A little reminiscence of my boyhood
SANDOWN Isle of Wight 1953
It was a usual Saturday the sun had come early turned to rain and returned bright and shining by the evening. Mid summer extending the long bright evenings into a sultry nights and on one particular Saturday my father had promised that if we were up early enough the next morning we could catch the bus to Sandown and spend the day on the golden beaches beside the sea.
The resort town of Sandown lying in the southern lee of Culver Cliff is no more than fifteen miles from East Cowes but to me it was an unbelievable distance and I had the same feeling then as I do now when I venture to the Mediterranean.
I prayed for the sun to keep shining and was happy that the voices agreed that the day would be a family day. I began dab dab dabbing to appease the voices in order that the day would be bright and sunny and that my parents wouldn't row before the morning.
Mother had wrapped thick ragged sandwiches filled with egg that smelt like burnt matches into yards of greaseproof paper in readiness, before they had gone out for the evening. Although they had promised to return home early from the Victoria Tavern the midnight rattles at the front door and tearful entrance held little hope of a forthcoming day at Sandown and had accepted the likelihood that this Sunday I would be filling sacks of shingle for my Grandfather as usual.
I hated Sundays!
Bright sunlight rippled through the thin curtain in my bedroom and good humour moved about the small flat, I could them both laughing.
The voices had relented!
This Sunday was going to be different.
I was awoken at six, washed, feed and sent outside to await my parents. They soon appeared spreading confusion and panic before them like confetti my father swinging a brown paper carrier bag by its string handles whilst my mother carried a large gondola shaped wicker basket full of rolled towels over her arm.
As expected the single decker green 'Vectis' bus was almost full but nonetheless we clambered aboard with no alternative but to stand for the whole journey. The single decker bus chugged past winding hedges and then once over Arreton Downs took us spiralling down into Sandown.
The first impression of Sandown was the noise the hustle bustle of Homes Counties. Children lots of children with strange accents, I particularly recall the way they pronounced water as wolt- ahh as their skinny pale arms hung each side of orange rubber rings around their pale bodies. An intoxicating sickly sweetness hung in the air from the high street where we had alighted from the bus to the beach, rock sticks and ices and candy floss but disappeared as you rounded the corner and descended to the beach. Salty and clean, the sea seemed distant and shimmering, the hot sand sank about you whilst hopping in circles removing shoes which were then carried tied by their laces around your neck. Happy suntanned men wearing shorts and faded marine caps reeled off coloured tickets for the hire of deckchairs, windbreaks and the hire of pedaloes.
A position furthest most from the sea under the promenade wall was sought as my mother stood with her basket and the carrier bag held high to her chest whilst my father struggled cursing with the deckchairs and windbreak.
With exception of swimwear there was very little custom made beachwear in evidence men and woman were dressed in exactly the same way as they might for a picnic or an afternoonÂs shopping. At best jackets were removed shirts necks unbuttoned and opened heavy trousers with their turn ups full of sand were rolled up,
bunions and corns crawled beneath the warm sand as exposed legs, whiter than candles quickly turned pink.
Children were always sans deckchair and were expected to take up a sitting position in the burning gritty sand at best upon a reed mat or towel. Meanwhile a hundred children like me were stripping under less than inadequate towels into woollen swimwear and then released scuttling over the hot sand like turtles towards the crashing and sucking foam. Rows of screaming children timorously inched into the icy water their shaking hands cupped beneath shivering chins whilst others already in the chilly brine took great delight in splashing and ducking their younger siblings.
The ritual was as unpleasant and intrusive as the first day at school and although I was an Islander I moved among them like a clumsy stranger stark and awkward. I ducked into the water and swam over arm splashing out furiously not stopping until the salty burn of seawater grasping and beating in my chest stopped me making another stroke.. The water beneath me grew deeper it was stinging as my hands chilled and aching pushed in circles. Treading water I looked back at the full expanse of the beach which was jammed line after line with people I could hear the shrill cries of excited children clearly but had no way of seeing my parents who were fighting sand and sandwich over a breeze blown News of the World beneath the grey concrete of the promenade wall.
