Diary of an Adolescent, 1953.

I recently rediscovered my diary of 1953. An exciting find for me as I am engaged in an autobiographical work concerning 1945 to 1959. (I hope to publish as a weekly blog from November, the month of my seventieth birthday, God willing.)

The diary is scruffy, mundane and contains information relevant to 1953. A dog licence cost 7/6d, car tax £12-10 shillings, a marriage licence 10/- and a wireless licence £1-0-0. Plus Kenneth Stevens was 4ft 6 inches tall and weighed 5st 3 lbs!

It contains a multitude of spelling mistakes. (Who would have thought I would go on to teach English.) It is not exactly Samuel Pepys, nevertheless it is an interesting insight into the life of a 1950's thirteen year old village boy.

My life seemed to focus around football, playing and football, watching. The watching being Derby County at the Baseball Ground, cost 6d to stand in the 'Boys Corner'. (Curiously never referred to as 'the Boys and Girls Corner'.) So keen was I that every Derby County result was faithfully recorded. I also played cricket and hockey at secondary school and attended Long Eaton open air swimming baths whatever the weather. The latter a hated occupation which taught me nothing. I left school at seventeen a non swimmer and learnt to swim within weeks in the local canal.

My existence was totally self centred, oblivious in the main to the world beyond, though there are in fact very occasional references to the outside world. I recorded on January 28th. 'Bentley was hanged at nine o'clock. Five hundred people booed and jeered outside the prison.' (For some reason I have had a lifelong fascination with murders and murderers.)

10th March simply records 'Mr Stalin was buried yesterday.' The 25th March entry informs 'Queen Mary died yesterday' whilst June 12th reveals 'Les Graham was killed'. (He was a famous rider in the TT Races in the Isle of Man.) An early indication of my future interest in motorbikes. Jan 27th reminds 'The Empress of Canada is still burning.'

Plus there are references to the wireless, television and very occasional trips to the local theatre, courtesy of Aunt Ida from Derby. Including mention of Carol Levis on the wireless and Henry Hall, Jack Watson and Jimmy Jewell on television; plus Wee Georgie Wood on stage at the Hippodrome. (We had no television at home neither would my mother have been able to afford theatre trips.)

But in the main thirteen year old interest was, in a way amazingly simplistic compared to today's computerised adolescent pursuits. Jan 'Ran out of stamp hinges.' Feb 'My bike mudguard rattled'; 'nearly finished an egg stand in woodwork.' 'Stuck photos in album.' April 'Made a caravan from Weetabix.' 'Football case split so played with dinkies.'

Times were austere. 'Mam has run out of sugar so we are using icing sugar' but we were not unhappy. Small things amused, the simplest of events gave pleasure. 'British Legion party. Had a biro as present.' At Easter 'Had some pontefracts from mam.'

The austerity of the times and in particular my families existence was reflected in periodic mention of food. Of the Sunday School party, no mention of activities, only that we had a 'Good tea.' And a highlight of the year was undoubtedly the Celanese Gala Day and free tickets from friend Eric's mum. (Eric's father was a Celanese employee.) The page entry triumphantly reads. 'Had free tea. (the word free was underlined) Mars Bar, chocolates, 2 chocolate wafers, ice cream and pop.' A feast indeed!
A love of animals is evident throughout the diary. January 'Saw a frog under the ice and rescued it.' (I wonder if it required rescuing) Jan 9 'Hope my tortoise is still hibernating' and April 'Found tortoise upside down. A broken back leg I think.' June tells us 'Cat caught it's tail in the door'. There are also references to 'poor old Benji' and later 'Grannie buried him.' (To this day I am not sure as to exactly who or what Benji was, presumably a family dog or cat.)

But probably the most revealing was the the entry for the 3rd January. 'Foxhunt at culvert. Fox went down hole. No terrier so they could not get fox. I was glad.' (But it always was a myth that the fox hunting debate was a country versus town issue. We village children may have followed the hunt but that is not to say we liked their arrogance and cruelty.)

Being country bred our pursuits reflected our rural existence. Never more so than our knowledge of bird life around us. We were avid egg collectors, but taught to take one egg only from a nest. 'Found starlings egg.' 'Found six birds nests.' 'Linnet in Rice's hedge. Three eggs.' ' Found new nest up Muddy Lane. Bird small. Black head. Hissed. What is it?'

