The Holiday Camp

The school summer holidays, six whole weeks of doing nothing and going back to school seemed ages away.  What a great feeling that was and what made it even better was when your mum and dad said you would actually be going on holiday, and not any old holiday, but to a Holiday Camp. Butlin's or Pontins, how bloody fantastic! (Little did we know)  A totally British institution, the holiday camp.  I don’t think there’s anywhere else in the world that has anything like it.

The first Butlin’s was opened in 1936 in the glamorously named Skegness by Billy Butlin who’d had a terrible holiday on Barry Island in his youth, (and who hasn’t?) and wanted something better.  He grew up traveling around the country with his uncle’s Fun Fair and branched out into having his own Fair which became so successful he was able to develop a static fair in Skegness in 1927 which, in turn, morphed into a holiday camp when he built “chalets’ which allowed people to stay for a week or two.  Food was included (three meals a day) and there was live entertainment every night.  The weekly rate in 1936 was between 35 shillings and £3, approximately £173 today.  Cheap at half the price!  

The very first and original chalet is now a listed building

Picture Courtesy of Mr. M. Evison .

I’m not sure how fancy the inside of the chalets were back then, but having been to a Butlin’s in the 1980’s I can truthfully say, they are crap.  It always seems that no matter what time of the year you plan on going, it rains.  I can clearly remember a couple of occasions when I spent a wet and soggy week in Bognor Regis (another glamorous sounding place).  

Most of the camps seem to be built in the most unsunny (is that a word?)  places, with names that do not conjure up daydreams of palm trees, beautiful beaches or even nice weather.  [Bognor, Skegness, Pwllheli, Clacton, Minehead, Barry Island] It’s usually so cold you can’t use the swimming pool for fear of losing your toes to frostbite, the arcade is full of whiny children and the playground is a flooded mess.  Mum and dad trying to make you play board games and wishing they hadn’t bothered to book the holiday at all.  Looking out the window onto the desolate landscape is what British holidays are made of.  

More like an Army barracks

I think the main reason we were taken to Butlin's or Pontins was because of adverts like this, which made it look like your parents would have the best time and wouldn't have to put up with you all day. A holiday club is all very well, unless you are that extremely shy child that doesn't make friends easily, then it was a week in hell.

But on the plus side, without Butlin’s we wouldn’t have such jewels as the Glamorous Granny Contest, Miss Lovely Legs, Holiday Princess (aka, Bathing Beauties) or Red Coats (Blue Coats if you were at Pontins).  

Ironically though, the best sentence I've found in the history of Butlin's is this beauty:

"The first day of the camps opening saw snow and during the next three days of the season Bill (Butlin) was aware that although the holiday makers had settled in very well they seemed to lack enthusiasm." (emphasis added) 

That pretty much sums up how everyone feels about a holiday camp nowadays - Lack of enthusiasm.

But what about in America.  There is no such thing as a holiday camp… there are, however “Summer Camps.” It couldn’t be called a holiday camp, as a “holiday” includes a celebration, i.e. Christmas and July 4th. But I digress.  An American “Camp” is something that children do, on their own, in the mountains, or the middle of nowhere.  Parents just pack up their kids and ship them off.  You know, you see them all the time in films.  Little wooden cabins in the forest near a lake, which apparently you are required to swim in.  Sounds absolutely horrible.  Not to mention, there's usually a mad man running around said forest with a massive knife.

These camps are usually called something weird like “Camp Waziyatah.” “Camp Moosilauke,” “Camp Wicosuta,” or Camp Weequahic.”  I kid you not, these are names of real camps in Maine, New Hampshire, and Pennsylvania respectively.  [Although it may look like I had my fingers on the wrong keys for a moment].  I’m sure they are also designed for parents to have a child free summer.  

It's a bit more fancy looking

I don't plan on going to a holiday camp any time soon, unless, of course, it's something like this one, because, hello, wine, no children and no contests.  Also probably no swimming.

Then again, I wouldn't mind this one too much either.

What are your memories of holiday camps?  Were you ever a glamorous granny?  Do tell.

