This series of stories will be titled 'I'm surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood ...' 19

Yesterday’s memories of the seaside in my childhood sparked a few more – that sometimes happens, and I jot down reminders for myself.

Today’s reminders include:

Donkeys, bowling, babysitting and amusement parks

So that’s where I’ll start, with the donkeys.

A tradition on UK beaches for as long as I can remember. (I’ve just clicked Wiki and it says they arrived on Weston Supermare beaches in 1886 and Bridlington in 1895).

One vivid memory I have was when my brother was a toddler – not sure whether my sister had arrived yet, so I could be between 4 and 6 years old.

Queueing for the donkey rides, I’d got my eye on one, a dark-coloured donkey with black saddle and a red band across his forehead.

“What does it say, Grandad?” I asked.

“His name’s FLASH,” he said. “Fuh, Luh, Ah, Shuh.” He’d always spell out the words for me and I’m more than convinced he was by far, my greatest influence in my reading, writing and story-telling.

“I want that one!” I said, eager to get on the donkey. “It looks like ‘Dapple’.” (My rocking horse back at Grandad’s house.

Usually, the donkeys plod along the beach in a quiet and orderly straggle. I say ‘orderly straggle’ because there was never any pushing, shoving or barging. There was only lagging behind and sometimes, a feeling of frustration because the donkey lagged behind so much, it got the opportunity to turn around way too early, when it met the donkeys coming back before it reached its pre-ordained turning point.

The donkeys all knew their ‘route’. They knew when to start, when to turn and when to stop. The handler came with the group, but really, it wasn’t necessary. Bells were hung on the donkeys’ necks and they made a wonderful jingly-jangle sound as they plodded along.

So Grandad hefted me up onto the donkey’s back and I grabbed the reins.

My feet didn’t reach to the stirrups so my feet were placed on top of the stirrup iron, threaded into the leather straps. I remember the feel of the stirrups swinging underfoot.

Grandad showed me how to hold the reins – not too tight to slow him down, but not too loose so I didn’t have control if he decided to bolt.

The very idea, a seaside donkey bolting!

We plodded along the beach. Someone kept hold of my brother because he wasn’t very stable on the saddle (he really was very small).

As we turned around at the end, I don’t know what it was, whether the donkey took fright, got stung or just because, but that mini beast-of-burden took off like his name suggested and made for the start/finish line like a bat out of hell! Jingly-jangles going like the clappers, probably accompanied by me, screaming with delight or fright, I can’t remember which!

The donkey’s saddles have a metal hoop for kiddies to hang onto and I’d love to be able to say I was a natural, but I wasn’t. I clung to the reins AND the metal hoop and I think Grandad managed to keep up with us for a good way, but he was no match for the awesome FLASH!

That donkey ride was the best ever and like some habits, I was forever trying to recapture that exciting dash back to base. Every summer I’d look for Flash and though the name appeared on a bridle, the donkey was never the same one.

I wonder if they retired FLASH after that reckless gallop up the beach with a wild, yelling ginger tomboy as his jockey.

We stopped going to Skegness before I got too big to ride the donkeys and I think I’m pleased it happened that way around. If I’d had to be told I couldn’t have a go on the beloved donkeys, I think I’d have been so heart-broken, it would have ruined my holiday.

When I was thirteen, we were taken on holiday by our grandparents – (father’s parents). My grandmother told us she was paying for us all to go on holiday to Ibiza.

My parents, my brother and sister and me, my two aunts (father’s sisters) and their husbands and one cousin all went off on a jolly holiday.

We went off to Salou and I spent a wonderful two weeks, getting seriously sunburnt – to the point of massive blisters across my shoulders (NOT good). I spent most of the two weeks swathed in a baggy Guinness t-shirt because of the blisters.

The best part of those two weeks was the time spent with my grandad. We walked along the beach for miles. He discovered an old tower and we fished for crabs in the rock pools.

As we walked, he’d show me the plants growing wild along the edge of the sand. “This is called ‘Mother-in-law’s Tongue’,” he said.

This is what they look like in the ‘wild’.

And this is my plant, in my bathroom.

We’d wander down the beach, picking snails from the plants. Grandad had got a hook and some string from somewhere and he’d crack a snail shell, put the mollusc on the hook and dangle it in the water of one of the rock pools.

From out of nowhere, a crab’s claw reached out and took the bait. It was so determined to not let go of its meal, it was dragged from its home and held up for me to study.

We always let the crab go. Unfortunately, not so for the snails. If they weren’t used for bait, I’m sure we’d have put them back…

Grandad told me lying in the sun was no good if you wanted a tan. “The sun burns, the wind tans,” he’d say.

I think he proved his point. He never lay on the beach, he’d just walk along, letting the breeze work its magic on his skin.

Images from google