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 one of the public holidays we get.
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 there
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 along 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 and the thousands of people walking aimlessly about, agog with
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 do 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 the 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.
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