On The Naze

Now was a good time to make a run for it; anyone who had any sense would!  But the poor unsuspecting public, for the moment anyway, had no idea what was about to befall them.  Put a spanner in the works it would and, quite honestly, spoil their day.  The little van which was making a poor show of parallel parking, was insignificant enough to be sure, but that was only until the back door was flung open.  It must, for the world have looked as though something had suddenly burst forth, and, in a way it had.  We were sort of ejected into the wonderful sea air followed by a huge waft of sweltering, rubber-scented heat.  Like the hares at a dog track Jana and I would bolt onto the sand.   We were on a mission, you see, where time was of the essence; to find the best spot and before anyone else did. One sprinting to left and the other to the right, this was the reconnaissance of the beach at Walton-on-the-Naze, Essex.

Dad would always park well away from where the expected crowds would be.  Nowhere near an ice cream, candy floss, or fish and chip outlet. No drinks stand nor penny arcade or merry go round of any sort; we were invariably at the end part where perhaps it wasn’t as sandy or flat, but this was all part of the plan. We were schooled in exactly what was required.  Number one, somewhere quiet; somewhere which provided a ‘leaning’ area. The sea wall, perhaps. or a huge boulder or groyne.  Number two, it had to have a south-facing aspect and number three, somewhere out of a direct wind.  But our Apache skills had been well-honed and soon the cry of ‘found it’ would reach the ears of the expectant adults waiting by the van. 

Then we would adopt a sort of Sherpa action as our parents literally flung all the beach paraphernalia onto the sand, lit up a cigarette and sat down.  Their job was done for the time being. Backwards and forwards we would go, running with our loads invariably dropping stuff on the way and tripping up on dangling towels. But we knew the score and stoically soldiered on. Very soon a kind of settlement would take shape: a format oft-repeated and taught by dad.  Two parasols well hammered into the sand with the whopping mallet.  Rocks around the base as added ballast.  Disillusioned, tired out blankets laid over the sand; dad’s Daily Telegraph and Observer in one corner with a Pullman sprung, seat cushion.  Mum’s Woman’s Weekly in the other.  A blown up lilo and the all-important tea-making facilities set inside an upturned big square biscuit tin saved from a Christmas selection.  The primus, clumsily filled up by the van, would be lit with dad’s lighter in preparation for tea. The milk in a damp earthenware container in a hole cooled by seawater; the bread, the butter, fruit and beef on a low picnic table covered with American cloth.  This whole ensemble would be encased with several windbreakers making a large sort of communal room.  One small section was left to open and close for entrance and departure and two corners would be canopied with blankets to give the baby a shady spot. Jana and I would lay our paper-thin towels directly on the beach outside this compound, the benefit of which was only allowed should we need to eat, drink or take a nap, and then, only if we had thoroughly dried ourselves. No drips were allowed!

What a spectacle we must have been.  Some on the beach who were in search of solitude already began to shift their belongings further away.  They should have remained at least for a while longer for the best bit was yet to come! the moment we loved… the grand finale, the pièce de résistance, the cherry on top of the cake…

When all was set and mum already had the filled kettle in her hand, dad would stand on the sea wall and yell “Ready you minxes?”  Heads turned eager for a sight of the “minxes”, and, after a united scream of “YES” , he would hold the massive, inflated,  inner tube of the lorry tyre aloft, count “One, Two, Three” and with the strength of a Bohemian shot putter, hurl it with great force down on to the beach.  The effect was mesmerising; for the world it resembled the Barnes Wallis bouncing bomb!   Huge, black and totally, totally, unexpected, it had the remaining deckchair occupants leaping up and tearing off in the opposite direction.  Kids gawped on in enviable wonder, dogs barked, sand flew into the air, and, when it hit the sea, it was a sight to behold.  Such was the impact on hitting the water that it would rise up to the heavens, then hurtle down travelling at the rate of knots like a whopping great skimming stone across the shimmering surface of the sea. Fish turned tail and made haste to The Netherlands and anyone left on the sand realised it was game over for a quiet day of relaxation.  This family were something else (‘Where on earth were they from?’); it would be safer to keep well away.  Gypsies perhaps?

We loved it though and would race after our bouncing bomb to claim ownership. Diving and swimming like dogs after a tossed stick. 

Having worn ourselves out good and proper mum and dad would make the first cup of tea of the day after which dad would always have a nap.  The drive, you see, was tiring.  Mum would then put on her bathing suit which had the inevitable effect of making us squirm in embarrassment.  We never liked that bit, but she would be relaxed in the knowledge that she didn’t have to cook and she could enjoy her tea and magazine until the baby needed feeding.  All in the compound would be calm and warm and comfortable.  We never had a radio and would never dream of whining ‘can I have’ or ‘I want’.  Never mentioned thirst or hunger until signalled.  

In and out of the water we would blissfully bound totally absorbed and happy, until ravenous appetite had us drying ourselves all over and especially between the toes and waiting to be called into the inner sanctum.  Dinner would be served. With the casserole pot between his knees dad would proceed to cut the beef up with his pocket pen knife.  As each square was cut, he would pass it to the youngest first. The lucky participant would lean forward and take their piece of beef from the end and place in on their plate.   There then followed a roast potato on the end of the knife, a slice of a huge Yorkshire pudding and sweet roasted vegetables. This would finish up with us diving into the dish with pieces of Yorkshire to sop up the gravy.  Perhaps it had something to do with the sea air or the added fat gherkin, but the flavour was always delectable at these times. Absolutely divine in fact! Dad knew how to cook and with his little additions of caraway seeds for pork and a touch of paprika for beef would produce magic.  Always apples to follow and on seaside days, a little chocolate with a mug of tea.  Well satisfied, we would hot foot it down to the briny wash up.  That way the cups and plates were already ready for our next trip. Later on, there would be a piece of home baked fruit cake.  Never a fizzy drink, no sandwiches, no packets of crisps or sticky sweets, no candy floss or rock but there truly did not need to be for the meal had been sufficiently satisfying.  Dad could get flavour from a stone!

Swimming, splashing about, and going way too far out to sea both Jana and I inside our massive inner tube, was a joy. Cups of fresh tea and cake in our beach camp.  Digging holes in the sand, sunbathing, and watching dad take the plunge in his woollen black trunks and mum taking our new little sis for a paddle mixed with feeling a wondrous sense of freedom and joy.  These were halcyon days!

But then it was back to the rabbit hutches.  Always back to the hutches.  Oh, horror of horrors!  Nothing to look forward to except the school bus for me and a long journey picking up kids here, there, everywhere, only to drop us at schools in places like Hornchurch, Romford and Brentwood for our academy of learning had yet to be built.   Ghastly places which served up disgusting food.  The recipes obviously the same as those in the Portobello school. Just how long were we going to have to live here! 

Oh, perish the thought!

Those estates were always shown as a sort of semi-rural paradise in photos and newsreels.  Delighted families gambolling about; thankful mothers running baths of steaming water, cooking in an all mod cons kitchen, tucking up children in their own little bedrooms.  Dad’s mowing their grass patch and showing off their roses and runner beans. But this was NOT the reality of it whatsoever.  In truth, most of the populous longed for their East End life.  The companionship of family and friends all around them.  The helping of one another, mum and dad next door auntie around the corner. The markets, the docks.  Their East End.  These estates housed fractured broken family units who were deeply unhappy and mums would have exchanged their new bathroom for the outside privy and a  chinwag with Winnie over the wall, and dad his concrete porch for his pigeon loft in Pimlico and a pint at the local, in the blink of an eye.

The navigation of this new life was not set to fair and easy.  Many trials and tribulations were ahead!