Open Writing

Particularly happy memories remain of visits to Saltburn, for we always enjoyed fine, hot weather.

Rex went sea fishing for the first time, but returned miserable, having been sick all the while. The whiting were delicious. Caught fresh daily, they had a quite different flavour from those sold in the shops at home.

We would call to see Daddy's first wife's relations at Redcar. They had a summer-house which pivoted, and they never seemed to tire of our requests to turn it again, and yet again.

In the gardens one Sunday morning we watched a big parade of the Boys' Brigade, and it was distressing to see one stiff, soldier-like figure after another fall to the ground in the stifling heat.

One year a full-grown whale was stranded on the beach. For some time the impressive mammal lay there, dark-skinned and pathetic, the monster of the seas brought to naught by the denial of its natural element.

Stepladders were placed along its sides and from them Corporation workmen prodded this undesired, and by now malodorous creature, debating with their chiefs how best to remove it. Attempts were made to drag it back into the sea, I think by hammering in staples and fixing ropes around them, but the carcass defied all efforts and remained a perplexing problem.

At first we had been interested, walking beside the whale, feeling dwarfed, but by the time the final decision was reached that it should be cut up and disposed of piecemeal, we were only too thankful to find other places to explore.

Llandudno was a favourite resort. We always stayed with the Miss Levitts at the Little Orme end, and grew to know them so well that Doreen and I, one holiday, were dressed by them as maids, in cap and apron, and proudly served breakfast.

We ran nimbly over the pebbles, enjoyed the Happy Valley minstrels, and were fascinated by the bird-man at the Great Orme end. He was very clever, having trained his canaries (they were always canaries) to pull little carriages in which other birds rode, to walk up and down steps, to push articles along with their claws, and other tricks. The bird-man was at his place each summer for very many years.

One holiday we were walking on the Little Orme when a thick mist quite suddenly descended and we could not see a foot in front of us. Daddy lined us up in a row behind him, each holding on to the others' clothing; he felt with his stick and we went forward one foot at a time with the utmost caution, not knowing whether we were moving in the right direction, but quite sure we should not go over the edge because of Daddy's careful prodding.

The mist swirled where before there had been none, and settled all about us, white and opaque, the taste of the sea salty upon our lips. We were
relieved when it cleared as swiftly as it came.

We found Seascale such a delightful place that we went year after year. It was jolly arriving at the small station actually at the sea and we sniffed the air with joy, looking along the beach at the firm sand and the groups of rocks which had many little pools to explore.

We anticipated the fun of the jetty when the in-coming tide would tickle our feet, running swiftly plop, plop, plop, plop through the line of open boards; the making of boats in the sand, carefully patted into shape, with a high prow and seats across and along the sides, sitting in them until the sea swept all away.

The bathing was ideal. Very often there was a fine sea running, and what is more exhilarating than to wait for a wave to curl, then to place one's back against it to be carried along in airy flight until it tumbles one over and over amid its frothing and swirling? Doreen and Rex dived into their waves but I think my way was the more exciting.

Far out at sea porpoises were often spotted at play, arching into the air, the only place around the English coast where I have seen them. When the Isle of Man showed clearly on the horizon, we knew to expect rain

Crickets sang rustily all along the sand-hills. In our bare feet a hazard we encountered as we walked back to our lodgings was great, black snails trailing along the paths, ugly and revolting.

Mummy suffered from her delicate skin, for if it had contact with the sun for more than a few minutes it would be raised in blisters. To counteract this, she dressed on sunny days all in white, in a white costume and blouse, a white panama hat, and white shoes and stockings; she also carried a parasol, and for further protection she wore a thick veil over
her face, and sometimes even gloves upon her hands. Daddy would tease and laugh at her, calling her the "Queen of Sheba", and seated on her folding stool outside the tent there was certainly a serene and dignified air about her figure.

We attended Church, but I must confess we did not care for that at all as we were completely lost in the Prayer Book. Bobby decided that he must do something about this and developed, what we called, his "Sunday pain".

He would double up and really look in pain, exclaiming that he felt sick and had better not go to Church; it would never do to have to rush out! We rallied and teased him but Daddy always gave him the benefit of the doubt. I do not know to this day whether it was a genuine pain or not; Bobby kept his own counsel. But he missed Church, which I rather think was his intention.

A little distance from Seascale, at Ravenglass, was a miniature railway with a sturdy engine, which pulled open carriages up steep gradients, a long journey through pretty, woodland scenery. Recently the railway was up for sale but it was bought by enthusiasts and I am pleased to know it still runs. It would be a pity if it were ever to cease, for it gives pleasure to many in its run of some miles up to Boot.

Muncaster Castle was a delightful mansion to visit, with a wide terrace to walk upon. From there we had glimpses of deer, such pretty, gentle creatures with their soft brown coats and graceful forms. We longed to touch them and wished that they would come nearer but they were always too timid and fled away.

One of the highlights of the holiday was to hire a wagonette to visit Wastwater, the deepest lake in England, and Scafell and Scafell Pike, the highest mountains, with their companion peak of Great Gable. The lake always appeared to be black, the screes on the far side grey and forbidding, aslide with movement. We entered into the gentle green of the valley at the head of the lake, a pleasant contrast from the grim scenery we had passed through.

Here is the second smallest Church in England, the smallest of all being at Lullington, in Sussex, and that, indeed, is very tiny. In the graveyard around the Wastwater Church lie those who have been killed on the mountains.

We walked towards their impressive heights, and on our way we came to a stream running over big, smooth pebbles. It was crossed by a packhorse bridge, which was very picturesque with ferns growing out of the old, grey stones. Off came our shoes and we paddled and swished our feet in the clear water, watching it sparkle as it fell away from our toes.

Part way up Great Gable, in the small clearings between enormous fronds of bracken, far higher than myself, Daddy would point with his stick to fairy rings and remind us of the old fairy stories, which enhanced the quiet beauty of the scene.

When we left the sea, wherever we were, all clothed ready for the journey home and all packed up, we went in a body to have a last look and there waved, calling "Good-bye, sea, good-bye!" It was a poignant moment, one's heart seemed to drop, and for a while an overpowering misery entered into one!