The Story of Ballyferris. Chapter Twelve. The Beach Take Two.

The grey beauty of the Irish Sea.

When I became bored of waiting my turn on the beach, on the sand in front of the van where my brother Ian made those serious structures... I've written about already... with the other lads whose families also had vans on the field by the beach....I went walking .

I've mentioned that many liked to promenade in a summer evening along the silver sands as the sun lowered  over the peninsula. When aunt Helen...mum's sister ...came to the van it was de rigeur to have a walk after tea. Teatime then  being what I now call dinner. 

But soon it became a place of gathering for the young people from our field and the smaller field to the right of the lane. In our early teens the gang was mainly the younger Cathcarts, Vicky Pollock, the McKee girls and myself. the leader of the pack being Vicky, she who must be obeyed!

This was seldom a leisurely stroll. This walk was invariably brisk and our given instructions were to collect shells.

Not just any old shells

They had to be either "pearlies" or tiny cowries. And to this day I keep a glass bottle full of cowries on a window ledge in my home in Morecambe...and if by chance and good luck I happen upon a "pearly" on some distant shore, why a little whoop of success leaves my lips.

Of course I never could compete with the number of precious shells that Vicky gathered, because we all had to walk behind her, thus making sure that she spied them first....and wow betide you if you thought that you could somehow sneakily get in front of her because you were then in danger of receiving a little friendly nip or punch on the arm. We remained good friends through grammer school and college until we both went our separate ways as adults never to meet again.

I was actually more of a lone wanderer.Leaving the van I liked to take the beach to the left. It was more rugged and I found it interesting with seaweed and shells and those little hopping sand fleas!. It also gave me the chance to see what the folk along the edge were up to. Always inquisitive I was, maybe a bit nosey.

I especially loved the double decker bus I've mentioned before and was always hopeful that I might catch a glimpse of one of the occupants and be invited into their van.  It didn't happen. I never saw them there. Perhaps they had come to Hope's field wanting quiet and peace. 

There was a headland about thirty yards away from our van with quite a rocky promontory and there the area stopped being Ballyferris townland and became Ballywhisken... as far as I can remember. One of my delights was to clamber alone over these rocks and climb right out on to the very edge of them where the water was deepest. Then as the tide came in a surge smashed up into the crevases in the rocks soaking my clothes and hair. Imagination ran riot in this place. I saw the footprints of giants and dinosaurs and thought of the generations of children who may have climbed these rocks before me and who might have dreamt of someone like me in the future. I too dreamt of my future, who I would become, what I would do in life and I even thought of the children and grandchildren that I might have one day. Such dreams as these sustained me and kept me positive in my later life when disappointments came my way, as of course they do for us all.

If I was feeling really daring I would climb over the grassy hill at the back of the promontory and walk on to the next beach. 

And that was a very different environment, with a completely different feel to it, as if, as in the old testament, other gods or princes of the air were holding court in that empty seascape! Actually...it was just the way to a favourite shop in Ballywhisken, but if you were going by the beach you had to negotiate the sucking clay that melted below your feet and if it succeeded in trapping you to free yourself took a mighty muscle wrenching effort. 

A cliff of sand separated the coast road from the beach. There were no fields behind it to house friendly caravanners and therefore the beach was normally deserted. Here the tide went out very far and left great acres of shining silver with what looked like little rivulets of water. But wow to the one who tried to take the path through this expanse for if the clay didn't get you then the the depth of those little streams might offer up a surprising shock. It was worth the risk as the sand was littered with beautiful stones. Stones that sparked as you struck them against each other...flints! My pockets were often so heavy with them that my shorts were in danger of falling down. And this too has left me with the joy, whether Suffolk, Spain ,Morecambe or Donaghadee where I woud seek out pebbles seawashed and beautiful. I have read that stones may roll down rivers in one part of the world and reappear somewhere else much later, with the sharp edges rounded off and ready to slip nicely into the palm of a hand. A comforting thought. 

A path led eventually through the cliff and on to the road by the little emporium in Ballywhisken.