At The Beach - In January!!

I have a dog and a pool - what could be more perfect I hear you say?  That dog has the best life in the world, his very own pool where he can swim and play and keep cool in the 100+ degree heat in the California summer.

Well actually no. I think I have the only dog in Southern California that will not, under any circumstances, get into that pool.  We've tried to coax him in with toys and snacks, (yes, soggy dog biscuits), we've splashed him and he loves playing that game as long as he doesn't get too wet and we've even tried to push him in or pick him up and throw him in (that was a mistake, just ask my daughter - she still has the scars).  So how do you get a 95 pound pitbull into the pool - you don't. You just give up and move along, it's never going to happen.

So this last weekend we went to the local dog beach as the weather was slightly warmer than the last couple of weeks and it was the last day before getting back to work properly after the New Year.  (*sigh*)

Of course, as the dog doesn't like the water we didn't take a towel or blanket.  Well, that was a flippin' mistake.  Would you believe it - that flamin' dog saw the water and took a flying leap right into the waves... I would have bet money against him dipping even a toe in the water, let alone actually going in up to his neck! Typical.  

 

We had a brilliant time - not as good a time as Charlie mind you.  Somebody even gave him a tennis ball and we spent an hour or so throwing it into the sea for him to fetch.  But that stubborn dog would drop it just before he got out of the sea so someone (me) had to wade in and get it... And there goes a lovely pair of boots! I know he does that on purpose just for his amusement.

 

But getting to the whole point of this ramble, have you noticed the date... It was January 4th - yes JANUARY and I was At. The. Beach. 

I can't think of a time I ever went to the beach before at least June or July whilst in England.  No flippin' way it would have been well cold.  And obviously, it's usually still cold in June and July ...

So here's to a whole new year living in sunny, but slightly windy, California where you can go to the beach any day you jolly well want to... And you can't get better than that can you?

Happy Dog, Happy New Year

Gambling - A Great British Tradition?

The very first time we came to America to have a look at what we were getting ourselves into, my dad took us to Las Vegas – of course! Everyone has to experience Vegas at least once in their life. It was all very exiting!

So there we were, all packed into the car like sardines yet again, when we decided to stop for a late lunch at Stateline.  Now, as we came over the hill, I thought we were actually in Vegas – all I could see were casinos and lights.  But apparently not, Stateline is just a little teaser of what’s to come.

The buffet was calling our name and there was quite a wait, but hey, we were in a real casino so let’s gamble…. Or at least let’s feed a few pennies into a fruit machine.

So while the others were queuing up, I tootled off to the closest machine and began shoving quarters in one at a time.  A couple of minutes later, I hit it big…. Well, okay, I won about $50.  Nice - or it was, until I was suddenly surrounded by security guards.  Hmm… it turns out you can’t have a child in a Casino, or at least not next to the machines.  I was grilled as to who had put the money in the slot and why my son was with me (he had followed me over to the machine).  It was a wonderful introduction to the American world of gambling, I must say.  I think they only relented and let me keep the money because I was a tourist!  I sheepishly collected my winnings and did the walk of shame back to the family.  *sigh* They told me during lunch that if I’d put three quarters in at the same time, I could have won a bundle… but try explaining that to the security guards – I was happy to settle for the $50.

Although gambling is legal under US federal law, Nevada and Lousiana are the only states where casinos are legal statewide.  Other states have laws which restrict gambling to small geographic areas or to American Indian reservations. [Wikipedia.org] If you want to gamble, you have to really, really want to gamble because you will have to travel quite a distance (unless you already live in Vegas, of course).  The laws are extremely strict and heaven forbid if you’re under 21 and are caught trying to gamble or even walk into a casino on your own.  Gambling is a bit taboo in the US, mummies (or mommies) wouldn't dare let their child gamble - it's a big no-no, as if they will immediately be on the slippery slope to Gamblers Anonymous!

It’s a far cry from growing up in England where every seaside pier has an arcade choc-a-block with fruit machines, every pub and most chip shops have them too.  And anyone can play.  Here’s an example - my four year old nephew gambling away his pocket money in Brighton.

