THE SUNDAY CORRESPONDENTS

CARRY ON CAMPING

When you read this I will be under canvas again for only the second time in my life. Knebworth was the first which I shared with you last time. It remains to be seen whether there will be a third.

This time I am told it will be a completely different experience as I am staying apparently in a luxury 2 bed roomed tent. With living area and no possibility of water leaks or creepy crawlies (I’ll believe that when I see it). Fred and I are escaping from the teenagers with a couple of like minded seasoned camper friends. This I’m sure will mean copious amounts of food, red wine, beer, lots of laughter and a good time had by all. The location this time is a campsite near the North Yorkshire seaside town of Whitby.

Whitby is a place which played a large part in the summer holidays of my youth. My Dad didn’t drive so each summer my Mum, Dad, brother, Granny, dog and I all used to set for our summer holiday pilgrimage by bus from Leeds to Whitby (A cartoon by Giles comes to mind).

Unlike today’s car journey which takes only a couple of hours at the most. In those days the journey would begin at six am with a bus ride into Leeds, a trek across town with cases to Wellington Street bus station and then a good 4 hours ride queuing through Tadcaster, York, Malton and across the hair pin bends of the moors to Whitby. There was always a stop either at a pub which I remember for the plagues of wasps around my bottle of lemonade with straw, or at a café where there were toilets with six foot metal turnstiles....well high enough to terrify the hell out of any small girl needing a wee anyway.

I always wanted to stay awake but after the very early start I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I always fell asleep on my Dad, so hardly ever saw the ‘golf balls’ at the Fylingdales early warning station. The golf balls conjured up a giant playing golf in the overactive minds of us young ones. Which is a long way from the stark reality of their official use....

My brother had usually had a change of clothes on the way as he was always very travel sick. My Mum used to dose him up with every remedy she could think of but he never failed to throw up, usually just as the bus pulled up for a stop, and I always wondered why he couldn’t have waited just a few minutes more and save me the embarrassment. When we finally arrived in Whitby bus station we then had to carry our cases up the West Cliff to our rented flat for the week. We now travel about in cars and take the convenience of it all for granted.

These holidays were traditional bucket a spade affairs which I remember with great fondness. We always went to the pictures or amusements, then sat outside the pub on a night come rain or shine. In those days children weren’t allowed in pubs, there were no family rooms or Wacky Warehouse type places. We used to sit near the door listening to the juke box and get Dad to put on this:-

mp3 : The Move - Fire Brigade

or this:-

mp3 : Georgie Fame - The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde

which was one of mum's favourites

Then we would eat chips on the way back to the flat.

My Dad and I used to get up early and walk for miles on the beach with the dog. He would tell me stories of Captain Cook, Smugglers, Whitby Jet and whaling. He had loved the place since he was a boy and had read many books about his subject. This Knowledge he passed on to me on our walks. This knowledge I soaked up like a sponge. We would always end up at ‘O’Hagan’s tea stall near the fish market and drink the strongest, sweetest tea I have ever tasted, whilst watching the trawler men land their catch and see it sold within the hour. I was fascinated by the boxes of all types of fish with their staring eyes and the strange smells of fish mixed with hot dogs, onions and bacon from O’Hagan’s. I watched the trawler men and listened to their conversations. My Dad told me quite a few years later that the real reason we went out was because I always woke up early and he took me out to give everyone a break.

These holidays were much looked forward to for most of my formative years. One particular year our sojourn coincided with ‘Whitby Folk Week’. Everywhere we went there were groups of people dressed in costumes with hankies, knives and bells, performing dances and playing music. The pubs were overflowing each night with good natured revellers and they dressed up Captain Cook’s statue and put him a bowler hat on. The highlight of that week was when we went into the Elsinore pub in Flowergate and stumbled upon some great music, where a bloke called Mike Harding was holding court to a packed bar of folk fans hanging on his every word and funny he was too, even though I didn’t really know who he was at the time. I now usually tell people I once went drinking with Mike Harding.

If I get to choose a day to the coast I still always choose Whitby and feel like I am visiting a long lost friend as I wander the narrow cobbled streets, looking in the shop windows, eating fish and chips and ending up at the Duke of York pub dreaming about the past.

mp3 : Mary Hopkins - Those Were The Days

I’m sure I will get that warm, comfortable feeling again this weekend as me and the ‘Carry on Campers’ hike the five miles from the campsite into the town, although it may be the hangover form the red wine I have consumed the night before. That is of course once we have decided which one of us is Sid James and which one is Barbara Windsor. I don’t mind as long as I’m not Hattie Jacques! I’ll make sure we do some early morning exercises though!!




Red and Ginger, Sunday 4th July 2010


I couldn't resist adding my own little PS:-

mp3 : The Wedding Present - Davni Chasy (Peel Session)

JC