A long, long time ago in a land far far away, our idea of a jolly good Summer holiday chaps, was a trip to Wales with the family, the dog and sometimes the odd hangers on of a relative or more. This was what middle class families with children did. Once a year, packed up the station wagon, kids and dogs, no seat belts of course and Dad’s trilby would be squished before we’d left the driveway. There’d be luggage on the roof rack and the rest packed in the back. The back seat would ring out Ten Green Bottles’ because there was no radio or we'd play ‘Snap’ before succumbing to ‘Are we there yet?’ not half an hour into the trip.
Things were made more bearable for being punctuated by a picnic stop somewhere about half way where we ate scotch eggs and cold sausage rolls or cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches and drank tea boiled on a little portable Gaz stove.
I’d be peering about for a glimpse of anything that resembled a horse, yeh I was one of THOSE kids. My brothers, generally would be attempting to beat themselves up and my sister, since she is 9 years my junior was barely a twinkle in her daddy’s eye during these times. Refuelled and repacked, we’d wend our way to such exotic climes as Anglesea, Swansea, Oxwych and Harlech.
Our destination mostly comprised what was advertised as a “Quaint Welsh Cottage” and without the benefit of internet, we relied heavily on some sheep shagger to assure us that it was clean, dry and suitable for a family of five. It rarely was. Although we stayed somewhere once with pink bedspreads and a Golden Retriever called Flak.
Almost always, it translated into a a far-to-small damp farmhouse with moss growing on the inside, poorly appointed kitchen and a dunny on the outside. Hey, we were on holidays so the most dire of circumstances seemed more tolerable. Happy as larks and excited to be seeing the sunshine the days were long and the sea was warm and there would be sweets and ice cream and very little to complain about.
Invariably the sun would shine and we’d all become terribly burned because of course, nobody really knew what sun damage was back then. We froze in the Irish sea whilst my mother, ever the wise beachgoer, surrounded herself with a canvas wind break and made a cup of tea . . yes . . on the travellin’ Gaz stove.
My wonderful father, no matter what the weather, and a man who had clearly outgrown the age where he no longer had nerve endings like us children, would bravely wonder into the surf under the pretext of fun yet in reality to supervise.
When I look back at the expression of excruciating joy on his face, I now understand it was probably due to the pressure of his testicles retreating due to North Sea shrinkage. This also explains his absolute passion for building boats in the sand. It preoccupied us to the point that we almost forgot there was an ocean to be conquered and ensured he could remain dry and relatively warm. Smart man that.
Of course no holiday would be complete without the consumption and purchase of ‘Rock’. Nope, not a gemologist or a geologist among us, this was the rather odd English tradition of buying a literal pink pole of candy with a white centre, usually with the name of the holiday location very cleverly spelled around it’s white circumference.
Although I can safely say that I have never seen a stick of rock among the stuffed Kookaburra’s which laugh when you press their bellies even though they are made in Taiwan and the plethora of hats with unused corks dangling from them that seem to grace our tourist shops.
Yes this sweet pole of stickiness would have younglings sucking quietly and pensively whilst increasing our glycemic index and unwittingly feeding our Streptococcus mutans, totally unaware that we were demineralising our tooth enamel and encouraging dental caries. Hey, we were sucking candy, sweet, sticky, tongue stainy, lip stickin’ gorgeous holiday candy.
Rock being highly prized, meant that much was purchased as gifts for those who were less fortunate and had not managed a summer holiday in a Welsh cottage of their own. Or indeed for those more fortunate, who’s parents had seen fit to take them to the Costa del Sol or Majorca for their summer vacation.
Of course those children returned with little more than a golden tan, grass skirts, sombreros and castanets not a chunk of rock from Swansea. Poor things. How they must have suffered.
Get yer laughing gear around a stick of that kiddies!
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