The Saturday List #475 - My Top five childhood holidays

I awoke feeling a bit nostalgic. I had a dream that I was on holiday with my parents and my sister Caroline in the Canary Islands. It was lovely. My Mum was of Irish descent and highly superstitious, she would always caution us about disclosing dreams on a Saturday morning. She'd say "Friday nights dream, on Saturday told, will always come true, no matter how old". Now if you dream of a plane crash or Donald Trump becoming President, it is worth heeding her warning. However, I can think of nothing more lovely than my folks coming back from the heavenly plain, to take me and Caro on holiday., so I'll take the risk!

Anyway, it got me thinking about the holidays I had with my parents. In truth, they rarely went on holiday together with us. They had to run a business, so would generally holiday seperately. Mum would take the girls and I'd go away with Dad. We did have a few of holidays together. I have fond memories of them. I am sort of guessing the dates of these.

1. Butlins at Clacton 1966. This was the only time I can recall us all going away togetherI was four, mye Eldest brother Laurie who was twenty didn't join us, but the rest of my siblings went. I can remember falling in the swimming pool and nearly drowning. What is odd is that my recollections of this was that it was interesting. The swimming pool at Butlins had windows out onto the street and you could see people walking past. There were odd traditions, such as everyone cheering when a plate was dropped. I loved it. My Mum hated it and said "never again".

2. Lourdes 1967-72. Mum would go on a beach holiday with Caroline and Valerie. I'd go on a religious pilgrammage with my Dad to Lourdes. Every day we'd go to mass, have freezing baths, walk on rocky paths in our bare feet, doing the stations of the cross. Sounds fun? Actually it was brilliant. I loved being with my Dad. We'd spend an hour or two doing the religious stuff, then he'd hit the cafe's and bars. He'd buy me an orange juice, we'd go for waffles, I'd stay up late listening to him chat with random strangers in bars. There were caves nearby, with a train that would shuttle you past stalegmites and stalegtites, a cable car and a funicular railway. My Dad had what I consider a sensible view of religion. God gave us this wonderful planet, so enjoy it as best you can, be nice and say thank you to him for giving us the chance to enjoy it. 

3. Weymouth 1970. As I recall, mum was convalescing after surgery. She had been pretty ill. She was at a home near Weymouth. Dad took us all down to see her. She wasn't really in the mood for a visit from all of us. She was tired and miserable and in pain. So we left her to it. Dad took us to the funfair. There was a ride called "The Wild Mouse". It was absolutely hair raising and was rusty and looked as if it would fall to bits. We had fish and chips and sunbathed on the lovely beach. The next day, we went to see Mum again. Dad said he hoped she'd be in a better mood. She wasn't. Dad gave her a box of chocolates and we ate them all for her. We all piled in Dad's Ford Zodiax and drove home,s topping for a big greasy fry up at a transport cafe. Mum hated such places, for me it was clorious.

4. Brighton, 1972. We booked to go to the "Butlins Holiday Hotel" at Brighton. Mum booked it for a short break, as she 'needed a holiday'. It looked greay in the brochures. A very brutalist concrete structure. As we approached Dad groaned and called it "Hotel Sordide". I am sure it looked great in it's heyday, but nothing about it was very nice. I suspect that Mum had booked it because it was cheap. Sadly it wasn't particularly cheerful. Dad joked that he'd not had so much fun since he'd been a prisoner of war. However, our trips into Brighton were wonderful. I loved the pier and the shops selling sticks of rock. Dad was always great at making the best of a bad situation. I've loved Brighton ever since.

5. Grand Canaria, 1974. The family had been having a miserable time for a few years. Mum had been really ill with cancer, but by 1974, she'd turned the corner and was getting back to her old self. My mum hated the autumn. Her mum had died in October, she'd become morose and grumpy. By mid November, She was in a sour mood. The weather was horrible. Dad's efforts to try and cheer her up were getting nowhere and just made her more grumpy. Dad was an engineer by trade, so he always looked to fix a problem. His analysis was that Mum's miserableness was caused by lack of sunshine. So he came up with a novel solution. He suggested that we go to The Canary Isles, as they'd be hot. He had a Spanish mate, who'd moved back and Dad persuaded Mum that if we went to see him, it would cheer the poor old fella up. The Church had a collection before he left, to help him with his retirement in Spain. When we turned up, to Dad's horror, it turned out he was a multi millionaire, who owned half of the Island. We were given a tour of his banana plantations, which was as dull as dishwater. Dad was furious that he'd taken the cash, when someone needy could have had it. We also went for dinner at his place. That was awkward as the guys son was a fascist and a supporter of General Franco, who Dad couldn't stand. He refused to speak to us at dinner. His wife was very nice though. Years later Mum told me that the sons wife had murdered the husband and her in-laws, by poisoning them. No one deserves that, but Mum confessed she'd probably have murdered them as well if she'd been the wife! Apart from that, it was a wonderful holiday. It was the only beach holiday I had with my parents. The best thing was that they took me out of school for two weeks. It did the trick and Mum was cheered up. Until my Dad passed away, they took a holiday in the sunshine in the winter every year that they could, often at Xmas, when the business was shut. They'd visit my sister who lived in Florida. I would stay at home, have parties and trash the house. Everyone was happy. 

Until I discovered punk rock music in 1977, those were the absolute highights of my life!