Words From Adelaide: The Carnival - Part 1
...Our feet soon became accustomed to running on the pebbled beach; we found that when we let our young feet sink into the pebbles it didn't hurt that much anyway. Who cared? We were with our friends again and taking out the rowing boats; riding our bikes; climbing trees in Blean Woods; climbing the cliffs at Westcliffe or fishing off the Hampton jetty, catching nothing but such fun throwing our lines out; or it was decided, by unanimous vote, to ride our bikes to the park to fly our model aeroplanes. ..
John Powell tells of happy family holidays at Herne Bay in the 1930s - an age when children made their own entertainment rather than waiting for it to be provided for them.
After 70 years I have just been back to Herne Bay, in England, but unfortunately, only on the internet, which has left me wallowing in the nostalgic folds of my time-warped, cobweb-encrusted mind.
'Herne Bay' were magic words to my older brother, Tom, and me, way back circa 1935. Setting out with our parents from London in the old Morris Cowley, which required starting by turning the crank handle a few times and adjusting the carburetor lever on the steering wheel, everything would be loaded on board, even the goldfish bowl so that they did not die without anyone to feed them while the dog made sure he was first into the car.
The journey of 60 miles took nearly two hours as we chugged along at the breakneck speed of 35 mph. Going up Shooters' Hill was always exciting in case we ran backwards as our progress became slower and slower, while we watched the red needle in the glass-cap, on the front of the bonnet, ascend towards the radiator heat danger mark, excitingly for us; alarmingly for our parents. As, at last, we reached the Rochester by-pass, Mother would say to Dad, 'Are you tired, Dad, would you like me to take the wheel for a bit?' How considerate, after all, driving for nearly an hour must have been exhausting.
Tom and I amused ourselves, often, by spotting the cars and shouting out the makes: 'Wolseley; Armstrong Siddeley; Riley sports; Morgan run-about; Rover, Austin 7, Morris Austin; Morris Major---it wasn't . . . it was . . . it was not, it was a Morris Oxford . . . hey! Look at this coming along, it's a Packard'.
We always kept an eye open for the yellow motorbike and sidecar of the AA man, the Automobile Association, who parked alongside the road and then, seeing our membership badge on the bonnet, would salute our car. Tom and I returned the salute several times to make sure. I recall us once yelling at Dad in derision when, to our disgust, we were overtaken by an Austin 7. Dad protested he could not go faster than 38 mph or the engine might overheat.
When we arrived at our sea-side house, from the last visit our bikes had been left upside down and smeared with vaseline on the rims against dampness, so they needed cleaning and tires pumping up. First things first, then it was down to the beach.
We could see the tide was coming in if the rocks were nearly covered; then there would be a sprint down the beach to dive into the waves and a race out to the raft. We could all swim better than fish. The rocks at Hampton Inn were a guide to whether there was deep water for swimming or whether we would have to wade out, or, if far out, pass the time shrimping until it came in, or a game of cricket on the mud flats.
Our feet soon became accustomed to running on the pebbled beach; we found that when we let our young feet sink into the pebbles it didn't hurt that much anyway. Who cared? We were with our friends again and taking out the rowing boats; riding our bikes; climbing trees in Blean Woods; climbing the cliffs at Westcliffe or fishing off the Hampton jetty, catching nothing but such fun throwing our lines out; or it was decided, by unanimous vote, to ride our bikes to the park to fly our model aeroplanes.
Then somebody suggested we build a raft sending us scavenging for planks of wood and pestering the garages for old barrels or tins and parents for hammers and twine. After the fun of making it, singing lustily, we carried it in triumph down to the beach for the launching---to see the waves gradually disintegrate it, dumping its laughing sailors into the water.
Undeterred, off we went to fly kites, sending paper messages up the string in enthusiastic races against each other. Another time, we cut out the inside of a huge bush to make a secret hiding place inside. We all swore a secret oath not to tell our mothers exactly how we came by all our scratches.
We kids needed no entertainment to be provided we made our own, while our parents never worried about us as they knew we would turn up on time for the next meal. They trusted us to behave properly. Their trust was never betrayed.
© John Powell