A wooden hut with rows of glass bottles full of sugary treats. Hilda's shop.Now although there were other little shops around further on in Millisle and Ballywalter, none compared to this. Hilda's was a place of magic. Now gone the way of all good things, gone the way of progress! Possibly woodworm ate away at the structure or perhaps one stormy night it just took off and flew free of the cliff it was balanced on so precariously. Dougie, my dad, had a way of flirting in an Armagh sort of a way and Hilda was one of his favourite flirt partners, if there is such a thing. I loved to be there when he was flirting. He charmed, she responded and mum just raised her eyebrows and waited for the loaf of bread or the bag of sweets or whatever it was that she had gone in for. As far as I'm concerned...nobody took it seriously, least of all mum, and in a way it added a frisson of fun and excitement to our days.

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I may have asked for a bag of dulse.....but that's for another story.

 

The Story of Ballyferris. Chapter Nine The Second Field

The Second Field

 Brian Cathcart and friend, Sandy and me with an unknown boy in the second field.

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I’m not exactly sure which family was first to arrive in the small field to the right of the lane.

 I suspect the Cathcarts were already there when we came in 1951. Along with their mum and dad, there were three Cathcart children... although I don’t remember much about their parents I always had a feeling that the adults in this field were extremely sophisticated. I couldn't put my finger on the reason for my feelings...maybe because I came from a fairly non academic backround and which had also a rather strait moral code. 

Derek was at least in his early twenties, Brian a few years younger and Jill was around my age. Their caravan was closest to the beach and was a commercial one. If not already, then very soon afterwards Derek had his own caravan. Of which much more later. The McKee family were  next  to them and their site was up against a hedge that ran along the edge of the lane. This family lived near us in south Belfast. In fact, I went to the same primary school as the four daughters. June the eldest, about the same age as Derek, then Paddy [Patricia], Carole and Valerie. June eventually also had her own little van.  Of this, I was in great awe as that meant that she was very grown up indeed!
I've  already mentioned  the Pollock abode. It wasn’t a caravan as such but an amazing reuse of a workman's trailer. The outside was painted forest green and the four wheels were black. Three or four wooden steps led up to the front door and like many of the caravans it was a barn door with the top left open to let in light and air, while keeping the bottom closed giving the family some privacy .
Inside the wooden hut was divided into two areas. To the left the sleeping quarters once again split into two small thin rooms. Each of these rooms had bunk beds fitted on to the wooden walls rather like the alcove beds of Irish cottages, or those I’ve seen in magazines in Breton homes.On the right of the door was a kitchen area and opposite it some comfortable chairs. At the far end the dining table was raised on a plinth which meant you had to go up a step to get to it. Oh how exotic !
 I have a vivid memory of being there... when I was perhaps fifteen... watching Mrs. Pollock frying a  mound of onions in a large cast iron pan. The smell was wonderful as she stirred them around until they turned golden brown and glossy. But I think that apart from some potatoes, that was their dinner. Now I had never had a meal like that. There was always bacon or lamb chop or even chicken with  potatoes and in a very odd way that I could never share with mum I longed for something as exotic as fried onions! Silly child!
Mr. Pollock had very strong views about table manners, which although we were not allowed to be rude at home seemed to me to take a lot of  joy out of eating. Hands placed together on the edge of the table...no talking and sitting up staight...my family would have found that very hard to obey...we liked discussion around the table...especially  big brother Ian. Outside the van and up against the perimeter hedge was an elaborate sun trap. Until I meet Vicky I had no idea that it was very desirable to get a good overall tan in the summer. This contraption was basically a large piece of wood placed at an angle of forty five degrees facing due south and at the bottom a strip of wood nailed so that your feet could have a resting place to stop them sliding off the end. They also had a white painted board to reflect the sun's rays in order for them not to miss a single one. The Pollocks were also the first people I knew to hold their arms above their heads sometimes... as they sunbathed... to make sure that the tan was really even! Needless to say, by late summer each year, Mr. And Mrs. Pollock were as brown as berries and as the years went on I would even go so far as to say rather leathery!

 Spanish holidays in later years with me, Rosie and Alan on hot beaches enjoying the sun ...and I realised that this was the norm.
Now there may have been other occupants in that field but these are the ones who influenced me for better or worse and I have more to write about the main characters in future chapters. Then some friends may tell me that in those days I was the influence there and I like to think that I may have had a little of that at times... in this idyll called Ballyferris.

Vicky, Andreen and Jill cleaning out the loos...what fun we had!!

