Open Writing

My father was a great one for travel. Had he possessed the wherewithal, he would in all probability have been a globetrotter in the fullest sense. As events transpired however, he had to content himself with the coastal resorts of Lancashire and Yorkshire and a smattering of inland destinations for good measure. I have heard it said of him that he would have ridden the wheels off both bus and train if given the chance. But any such opportunity was never allowed to materialize.

There were two major events in my father’s lifetime which severely curtailed his ramblings. One was the slump in trade during the 20s and 30s when, like millions of other men, he was unemployed, and the second was the unscheduled arrival of myself. Combined, those two occurrences put the chocks under father’s wandering wheels. For some time he was obliged to control his wanderlust, just how long I can’t be sure. But somewhere along the line, as I grew older and when he had acquired full employment, the safaris recommenced, but with a difference. I became part of them.

I was too young at the time for the question to formulate in my mind as to whether my father, albeit unwittingly himself, thought as R.L. Stevenson that “It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive….” and if so what was he hoping for? Such questions will remain unanswered since he died when I was ten years of age, having survived my mother by ten months, so that our travelling time together was of a short duration. Yet I still carry in my memory snapshots of the times, places and events of my young-boy years in his company.

It was he who introduced me to railway stations, to their readily recognisable yet difficult to describe aromas. Perhaps it was he who indoctrinated me with a love of steam locos, and then again perhaps I had already inherited that fascination before I was born. Imbued whilst in embryo -- I never felt a thing. Isn’t nature mysterious and wonderful?

Wonderful too for me were the times when we would stand on the station platform -- not too near the edge since the train could ‘draw me under’. I’m still not sure that could occur. No matter, I would then be allocated a window seat from where the passing scenery could be viewed with interest. There was ample time for viewing since it took around four hours to cover the seventy-odd miles from home station to coast.

For some reason which I never discovered, a train journey to the East Coast was always held up at Stanley Station just beyond Wakefield, and that for what seemed an interminable time. Indeed, I have photographs taken by my father of the station platform and loco, these being produced when cameras were not the sophisticated mechanisms of today but those which took a considerable time to set up and then dismantle, a process which gives some indication as to the length of wait which passengers had to endure.

Excursions for us, Father and I, departed at 8:00 or 8:30 a.m. and would arrive at Blackpool, Bridlington or Scarborough around noon, so that the first port of call was an eating house. I still remember the customary menu, brown Windsor soup, roast beef or lamb and two veg. The sweet, if any, I have forgotten, because I doubt if there was one. Cost for such a spread amounted to 1/6d each, that I do recall.

It was on such seaside jaunts that I was introduced to seafood -- cockles, mussels, oysters and whelks. I enjoyed them then and I do so still, despite it being told at the time that with whelks the longer you chewed them the bigger they got! They don’t, please believe me. I ‘tested’ many. The price of oysters at the time I have forgotten but remember my father telling of the time when they were twenty for a shilling. But for me the shellfish mentioned above sold at 2d per small plateful. So did shrimps and prawns.

Sea trips proved great attractions in those distant days. Blackpool, having no harbour, meant that would-be mariners had literally to ‘walk the plank’, a flimsy wooden jetty held above the water by means of pairs of wheels, or were transported out to the awaiting cobles, transfer to which took place amidst much laughter, screams and shouts of encouragement. Bridlington was famous for the ‘Yorkshireman’, a steam tug which moved up from Hull for the holiday season. Other boats were the ‘Yorkshire Belle’ and ‘Boy’s Own’. At their height of popularity six pleasure boats plied their trade with trips out to Flamborough Head -- and back again, of course.

A Sunday School outing to Bridlington some years later comes to mind, when rowing boats were hired by several of our group and we made merry chasing each other round the harbour and between the wooden piles which supported the pier. Miraculously, no one fell into the water.

Day school outings also come to mind, when buses conveyed us to Filey or Hornsea. One master broadened our education on one such outing by introducing us to sea anemones in the rock pools on Filey Brigg. We then amused ourselves by poking fingers into them and feeling their tentacles close around our digits. Limpet suction power was also pointed out to us, much too great for nine and ten year old boys to overcome.

Was it the year 1934 when the Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary was celebrated? If so, then as part of the Jubilations I, along with my father, visited Bridlington once again. All I remember of that day is the coach ride on the outward run. Bunting and flags were displayed all along the route. I passed the journey time by counting such decorations, being quite pleased with myself when upon arrival at Brid I had achieved a total of 1,000.

