Open Writing

We were a healthy bunch of laughing, friendly, adventurous kids, mixed with a certain amount of innocent devilment. Sometimes on the grass slopes of Westcliffe we played 'Release', where the 'policemen' chased the 'criminals' all over the slopes and who, when touched, would go to the 'prison' and stand with the others who had been captured, unless a free untouched boy or girl could run down, evade the catchers, touch one of the prisoners and yell 'Release!' then they all ran off.

Tom and his friends, being five years older than the rest of us, would climb the end rock that used to stand there. The day came when we younger brothers finally achieved the crotch-splitting stretch for toeholds and older brothers pointed out the handholds and, at last, we graduated and stood on the top of the hallowed end rock - and wondered how on earth we would ever get down. When, here in Australia, I heard years later that the end rock had toppled in a storm, it was as though Big Ben had fallen.

And then came the day we had all waited for, the Westcliffe Regatta. There was a procession of boats decorated in many ways. Our dinghy had a cardboard figurehead of a duck fixed on, together with white paper rosettes stuck all over it, half of which came off, floating everywhere, and leaving the duck looking as though half-plucked. Tom protested to the judges that we did not enter it as a duck at all but as a half-plucked duck and we should have won the prize for a half-plucked duck. He was overruled with adult grins and laughter.

Then there were swimming races and rowing-boat races with mixed crews, the boys yelling at the girls to pull harder and the girls giggling at the effort and everyone laughing, especially as competitors tried to edge along the slippery boom, covered in grease, to retrieve the flag on the end; and there were loud cheers and shrieks of approval as each one slipped off and crashed inelegantly into the sea.

But the event was only a warm up for the Herne Bay Carnival, which started with a parade of floats through the town. Anybody and everybody could take part in the parade provided they made some sort of float, or dressed as clowns. Rowing eights would come from other towns to compete against the Herne Bay crews. The Herne Bay Rowing club was situated in the shelter building, at the foot of the slopes. The boats were kept there and it was a flourishing club and if one of us was lucky we would be invited to cox on a training row. We yelled ourselves hoarse in the regatta races, 'Come on, Herne Bay!' urging them on to victory against the Margate or Ramsgate crews and those from further afield.

There was also a high-diving competition off the Herne Bay pier near the pavilion, and swimming races for which we all entered. At night there was a huge firework display and singing and good-natured larking about. We had fun.

The pier Pavilion was used for concert parties and in the winter it was used as a roller-skating rink. Saturday nights were the roller-hockey nights. Herne Bay United and Herne Bay Stars were the two rival teams, but teams came from other towns as well, just as they did in the regatta rowing events. Once I recall an international match when England played Czechoslovakia.

And what happened to them all, those happy, healthy kids; those childhood bosom pals? Quite a few kept in touch from time to time. Two were killed in the war; most of us saw military service, one being decorated for gallantry and afterwards they produced businessmen, a doctor, an anaesthetist, an air vice-marshal surgeon, a lawyer, and an accountant. One joined the Palestine Police. A number passed as ships in the night into oblivion.

Four years ago about six of them and five of the girls had an enjoyable reunion in Herne Bay. A few are living their old age in Herne Bay to this day.

I have never been back since those happy childhood days. To me, in my very treasured memories, those kids will never grow old and Herne Bay is as I remember it, so many, many years ago in the 1930s.

© John Powell