 

Chapter Five ...The Caravans at Ballyferris.

 The potter's mum and dad had a wonderfully sophisticated static caravan near Lancaster for many years....bedrooms...bathroom...kitchen et al.

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The caravans parked on the two fields at Ballyferris were not like that.

No

Mostly very basic.

However growing up with such freedom and friends.......extra facilities did not ever seem to be the most important thing.

                                                     

                                                                 

 The Caravans

 They were a motley bunch of holiday homes.  Not at all like a modern camping site. There were commercial vans with internal toilets and separate bedrooms that is true.

But as well as these were the wonderfully inventive alternative constructions,  and in those days...these seemed to me...the most exciting....still do!

Two in particular really captured my imagination. The first, based in the left hand corner on the seaward side of the field, was a double decker bus. Downstairs, the living room with the kitchen area, upstairs the bedrooms. What fun it must have been for this family to climb the stairs at night and look out on the other vans from their lofty height.

 The second, not actually a caravan, but a nissen hut left near the entrance to the field and used for coastal defences during the second world war.These were littered everywhere around that area.... after all the war had only ended about eight years before the period about which I am writing.  We got to know Barbara and the family who stayed there very well, and even went to see them up in Belfast, in their home.

When I look at some of the magazine articles nowadays, and how they emote rather romantically over recycling, and then think how inventive these people were, well, it makes me smile. They had divided up the inside space, by using old hospital screens. I remember these as ornate and heavy, the type that any interior designer would give their eye teeth for today. There was a living area in the middle with sleeping areas on the edge, and a kitchen at the far end.The couple who inhabited this extravaganza shared it with their daughter, and we became beach companions roaming far and wide.....often to the point of forgetting to return to our families at mealtimes.

 Much to the distress of my poor mother, with a toddler daughter, unable to go out searching for me.

I think that our caravan was based on the commercial Eccles shape. It was rounded on the roof with a skylight in the middle. The two ends sloped slightly, and each had a window in it. The door was to the left of the front side with a window to the right of that. The back had another two windows...so quite a lot of light which made inside feel like outside - inside! To the left of the door was a long bench with one mattress to sit on and another behind to lean against. At night this pulled out to make a double bed for mum and dad. Underneath was the storage space for the bedding. Great creamy woollen blankets and crisp white sheets with eiderdowns for extra cold Easter or autumn nights. No duvets then, this was the fifties. Along the back wall was a tiny “toy” sink with a lid which covered it, cleverly cut out of the wooden cupboard, constructed by dad to house that and the calor gas cooking rings. Even now, when I strike a match for my own cooker or  light a candle, the smell takes me back to those years and the wonder of it all.

Opposite this unit was a tall cupboard used for coats and boots. But the thing that made that great, was the bulge at the bottom covering one of the wheels and this somehow made the fact that we were balanced on two wheels all the more real. When we were small enough we used to climb inside and hide perched on top of this spot. Maybe that could be part of the reason why I love the beginning of the Narnia story, though I feel that perhaps playing hide and seek in a small caravan takes even more imagination!

At the far end on either side were another two bench seats, once again covered by mattresses and hiding storage for bedding underneath.  In between them attached to a small drawer and cupboard unit by an ingenious “Dougie” device, was a dining table, balanced on one end leg. This was either up for a meal, stored above the wardrobe or cleverly slotted on two rails attached either side of the short benches. So at night all three children had to go to bed at the same time , which was inordinately unfair on Ian who was four years older than myself and eleven years older than Rosie. Still that’s the penalty for a life of freedom. But I'm sure that it was the main reason for my brother’s later lack of enthusiasm for all that Ballyferris held dear for me.

Above both the end cupboard and the bench by the door, were two glass lamps protecting the delicate gas mantles that gave us our light in the evening. And as soon as dusk fell they were lit. This was always a tricky task. Holding a match too near to the mantle might mean piercing a hole in the fine gauze. Not holding it close enough could mean a build up of gas which regularly caused minor explosions. What excitement. The gentle hissing sound of the lamps had a wonderfully soperific effect on us all and combined with the sea air it meant that sleep came easily to both over excited children and tired parents.

