Blackpool

Blackpool was the Mecca of the working class seaside holiday. Villages such as the one I grew up in used to hire a coach and set off for 'a day out to Blackpool' on a public holiday.

It was a fun from start to finish. The boisterous trip there, everyone knew each other and the anticipation of the sea, the beach, the funfair, the girls and the mischief we would get up to as a collective was a great contrast to the relatively dour life we lived. 

The first to see the Tower and then the sea brought a cheer and a babble of anticipation as the bus set us down and we we were off to what ever took our fancy. The Pleasure Beach with its wild rides like the Big Dipper were favourites. The glitzy shops selling all kinds of knick knacks, the food stalls with their specific aromas, the candy floss and the ubiquitous Blackpool Rock designed to knock hell out of our poor teeth and make a visit to the dentist inevitable. If we were old enough there were pubs and bars along the way making the destination more problematical but who cared, it was the journey that was important. The sand and the sea, we rarely saw the sea since the tide always seemed out and Blackpool sits on a deep bay. The donkeys on the sand for the very young, the amusement peers jutting out from the land with the entertainment shows, sometimes the big names from the world of entertainment, the comedians and the singers. And towering above it all, the centre of the town, 'Blackpool Tower'. This huge amusement arcade packed full of titivating things to suite all needs. From the jungle gym for the young to climb about in to the one armed bandits. The shriek of the ghost train or the beautiful ballroom with its mammoth Wurlitzer organ playing for the people to dance to. A ride to the top of the Tower gave you a parametric view of the town below with its gaily painted trams honking their way up and down the wide promenade flanking the sand with thousands of people walking aimlessly about, agog to all the glitz and glitter around them. 

At last it was evening and a final extravaganza, the Blackpool Lights, a myriad of coloured lights strung across the road and up each lamp post flashing on and off, a Disney land of magic.

The bus would make a last sweep of the lights as it drove slowly down the prom and we, sated from food, drink and a plethora of memories would settle back in our seats to chatter happily about our day, as night time fell and the driver negotiated the narrow winding road back through the wonderful Dales to our grimy, sooty town of Bradford and the village of Esholt where we disembarked, happy and content with our day out to the seaside.