Snapshot: Off to Golden Sands with a bevy of cousins

The term family holiday conjures the “package tour ad” image of mum, dad and 2.4 kids holding hands on a Mediterranean beach, but my family holidays when I was a kid were an altogether larger affair.

This picture is taken at the Golden Sands holiday camp in Dymchurch, Kent, c1968 (I can’t be certain of the year as we went there several times). Mum and Dad had loads of siblings, and holidays were taken in family groups of 20 or more, of all ages. Both sides of my extended family are represented in this group shot, and even today my dad’s sister is in touch with several of my mum’s relatives.

I had a great time, every time. The camps had lots going on: sports of all kinds, competitions and various attractions, and, best of all, a freedom to roam and muck about to your heart’s content. With a bevy of cousins to play with and beneficent aunts and uncles around every corner, these were some of the best weeks of my childhood.

OK, the evening entertainment was a little bit hit and miss – so no surprise that not everyone in the picture seems entirely enthralled by the spectacle before them that night. The kids didn’t care, though – we got to stay up late every night, and could dodge the dodgy crooner and go and play on the swings.

Never mind that it wasn’t the Med (barely 65 miles from home, Dymchurch was not the most exotic destination, although even with that short distance there were debates about whether to break the journey halfway for a cuppa). One year, we broke the mould and adventurously headed off to Cornwall, but, inevitably as the 70s kicked in, the costas lured, tastes changed and the big group started to splinter.

Like many of their generation, my parents didn’t have many friends. They preferred to socialise with their families, on weekends as well as holidays. Your families were your friends, and you could have great fun together, frequently.

We have tried to instil that ethos in our own children. No, we don’t head en masse to Butlin’s, or anywhere, for that matter. But family gatherings and days out are still very much looked forward to and cherished. It is different from a day with your mates, for sure – but still great fun for young and old.

Steve Thomson

Playlist: A radio theme for our Sunday drive together

Sing Something Simple by the Cliff Adams Singers

“Sing something simple / As cares go by / Sing something simple / Just you and I / We’ll sing the old songs like you used to do / We’ll sing something simple for you / Something for you”

For me, music should often put in mind a time and a place, usually with loved ones. My playlist choice is listening to Sing Something Simple on the radio on a Sunday evening while returning from a day out to see some dear and close friends of my father, Cliff.

Before the second world war, my dad joined the fairground travelling people of the Notts and Derby section. After the war, he returned for another short spell and then our family would visit often, sometimes three or four times a year, from our house in Grimsby.

During the 70s, it became just me, Mam and the “old man”, following the A46 to Newark and then taking a back road to places such as Mansfield, Belper, Ripley, Heanor, Long Eaton and the like. Always on a Sunday. A day spent in a large “living van” of such opulence I have never really seen since – all in a space no bigger than a small single-decker bus. Walnut-panelled walls, the best crockery and usually the best cut of beef for Sunday lunch.

We would leave about 6pm and, as we hit the lowlands of Lincolnshire near Market Rasen, having listened to the Top 40, the Cliff Adams Singers would kick in. Being only in my teens, and sitting in the back of my dad’s prized white Ford Zephyr, we would hurtle back toward Grimsby, the overhanging trees and sunset my backdrop and this, the soundtrack to a lovely time spent with my parents.

Geoff Power

We love to eat: Auntie Eleanor’s coleslaw sandwiches

Ingredients
Mayonnaise (only homemade if you have your own chickens)
Grated cabbage
Grated carrot
Salt and pepper
Sliced bread

When Auntie Eleanor was 70, she invited herself to be my godmother. She was childless and, when Mum advised her she was expecting me, Eleanor not only informed Mum she would be my godmother, but also developed a phantom pregnancy herself. Whereas the phantom pregnancy did not progress to anything more than a bad case of wind, I was the apple of her eye and was showered with gifts, some expensive (designer clothes) and some bizarre (a budgie).

She henpecked her poor, downtrodden husband, a man who had become very rich on the stock market, and they had bought a huge mansion with 14 acres overlooking the South Downs. Their passion was gardening, especially growing vegetables. And keeping chickens. I loved the chickens, but hated the vegetables.

To encourage me to eat their produce, she would combine the fruits of these labours: she made mayonnaise with the eggs, and grated white cabbage and carrots to make her own coleslaw. She would bake some bread and then make me a coleslaw sandwich. I can still hear her voice echoing around the valley: “God-DAUGHTER! Leave those chickens alone and come and have some tea … and wash your hands.” Again, all very bizarre, but eating coleslaw sandwiches overlooking the Downs on a warm autumn afternoon, as the juice soaked into the warm bread, was a price worth paying for coping with her eccentricities.

Tania Davis

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