All of the woodwork was of light coloured plywood...birch I believe, which dad had lovingly and carefully french varnished. And the upholstery and curtains were made by mum of heavy,brown, modern furnishing material. Above the sink and cooker unit were two wall cupboards. One held the dry and tinned goods and the other crockery. Brown and yellow checked plates and saucers with yellow cups, very fifties, very smart. Outside the caravan was a meat safe placed to the north, no fridge or freezer facility as yet. At the back we stored the calor gas cylinder and a drain-away for the water from the sink. The collecting of water is another story altogether. Underneath the van , a motley collection of deck chairs, buckets and spades and swimming gear waited for those days when the sun shone and the sea called out to us!

So there it is the wonder of it all, small, compact... and another place altogether.

Now as I’ve written there were other less unusual vans sited around the edge of the field, all commercially built, after all The Caravan Club was started in 1907, more than 100 years ago. However in the field to the right of the lane a caravan arrived, some years later, which I’ll mention briefly now but will go on to write about in much more detail in later parts of this story. This belonged to the P...... family and was again a home build. But this was like no other . It was made from a workman’s hut, the type that used to be trailed behind a steam engine. High on metal wheels, it was a wooden box par exellence. And what a family, also exotic... without exception!

...but more of that in another chapter.

The Story of Ballyferris....Chapter Eight...The Beach

The Beach

The name... Ballyferris...  is enough to set me off on a sweet daydream.

Growing up in the suburbs of Belfast city... life lived by the Co. Down coast meant freedom.

 The flat landscape, the open skies, the ever present blue-grey Irish Sea, became a raison d'etre for living ...yes I think it's not going too far so say that this became a truth for me .....and the main reason for this obsession was definitely the beach.

 Nowadays, with cheap air travel we  have a greater knowledge of beautiful expanses of golden sand and turquoise sea, from Portrush to Portugal, India and beyond..at least on the internet!!

But nothing can compare with early memories, and mine are of the beach at Ballyferris.

 Waking up to the smell of an Irish fry, bacon,eggs, mushrooms and toast. Knowing that a whole day and the exploration of the beach was ahead of me. No homework, no responsibilities,this was tantamount to heaven. I didn’t analyse it then, and it’s taken me a lifetime to work out even a little of why I loved it so much.

Come with me, as we walk over the little grassy ridge at the coast edge of the field.  Come down to the beach, there you will find yourself treading the worn path that many have taken before. Around you, the smell of  beach daisies.... a type of camomile. My love for these innocent flowers  has stayed with me since.( I even wrote a song about them once... “I love the flowers, I love the trees, but most of all I love daises.” ...not exactly  Larkin or Heaney!...)

When I walk on other beaches, Morecambe, Southwold, Portrush or Brighton... I strip some seeds from the abundance of the seedheads, to drop on coastal areas bare of daisies.

 Rarely did I return to the caravan without a bunch of these flowers for mum.

So, on past the daisy strip, which by the way could take any thing up to an hour, on down the beach, heading to the sea.

If the tide was out , I squelched my way over a mound of sticky brown seaweed, treading lightly in my bare feet, for fear of some squirming creature having been caught there, left by the receding tide. The hard sand was cold beneath my feet.Truth is it was very cold, and this was probably why my patient mum always shouted after me to put on wellington boots ...as I ran off from the caravan. Clothes for Ballyferris were basic.... a t-shirt or at the most a felted woolly jumper, a pair of cotton shorts and bare feet. I’m convinced,  this is one of the reasons why I still have fairly healthy... if rather large feet! Reach the water and take a tentative dabble at the edge with toes in, before running  back up the beach to warmer sand.

At the end of the summer the sand at the top of the beach had dried up in the sun and shone like silver dust. It was very fine and a joy to scrunch under your feet until they were covered by the earthy warmth.

This poem below was on a post by Anthony Wilson ...writer , poet and blogger...

and reminded me of that girl and the freedom she had in those days...

Who?

Who is that child I see wandering, wandering
down by the side of the quivering stream?
Why does she seem not to hear, though I call to her?
Where does she come from, and what is her name?

Why do I see her at sunrise and sunset
taking, in old-fashioned clothes, the same track?
Why, when she walks, does she cast not a shadow
though the sun rises and falls at her back?

Why does the dust lie so thick on the hedgerow
by the great field where a horse pulls the plough?
Why do I see only meadows, where houses
stand in a line by the waterside now?

