Remembering when you had to ‘dress up’ to go to the beach

When I was 10, the world was dusty streets, the winkle man selling his vinegar treats and the ice-cream man. It was long summers, with the tar on the roads melting. Sitting on the pavement with my bare feet in the gutter and playing hopscotch or skipping with the other girls.

We lived in Bristol, United Kingdom, and the highlight for me was a trip to Weston Super Mare, Weston on the mud. It was a seaside town close to us, but less than an hour in our rusty old car seemed like forever. An epic expedition as the car was held together with string and faith.

The grey sea was always a long way out, with wide expanses of dirty sand to traverse with our buckets. We sat on the damp sand and ate our egg sandwiches with some fruity cake Mum had made. The smell of chips and candy floss mingled with the heat are the aromas of an English beach. Winkles and cockles were sold by a man in a striped top. It was the only seafood I knew for years, that is, until fish fingers became the trendy thing.

When we were at the beach I was supposed to watch my brother, but mostly I just dreamed my way through the long days. Now and then glancing up to make sure he hadn’t drowned, then crying as he stamped on my carefully made sandcastles.

I was always happy in a swimsuit; so free no restrictions, and revelling in pushing my bare feet in the silky sand. Yet, we had to dress up to go to the beach, so different to Australia!

We had clean white socks, best sandals, and for me flouncy dresses. My wild curly hair was tamed with ‘Amami wave set‘, some sweet scented fore-runner of hair gel. My mother modelled me on Shirley Temple, so I was forced into clothes like hers, hair like hers and dancing lessons. There was no expense spared even on Dad’s modest wages. Mum tried to keep her dream alive, but I must have been a disappointment.

In a very mild case of child neglect we were taken to the pub on Saturday nights, in those days no children allowed in, so the best we got was sneaking into a back room or into the skittle alley, but mostly we were left in the doorway of the old pub where there was a seat.

We played in the meadows near the country pub, and got torn clothes or stepped into cow pats. In the city pubs we watched the drunks roll out and saw all the Brylcreamed young men meeting giggling girls.

We were rewarded for good behaviour by Dad, who would bring out bags of chips and Cherryade. No one hinted at it causing hyperactivity then, and we drank the sweet and highly-coloured drink often. Another drink was called Pirate’s Tosh… whatever that contained we will never know, it was probably radioactive, we drank it when we went on a river cruise, stopping at hotels on the way.

“Never lose an opportunity for a drink,” Dad often said, but it remains in my memory of long lost summers and evokes my childhood.

What memories do you have from when you are 10? Share them with us.

Go in the draw to win some great prizes with Starts at 60. Simply sign up as a contributor and submit your stories to Starts at 60 here. You can also join the Starts at 60 Bloggers Club on Facebook to talk to other writers in the Starts at 60 community and learn more about how to write for Starts at 60.