pan of boiling jam onto his arm when very young which had left a terrible, big, swirly scar. I think after that event and being an only child, his mother was rather over-protective which he resented as she often restricted his activities. Brian was OK in small doses and I feel guilty that we sometimes tried to get away before he could find us and latch onto us. He would start out playing fine but tended to want his own way and throw tantrums. He loved to play war games and soldiers and his ambition was to be one when he grew up. That became a terrible reality. He joined the army but died tragically in a helicopter crash aged 19.

My other close friends were from school and didn’t feature much until I was in my early teens. My best schoolmate was Colin. You’ll hear about my adventures with him later. For now life will revolve around my neighbourhood pals.

the laundry

I’ve already mentioned our little houses were originally built for workers of the nearby Lakeland Laundry. The laundry took in washing in large quantities. I think it mainly catered for commerce like hotels, hospitals etc rather than individuals. It was like a small factory with a tall brick chimney. For us it was an exciting playground when the workers had gone home. There was a tarmacced car park where we could play “three and in” football against the loading bay door. A grassy wilderness where we could play “hide and seek” and other made up adventure games and there were all sorts of interesting items that had been discarded and thrown into the grass at some stage.

There was an element of danger about it that excited the small boys of the 1950’s and 60’s that today, would send the soft “nanny state” parents and health and safety pundits into a nervous breakdown. There was a legend that somewhere there was a well containing acid. If you fell into it, you would dissolve in seconds and even your bones would melt and no-one would ever know what had become of you, just your teeth would survive. It scared the crap out of me but didn’t deter us from playing there. We did eventually find an underground tank of some kind with a metal cover. You could just see into it from the ends and it was indeed full of liquid. This had to be it and we would drop sticks and stones into it expecting some kind of frantic bubbling and noxious gases to be created. It never did but maybe we needed to find something more organic like a cat or small dog to drop in there. We drew the line at that experiment though.

The other danger was the transport manager who we knick-named “Mr Bullyman” on account of his aggressive manner. He had the most severe “short back and sides” haircut I had ever seen, slicked back with Brylcreme and would shout and ball at us if he caught us anywhere on laundry property. So whenever we played there, we had to keep an eye out for him. He would emerge from some dark corner, and shout and rant at us. We would make a run for it and our lithe young bodies would always ensure we could outrun this red faced, overweight, middle-aged demon. One year, there was an old window frame lying in the long grass just over the fence from our houses. My friend Barry and I decided it would be great fun to throw stones over the fence and try to smash all the glass panes, which we eventually achieved. One day we were playing on our patch when Bullyman collared us. “Have you smashed this lot” he barked. “No” we lied, shaking in our scruffy boots. “Well if I catch ‘em I’ll have the police onto ‘em” he snarled. He ranted on about how they’d end up in prison and somehow I knew he knew it was us and it would only be a matter of time before the coppers were handcuffing me and Barry and carting us off to prison. Our parents would obviously have no idea where we had disappeared to. We went and hid in my room for about an hour just to throw them off the scent.

We survived the ordeal for more laundry adventures, like the time the tall chimney had scaffold placed around it for repairs and Barry scaled it to the top while I kept watch for his mum. There was the time when we found one of the disused vans and climbed in to play at “laundry drivers”. Those vans had no ignition key, just a knob you pulled to start it. It must have been left in gear (we didn’t know anything about gears and clutches). We pulled the knob thinking nothing would happen and the van jerkily started off down the car park. I was petrified but my big mate Barrry (probably about 11 years old then) had it all under control and successfully steered us to the abrupt safety of a big grassy embankment. We got out and ran like hell to the safety of our “Nazi” den. “The den” - now that’s another story.