Blackpool!!

Blackpool, sand and sandwiches

We rarely went to Blackpool for a `Sunday run`, dad always said that there was too much traffic, and too many people. As kids we would have loved it but were instead relegated to Fleetwood. Fleetwood was famous for nothing in those days, the fishing industry had died or at best was on its least legs. It had no pleasure beach, no donkey rides and no amusements. It did have a floral garden with a big white bandstand that on a Sunday had a brass band playing ‘popular music’, which was surrounded by old people in deckchairs half dead, or half asleep at best, listening to half decent imitations of the Joe Loss orchestra.



the hotbed of all things serene, the floral gardens at Fleetwood
on a hot Sunday afternoon the amassed throng would listen
to music from a bandstand just out of camrea shot to the right.



Now this was not a place to take a couple of young lads, at twelve years old we were inquisitive, and wanted ‘things’, none of these things started or ended with Joe Loss look a likes on a white bandstand in the middle of a hoard of pensioners, and our parents! They did start with amusements, candy floss and fun. These things unfortunately were not to be found at Fleetwood. So we went on a campaign to go to Blackpool for the day. We knew that dad came from Blackpool, so you would have thought that he might like to visit once in a while, this was not the case, any excuse not to go was presented, “its to bloody far”, its too crowded” it’s too noisy” I must admit compared to the deathwatch of the Fleetwood massed army of pensioners it was noisy, but we were only twelve, we wanted noise!

Our hope was mum, we worked on her for what seemed like weeks, the forty miles could have been four hundred, but we never gave up and whatever mum did or said to dad must have worked with the announcement one Saturday that we would go to Blackpool on Sunday, and, because we had to leave so early to miss the traffic, we would have a picnic on the beach, “café’s are to bloody expensive, I’m not eating in out Blackpool” (guess who said that?) but at least we had a result!



eehaw! donkeys at Blackpool

 On Sunday we packed the picnic, mum had decided to have tomato sandwiches, but if you make sandwiches out of something that is essentially water, the sandwiches always go soggy. I have no doubt that we would have eaten them, but to be honest the thought was not very appealing to anyone. Mum decided to take everything she needed to make sandwiches to Blackpool, bread, butter, tomatoes, a knife for slicing the tomatoes, we would make a feast on the beach. Now this was living! Leaving early was not actually that early, I think we left around ten o clock, and of course it was a beautiful day and many more revellers left at he same time, first we got held up at Whalley, then Preston, then Longridge, we could have gone on the main road that would make driving easier and quicker, but never did, “I like going the back way”. So we sat, impatiently, as we moved slowly towards Blackpool on roads deigned for horses, and looked for the tower. The smoke from dads cigarettes got pretty thick inside the car, and he almost turned back until mum stopped him, but we eventually got to Blackpool. After parking up, we excitedly went to the aptly named pleasure beach. Crowds, donkeys, deckchairs, sea, sand, heaven!

Denis and I immediately began digging a deep hole, most kids did, I have no idea why kids did, and still do this, you see sand, you have a plastic spade, and you dig, and we dug, we could have dug for England. Dad sat down, rolled up his shirt sleeves to get some sun on his arms, mum slept and we got hungry. “Can we eat mum, can we, can we”? “I can’t even get two minutes rest” and she was up, a blanket was spread out on the sand, the bread, butter and tomatoes were taken out, dad was dispatched to get a jug of tea, which you could buy from a stall that said, amazingly ‘jugs of tea for the sands’, where else would you see that? Eventually dad came back, with a jug of tea and two cups, we were to have milk, oh well, warm milk on a hot day would make me big and strong. “Now, get off the rug, I don’t want sand everywhere”. Mission impossible springs to mind.

"I don't want sand everywhere!"

Two twelve year olds, other kids all over the place running around us, how could anyone  keep sand away from us, we were sat on it, surrounded by it, and in the middle of it. Mum was used to making sandwiches in the kitchen, so I am sure that this was well and truly out of her comfort zone. In hindsight buttering the bread at home would have been better, but not today, the bread was laid out as it would have been at home, and the butter was removed from the basket, still in the same container that was on the table at breakfast.

As the sandwiches were being buttered, dad was asked to cut the tomatoes, a board was removed from the basket, together with knife, and dad with his shaking hands cut the tomatoes into the thinnest slices he could, ”makes them go further” he could have given slicing thinly lessons to British rail. Sand was flying everywhere, inevitably it got everywhere, somehow we got the blame, and were told by dad that he “knew this would happen, should have gone to Fleetwood” and that “eat them, it’s only sand it won’t kill you” for us it was no big deal, we wanted to eat, we were hungry and by now would have gladly eaten one of the scabby donkeys, fur and all.

Mum and dad both had false teeth. Four things that do not go well are sand and sandwiches, false teeth and picnics. Dads teeth must have been out a dozen times, washed in his tea and out put back in again, and every time a loud announcement was made to alert everyone within earshot of the dangers of eating on the sands. At least mum was more discreet, taking her teeth out and wiping them on her dress, being as inconspicuous as possible.

Despite this we were two happy campers, we had been to Blackpool, been to the sands, and had a picnic. How good could life get. We left early, again to avoid the traffic, travelling the ‘back way’ on lanes designed for horses and full of cars. I don’t remember going to Blackpool again with my parents. I honestly think that was the first and only time, we went instead to Fleetwood more and more, eventually branching out to even more sedate Cleveley’s, “where all the doctors retire to”.   

Now as a well travelled adult, Blackpool does not seem exciting any more, but when I do visit I still see excited looks in the faces of kids as they make there way to the beach, bucket, spade and parents in hand. Holes to dig, and sand to eat!