A big no-no in America

This is just something we do.  Growing up, if we knew we were going to the seaside, we would save all our 1p’s, 2p’s and 5p’s so we could go on the pier and – shock horror – gamble.  And blimey, us Brits gamble on anything – Horse racing, football scores, the elections, the weather, a white Christmas… you name it, and we’ll bet on it.  You can even see grannies having a flutter on the Grand National every year - its an English tradition.  Every corner has either a pub, a newsagents, a chippy or a betting shop.  A good Saturday night out for us was going to Wimbledon Stadium for the greyhound racing and letting my son pick the winners (or at least try to) and nobody worried about it!

Come on 6......

Although, there was that one time…..

I had been asked to put some money on a horse and went to the bookies with my 3 year old in tow. We were just in time for the race to begin so we stayed to watch.  To my utmost horror my son decided at that moment to stand on a chair and shout “Come on 6… Come on 6….” at the top of his voice, a result of  too many trips to Wimbledon, possibly.  The old fuddy duddies in the shop were not best pleased and we were asked to leave.  And once again I had to do the walk of shame…..  [is it just me or is this becoming a regular thing?]

The Cockles of my Heart

When I was pregnant I crave, crave, craved cockles.  I love those little shellfish and I just couldn’t get enough.  (and yes, I did eat shellfish whilst pregnant – shame on me). 

I remember going to the seaside way back when and queuing up at the shellfish bar to get my tiny plate of cockles in vinegar with a little sprinkle of pepper on the top and using that weeny two prong fork to eat them one at a time.  Ahh the deliciousness of it all!  But not only at the beach, there seemed to be a cockle/shellfish bar in every market.

Not in America

Imagine my shock and horror to realize you can’t get them in California.  I’ve looked everywhere and never found them.  I wondered if they were called something else here?  I even Googled “What are cockles called in America” and came up with nothing.  Apparently they have not made the journey across the pond and are not sold anywhere!!

I’m taking a trip back to Blighty later this year and one of my stops will definitely be the cockle stall.  My American fiancé will be with me and I can’t wait to see his face when I try to get him to eat one!    If he actually likes them, it will definitely warm the cockles of my heart! ❤

With Vinegar and Pepper - Perfect!

Beside the Seaside

Photo Courtesy: Tony Ray-Jones

When I was growing up, to go to the seaside was a major adventure.  Although it was only about 40 miles or so, it would seem to take hours to get there.  We would pack sandwiches and a flask of coffee for the journey.  And on a Bank Holiday, forget it - it would feel like days of sitting in traffic.  When you got there, it was cold!! 

We always had to look for that one particular parking space which was close to the beach, close to the shops and of course close to the funfair or the pier.  We were so excited to get onto the beach.  The wonderful beach – ahh those perfectly formed round pebbles in every size, some big enough to stand on, while others were just the right size to get into your shoe or between your toes to create the most pain.



Get to the Water Dance!

Children learn to run to the water and into the waves to find that illusive bit of sand so you can actually stand still for a while.  Everyone else does the “Get to the Water Dance”… arms out to the side, elbows pumping, knees jerking up and down, eeks and ahhs squealed.  Hilarious to watch, but we all do it! You get to the water and stand for just a moment before your legs go numb from the cold… and then the dance begins again, back to your spot (if you can find it).  And you shiver, wrapped in a towel behind your windbreak, on your rented deck chair, eating cheese sandwiches which somehow manage to have sand in – although you couldn’t find any sand on the beach if you tried.  Where does it come from?

IF you can find your spot!

Every trip ends with a walk along the pier and a stick of rock – or my favourite, a seashell full of sweets in the shape of pebbles. Oh those were the days…..








And now, here I am living in sunny California. To go to the beach is a spur of the moment thing. Grab a towel, jump in the car and head west for about 40 minutes (or less). When you get there you sink your feet into the golden sand and “walk” to the water, which is warm! Pure bliss!!

I just wish I could find a stick of rock!