Another key feature of the Whitley Bay promenade when I was younger was the parade of beach huts north of the Rendezvous Cafe. They were brightly coloured wooden boxes, with sloping roofs and double doors at the front. They seemed to be locked up most of the time, but occasionally on a bank holiday or a sunny summer Sunday one or two of them would have the doors thrown open, with deck chairs, towels, buckets and spades and all the other seaside paraphernalia spilling out on to the concrete deck at the front. As a child I had it drummed into me that it was rude to stare, so I would steal glances at the occupants and at the tardis-like interiors. I have a memory of checked fablon tablecloths, primus stoves and kettles, and pictures on the brightly coloured interior walls. They seemed so exciting, little private spaces where you could be part of, and apart from, the holiday hordes. And they were on turntables so they could be moved around to maximise those rare pockets of sunshine. Unfortunately you couldn't stay in them overnight, which really spoiled the whole concept for me. I wanted to live in one. I wanted to sit in it in the middle of winter looking out at the wild grey sea, wrapped in a cosy blanket drinking hot chocolate made on the primus and toasting my feet on the paraffin stove in the corner. Maybe the fact that their use was so limited was the reason that they fell into disrepair and were demolished, leaving only the circular footprints of the turntables.
If only the Whitley Bay town planners, a notoriously unimaginative and conservative shower, had consulted 10 year old me.
And there is hope. In the last couple of years plans have been put forward to build some new beach huts that can be slept in. If that happens, I'll be there. In January.
No comments:
Post a Comment