I attended school though seldom with enthusiasm apart from a love of sport. 6th Jan 'New teacher with red hair. (Miss Lockwood) She is very strict. Personally I do not like her.' But oh for the fickleness of the young. 9th Jan 'I am beginning to like Miss Lockwood more than at the beginning.' Homework's were numerous and often completed on the bus journey to school. The finished articles were often joint efforts. 'Drewitt borrowed my English book.' And if school was tolerated rather than enjoyed there are memories that I cherish. It taught me a love of reading and instilled a thirst for knowledge. The diary faithfully records 'Went to the library and took out Biggles Flies South and Biggles in Borneo.' And a later entry, 'Have now read Biggles Breaks the Silence, Biggles in Spain, Biggles Goes to War and Biggles Flies the Swastika.' (Coupled with a penchant for fervently collecting Turf cigarette cards it is small wonder school studies so often took a back seat.)

School also provided only my second trip to the seaside to date, a camping holiday for underprivileged children in Mundesley, Norfolk, which I in my ignorance spelt Norfok. We visited Cromer and I faithfully recorded that 'Cromer is posh but not much of a place' and that 'I only spent one and sixpence today.' Not the most exciting of times. 'We had another sing song' and 'My turn to wash up' but the memories nevertheless will stay forever.

So the summer continued. I recorded visits to town (on one occasion walking there, a distance of over four miles), visiting the museum and buying stinking scent. Plus friend Bob 'Pinched Woolies egg but put it back.' How typical were we I wonder.

Life was for living. Occasionally I envied others but in the main I 'lived the life'. Thinking profound thoughts was for others. Perhaps thinking is an adult occupation.

An unimportant diary but an important part of my life. Even more so in that the diary finishes abruptly on Sunday the 30th 0f August. On the 8th of September I arrived home to be told that my mother had died. (see blog dated 12th December) My life would never be the same again.

What do you remember from the first of your teenage years?

Good old Bob and Dean

I wrote some of this post for Motorhome Monthly a while ago. On cold and miserable autuminal days such as today I reread it and, hey presto, I am transported back in time.