Why does she move like a wraith by the water,
soft as the thistledown on the breeze blown?
When I draw near her so that I may hear her,
why does she say that her name is my own?

Charles Causley, from The Collected Poems for Children  

The Story of Ballyferris....and all that Jazz.

Here comes another chapter of the ongoing story of a nowhere place of great significance.

Otilie Patterson and Derek Cathcart.

I was always encouraged by Derek Cathcart to sing. I was a young teenager sitting at the back of his tiny caravan in the coastal district of Ballyferris ,Co Down.
He sang the blues and black American Gospel to a tinny old guitar.
He was the sophisticated older member of that early seaside gang, who sang in the local pubs and bars... a thing unimaginable to me and my strict church upbringing...and therefore for me, all the more exotic and unattainable .
I mostly remember blues like ...Beale street ,St. Louis Blues or St James's Infirmary. Or country and western songs which are always very popular in Ireland.
I pestered mum and dad for a guitar of my own. I left adverts sitting around on the mantlepiece and the breakfast table.
"Almost new guitar for sale...very resonably priced".
 So it was with great rejoicings and merrymakings that I got my first guitar on my thirteenth birthday.
It's not hard to learn three chords from each of the major keys! So that's what I did... and not much more. But I got the reputation for entertaining my friends when we got together in our family caravan as the teenage years went by.
I don't know what happened to Derek...I lost touch with most of them from the smokey caravan. But I loved the music that he had introduced me to and when the other friends were revelling in Elvis, The Beatles and The Stones...I was listening to late night jazz and buying up Billy Holliday and Peggy Lee records.
I dabbled a bit in the university clubs and sang at some of the student balls and rag concerts and on one occasion was at the same glee club at Queen's in the 60s, as an older singer called Ottilie Patterson took the stage. Being young and arrogant , I can remember being quite scathing about her singing.
....Oh the foolishness of youth!
When she died last year, and I read through the obituary, it hit me like a ton of bricks....she was the inspiration for Derek and therefore myself all those years before in the late 50s.
She was born in Comber...and that's just a spit away from Ballyferris and the caravan. So I realised that Derek must have been following her and listening to her in the early 50s in the pubs and clubs where he himself then used to perform.
She married Chris Barber and sang with his band...but like so many singers, (including Adele) she struggled with a throat problem and eventually disappeared from the scene.

Chris Barber, centre, and his band in 1962, with Patterson, and Ian Wheeler on clarinet.

Thanks Otilie....thanks Derek...thanks for the memory....
...oh that could be a good song title....stop being silly Geraldine!

The Story of Ballyferris. Music at the Caravan.

Music at the Caravan

When we were all rather young, that is, before we became teenagers, a barn was set aside at Turkington’s caravan site, ( the one on the Millisle side of Hope’s) in which  caravanners could gather,  to have a bit of a concert . Well that was always such a good old sing song, and in the inimitable Irish way if you felt like it, you could get up and strut your stuff musically!. Noone  minded... if you got all  the notes ...even if they were not exactly in the right places!

I remember one of the regular favourites was... “Look over your shoulder, I’m walking behind”……now who on earth sang that? Does anyone remember?

Google tells me it was Eddie Fisher !

In the fifties in Ireland I don't remember singing many national folk songs. You would be more likely to hear a country and western being rendered..or mangled, depending on how it came out. But the enthusiasm was boundless.In fact my drama teacher was surprised when upon winning a prize at school I opted for a book of Irish "come-all-yees"...dad's name for Irish songs.

This was at the end of the fifties when Elvis broke into our world and thrilled us with songs such as   “ Teddy Bear” and “ Jail House Rock” and you know…. we kids wanted to rock it up in the Barn.
 I remember one day in particular... at the swings in Turkington's yard with Vicky another caravanner and close school friend....when we must have sung "Teddy bear" constantly all afternoon...and I mean...all afternoon!!

In  Ballywalter... in Lemon’s Café and Fish and Chip emporium..., we often gathered in the store room at the back of the shop to feed our money into their exotic juke box. Bill Haley, Little Richard and The Big Bopper fed our fertile minds and brought us dreams of faraway places and possibilities in distant lands. Could that be one of the reasons why so many  left Ireland for distant shores, as soon as  teenage years were behind them?