The resort town of Sandown lying in the southern lee of Culver Cliff is no more than fifteen miles from East Cowes but to me it was an unbelievable distance and I had the same feeling then as I do now when I venture to the Mediterranean.
I prayed for the sun to keep shining and was happy that the voices agreed that the day would be a family day. I began dab dab dabbing to appease the voices in order that the day would be bright and sunny and that my parents wouldn't row before the morning.
Mother had wrapped thick ragged sandwiches filled with egg that smelt like burnt matches into yards of greaseproof paper in readiness, before they had gone out for the evening. Although they had promised to return home early from the Victoria Tavern the midnight rattles at the front door and tearful entrance held little hope of a forthcoming day at Sandown and had accepted the likelihood that this Sunday I would be filling sacks of shingle for my Grandfather as usual.
I hated Sundays!
Bright sunlight rippled through the thin curtain in my bedroom and good humour moved about the small flat, I could them both laughing.
The voices had relented!
This Sunday was going to be different.
I was awoken at six, washed, feed and sent outside to await my parents. They soon appeared spreading confusion and panic before them like confetti my father swinging a brown paper carrier bag by its string handles whilst my mother carried a large gondola shaped wicker basket full of rolled towels over her arm.
As expected the single decker green 'Vectis' bus was almost full but nonetheless we clambered aboard with no alternative but to stand for the whole journey. The single decker bus chugged past winding hedges and then once over Arreton Downs took us spiralling down into Sandown.
The first impression of Sandown was the noise the hustle bustle of Homes Counties. Children lots of children with strange accents, I particularly recall the way they pronounced water as wolt- ahh as their skinny pale arms hung each side of orange rubber rings around their pale bodies. An intoxicating sickly sweetness hung in the air from the high street where we had alighted from the bus to the beach, rock sticks and ices and candy floss but disappeared as you rounded the corner and descended to the beach. Salty and clean, the sea seemed distant and shimmering, the hot sand sank about you whilst hopping in circles removing shoes which were then carried tied by their laces around your neck. Happy suntanned men wearing shorts and faded marine caps reeled off coloured tickets for the hire of deckchairs, windbreaks and the hire of pedaloes.
A position furthest most from the sea under the promenade wall was sought as my mother stood with her basket and the carrier bag held high to her chest whilst my father struggled cursing with the deckchairs and windbreak.
With exception of swimwear there was very little custom made beachwear in evidence men and woman were dressed in exactly the same way as they might for a picnic or an afternoonÂs shopping. At best jackets were removed shirts necks unbuttoned and opened heavy trousers with their turn ups full of sand were rolled up,
bunions and corns crawled beneath the warm sand as exposed legs, whiter than candles quickly turned pink.
Children were always sans deckchair and were expected to take up a sitting position in the burning gritty sand at best upon a reed mat or towel. Meanwhile a hundred children like me were stripping under less than inadequate towels into woollen swimwear and then released scuttling over the hot sand like turtles towards the crashing and sucking foam. Rows of screaming children timorously inched into the icy water their shaking hands cupped beneath shivering chins whilst others already in the chilly brine took great delight in splashing and ducking their younger siblings.
The ritual was as unpleasant and intrusive as the first day at school and although I was an Islander I moved among them like a clumsy stranger stark and awkward. I ducked into the water and swam over arm splashing out furiously not stopping until the salty burn of seawater grasping and beating in my chest stopped me making another stroke.. The water beneath me grew deeper it was stinging as my hands chilled and aching pushed in circles. Treading water I looked back at the full expanse of the beach which was jammed line after line with people I could hear the shrill cries of excited children clearly but had no way of seeing my parents who were fighting sand and sandwich over a breeze blown News of the World beneath the grey concrete of the promenade wall.
posted by Gus Jonsson at 5:55 pm
1 Comments:
I liked that piece...it's foreign but accessible.
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