Memories are made of This

Those of us who can only be described of as ‘of mature years’ will undoubtedly remember a song recorded, by amongst others, Dean Martin in 1956. Called ‘Memories are Made of This’ it began with the lines
Sweet, sweet memories you gave-a me
You can’t beat the memories you gave-a me
Admittedly now considered rather twee, a remnant of a perhaps more gentle, innocent era, it nevertheless prompted me, mere months after purchase, to recall some of the delights our present motorhome has provided to date. Ordinary, unexceptional occurrences, yet experiences that bring a smile to lighten dark nights.
I suppose literally the first memory was the sight of a gleaming motorhome on a bright summer’s day, and the realisation that we were, at last the proud owners. Incidentally, it is the first new mode of transport I have ever purchased in nearly fifty years of driving, but well worth the wait. Plus the smell of a new vehicle is unique, an indescribable almost sensual heady mix that, bottled, would I’m sure rival Chanel, Dior or Nina Ricci for sales. (Raleigh bikes smelling of chain oil had the same effect when I was fifteen.) And finally my wife’s Cheshire Cat smile as she re-examined the washroom for the umpteenth time, surely the actions of a deprived child. Definitely a Royal Flush, if you like! All this and we hadn’t even left the dealers!
That first night, trying to comprehend the direction of the toilet in the early hours. (I’ve never used silver screens overnight before and found the blackness created by their presence disorienting in the extreme.) And the joy of lying in bed that first time, like children Christmas morning, excited beyond belief, the dawn, at least for us, of a new era.
Single nights, week-ends, weeks and longer, each and every occasion experiences, if not always to savour, at least to remember.
Excitement in Lancashire, tempered with not a little trepidation when, arriving back home, so to speak near Blackpool front we found our motorhome surrounded by numerous policeman. Evidently the result of an earlier ‘incident’ that we were relieved to discover, had nothing to do with us. Plus going to sleep only minutes later, the sound of clanking trams surprisingly soporific. Norfolk, unhurried and in the main unchanged. Walsingham, a meaningful haven for all, irrespective of creed or belief. A place of pilgrimage for centuries in an often disorderly world. To tread where pilgrims have trod for almost a thousand years, an awesome thought that surely cannot fail to impress. Gressenhall Farm and Workhouse, one of the best days out for under ten pounds I have ever experienced. Workhouse incarceration an austere, uncompromising existence, a sombre reminder of the cruelty of the not too distant past. Plus time spent in the company of a delightful individual who had exchanged the turmoil of modern day South Africa for the simple pleasures associated with hardware shop keeping in sleepy Mundersley.
The looks of astonished amazement from the gathered fishermen as we arrived in the tiniest of coves in Clovelly, Devon having misread the signs on approach. (The wife’s fault, of cause, as of always!) Extraditing ourselves with great difficulty and I maintain not a little skill. The fact that we should not have been there in the first place surely of no consequence!
An enchanting evening spent at the public house in The Lake District where we honeymooned all those years ago. (thirty seven years ago to be precise.) Overnight spent in the van on the road outside the pub. (The Mason’s Arms, Strawberry Bank near Windemere.) Who says romance is dead!
Hadrian’s Wall, County Durham where history and mystery combine. Well worth the visit, though much of the wall has since been spirited away by the enterprising hordes the Romans were so keen to repel. The sheer scale of the enterprise is mind bending. Originally over seventy miles long, mainly completed in ten years, I found the statistics too complex to take in, finding a fact from fiction more intriguing. A replica wall one kilometre in length was built in County Clare, Ireland for the film King Arthur. It took three hundred construction workers four months to build. (The largest movie set ever built in Ireland.) Remember, this replica was only one kilometre long!
Glorious sunsets at Blackpool, Fleetwood and Crackington Cove plus equally
splendid rainbows in the Yorkshire Dales. Surely the cheapest beer in the country in a pub near York, courtesy of Sam Smith, and some of the dearest campsites nationwide in the Lakes. The memories are endless.
High winds near Castleton, enough to rock the van, an eerie overnight stay both haunting and daunting. Non-stop rain at Eden Camp, near Maltby, the visit a fascinating reminder of the trials and tribulations of Britain at war.
Regular sojourns at Derby County Football Club home games. After the match we sit munching bacon butties or beef burgers, mug of steaming tea to hand and watch gridlocked supporters impatiently fume, blood pressures rising, their frustration perversely making our meal all the more enjoyable. Local radio echoing to the howls and growls of those stuck fast.
Fed and watered, nerves intact, we leave when the last car has disappeared over the railway bridge, forty-five minutes after the final whistle. (We arrive home fifteen minutes later than had we left immediately after the match ended.) A ritual repeated at fortnightly intervals.
The Christmas Market weekend at Lincoln early in December. The lights, the street entertainment, the market itself and the crowds. An enchanting countdown to Christmas attracting 160,000 visitors over four days: tiring but well worth the effort.
Plus the magic of Christmas itself. Parked outside the grandchildren’s house Christmas Eve so as to be ‘in situ’, so to speak when presents are opened Christmas morning.
Dressing up as Father Christmas, right down to full-length beard. Elaborate preparations including a scattering of ‘Reindeer Dust’ and walking up the street complete with sack. “Who’s this coming up the road?” Angelina aged five is asked by mother.
“Father Christmas” she replies on cue, eyes wide with amazement. “Who is it?” is enquired of brother Tommy, not yet three. “Santa Granddad” is the instant dismissive reply. Out of the mouth of babes and all that! ( I have been asked to be Father Christmas at the junior school where my daughter teaches. Only Tommy and Angelina now attend that school so I've no chance. I wonder if I'll get away as being 'Santa's brother.)
The illustrious Bob Hope adopted as his theme tune ‘Thanks for the Memory’ (Written in 1937 by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin.) Included are the lines

Many’s the time that we feasted
And many’s the time that we fasted.
Oh well, it was swell while it lasted.
I don’t remember the fasting, Mr Hope, but it was certainly swell. If 2009 compares I for one won’t be disappointed. Memorable experiences to take into extreme old age, though not yet! Expensive cruises, who needs them!

Afterthoughts. 2008 became, out of the blue, the year of the 'great move'. Thus our travels were in the main 'on hold.' Roll on 2009!