For me, even more important than all of this, was the scruffy caravan in Hope’s second field. A musical cooking pot full of enormous significance for my young enquiring soul.

The van was owned by Derek Cathcart.

He was much older that me, and in my young eyes... very worldly-wise. He played guitar and more than that,  played and sang regularly in local pubs. A fount of musical knowledge of a genre  I had never heard before.

I often waited until the other "van" kids were in his scruffy abode some early evening... before he sallied forth to the bright lights of Donaghadee, Millisle or even Ballywalter...and creep in to sit  at the back of the caravan... near the door. A thick smokey fug filled the space and  meant that you could hardly see to the opposite end... and I’m sure more than contributed to his throaty singing voice.

He sang the usual country and western songs of those days. Do you remember..."It wasn't God who made honky tonk angels" ? or Jim Reeves and "He'll have to go"? Oh my ...you  and I are old!!
More important to me however was the jazz that he sang... and in particular the blues  I heard for the first time in my life.

From Derek I learnt to sing "Beale Street Blues, St Louis Blues" and many many more.

One song in particular that I loved to hear him sing, was his rendition of "Miss Otis Regrets".
..I still sing it today.

I was probably only ten or twelve at the most when I first sat in that caravan, and I had already had quite a few years studying drama and music, but this new sound was something that entered my soul and  stayed with me ever since.

Though a  rough diamond, he was kindly. He seemed to recognise something in me and encouraged me to sing. I found that I had a natural inclination to harmonise and so when he launched into some blues piece, I would quietly sing along  absorbed in this wonderful world of music. More often than not I received an encouraging word  from him at the end. That did more for my confidence than all of the scales and classical pieces given to me by my singing teacher .

 I have a memory that once, in a lesson, she informed me that if I continued to sing in the lower register I would absolutely ruin my voice. Ooops!

Ah me what a great memory. Who could better that instruction with so much fun thown in. It was many years before I met any one else who had such confidence in my vocal abilities.

Thankyou Mr. Cathcart wherever you are.

The Story of Ballyferris. The Field

                                           

       Chapter Four

      The Field

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I had a wonderful conversation this week with the younger son of the farmer who owned the field...Neil Hope...sadly he says no wild flowers are now to be found in the field nor skylarks singing high above the caravans...such is the way of all flesh I think...but we can all do our bit to restore these precious parts of nature in our own little corners of this country.

                                                                            

In the early years our caravan was positioned along the back edge of the field. Behind us was the potato field and beyond that the coast road, leading left to Ballywalter and right toward Millisle. In front, a field of long grass and wild flowers, beyond that the beach and after a rocky foreshore the grey Irish Sea. The field was reached down a narrow lane which led to the beach, and on the right it was bordered by another caravan field . It was the first time that I had ever seen the kind of wild flowers that I had loved in the Flower Fairy books. Heartsease, wild thyme, marguerites, buttercups and lots more to thrill the soul of a dreaming child. Skylarks sang overhead as they soared higher and higher into the air luring us away from their nests hidden in the long grass .The air was sweet and spicey and when the wind dried on your lips they tasted salty and full of the sea. In later years pride of place right in the middle of all this was a flagpole and flying proudly from the top, the British Union Jack. Dad said that the farmer who owned the field, called it the “Flag of Prosperity” -pronounced “persparety” but this may only be a family fable. Caravans of various sizes and shapes were sited all around the perimeter of the field and thus began for me a life totally separate from the routine of home , school , home, in Belfast.

National Trust: Ards Peninsula.
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■sandhoppers, a little shrimp-like crustacean

■seaweed flies, insects which are food for turnstones, starlings and badgers

■sea aster (Aster tripolium) flowering from July to October

■scurvy grass

■thrift (Armeria maritima) flowering from June to August

■sea lavender (Limonium spp) flowering from July to December

■wild thyme (Thymus drucei)

■stonecrops and squills flowering in the summer

■bell heather (Erica cinerea) flowering from June to September

■bee orchids (Ophrys apifera) flowering from April to May

■pyramidal orchids (Anacamptis pyramidalis) flowering from June to August

■twayblade orchids (Listera ovata) flowering from May to July

Of course I didn't know the names of any of these wonderful bits of nature, I just reveled in their beauty and in my new found freedom.