Road travel on such occasions -- day schools and Sunday Schools excluded -- invariably included a stop at some hostelry for refreshments. Needless to say, I was too young to be allowed entry, but my father did supply me with a glass of grapefruit crush and a packet of crisps, which I was quite happy to consume either sat on the bus or on a seat outside. Meanwhile, although Father associated with the other trippers inside the pub, a grapefruit drink was all he consumed, since he was a lifelong teetotaller.

Evening trips were much in evidence in the times of which I write, and one such, to Wentbridge, comes to mind. Why Wentbridge as a destination I have no idea, since nothing of import occurred, nor was there any particular tourist attraction there, if we discount the pub or pubs which probably concerned some of the travellers. Once again, for Father and myself I assume it was the ride which proved the attraction.

Another inland venture was to Bolton Abbey, where I see myself poking amongst the pebbles along the river’s edge and where I actually caught a small trout by hand. It didn’t remain long in captivity, however, quickly slipping from my grasp and escaping back into the water.

It was at that beauty spot where I was schooled in the dangers of the notorious Strid and how few, if any, would-be leapers escaped from its tenacious grip. Suffice to say, I was never tempted to make that infamous jump.

The last outing taken by my father and myself was a weekend spent at Blackpool for the Illuminations there. The Saturday night was wet and very windy. During our tram ride along the sparsely populated promenade there were gangs of men struggling to replace and repair the festoons of lights which had suffered from the gale coming in off the sea. Sunday morning was fine, and a pre-breakfast walk along the front with a call at a seafood stall for oysters put an edge to my appetite.

There my recall of that weekend’s events fades away. The hotel in which we stayed is still in business -- the Cambridge -- or was the last time I made one of my rare visits to the resort. I made a point of viewing it purely for sentimental reasons.

Obviously, with the death of my father came the end of my wanderings. My grandmother then became my custodian, and at the age of 70 had neither the energy, enthusiasm or wherewithal to expend in gallivanting around coast and country. Nevertheless, she did have my welfare very much to heart. Consequently two holidays were arranged for me through her auspices.

The first was a week at Blackpool along with an aunt and uncle, a brother of my father, and a cousin, a boy around my own age. I can’t say I enjoyed the holiday. Perhaps that is why memories of it are almost non-existent. One event does remain with me, however, and that occurred on the coach on which we were travelling to the resort. In an apparent burst of generosity, my uncle offered a cash reward -- I forget the sum, 3d or 6d perhaps -- to the first person to see Blackpool Tower. Obviously, this put my cousin and me on the alert. What wasn’t appreciated by us two at the time was that because of
previous experience, my uncle was well aware of the vicinity of the tower and the whereabouts of its coming into view. Consequently he saw it first and thereby claimed the reward. I was beginning to learn the ways of some men. Suffice it to say I never went on holiday with that couple again. I didn’t attend his funeral either. I was too busy earning money!

The second holiday arranged for me by my grandmother came by way of payment for nursing the mother whose son lived in Worthing. He came north when his mother died and was obliged to return and settle her estate. Thus it was during the intervening period that I holidayed on the Sussex coast.

Whether the man in question possessed a wife or not, I have no idea. He did, however, employ a housekeeper who, in retrospect I realize, catered for all his requirements. She it was who kindly supplied me with a daily 6d which I spent either on Worthing pier or the various amusement arcades along the promenade. I was alone all the time, and yet I wasn’t lonely, and I enjoyed the time I spent in that manner.

The good lady took me for walks on the Sussex Downs, where I was fascinated by the quantity of flints scattered around. There was also a trip to Brighton and the aquarium there. I shivered as we drove past Lewes jail, but warmed to the almost unique experience of a restaurant meal, as compared to seaside eating houses with their brown Windsor soup.

There was no comparison between the two cultures I was then associated with -- the one to which I belonged, a working class home of poor means, against my host’s detached house with car and garden, holidays abroad and a secure position as managing director of the Worthing Herald. Yet I was still pleased to return home to my own bed, gaslight, grandmother’s cooking and homemade lemonade.

The year was 1938. Had it been the one following, then the whole episode would probably never have occurred. Indeed, it was my last period away from home for five years, at the end of which time I was made an offer which I chose not to refuse, one that entailed quite extensive travel for quite a period of time. No holiday though, even if there was sun and sea.