The caravan was moved to the edge of the field by the beach after a couple of years and so after breakfast it was merely a matter of stepping out of the door and running down the sand to the sea and the magic of rock pools and little darting creatures in the water.
But as we got older, well at least older than eight or nine… we became more adventurous and we started to wander ever further away from the relative safety of the beach. One of our favourite places to go was the little town of Ballywalter, a small fishing village on the east coast of the Ards Peninsula some two miles south of the caravan site at Ballyferris. This was the first of the local metropolises ... or should that be metropolii? It would become a flame to us little moths. At the top of the lane to the beach we turned left on to the coast road. Being the 1950s, there was very little traffic on country roads and any that there was tended to be tractors with trailers or fastasmagorical medieval-looking contraptions for doing various jobs in the fields. How was I to know what they were for, I may have been the child of a farmer’s son, but I was also the daughter of a city loving mother.
I mentioned previously that I rarely wore shoes during my time at the caravan, and so it was that very often I walked the road barefoot. I’m not pretending that it was painless, the roads were tarmacked and stoney and it was my own silly fault when I regularly ended up with aching soles! There was of course the grass verge I could have kept to but nettles and unknown creepy crawlies deterred me from taking that choice. Most of the time we were laughing and joking so much that we didn’t notice any physical discomfort.
There were land marks on the way to keep us interested. Greystone Road was off to the right opposite the farm. So called I believe because of the enormous grey stone perched on the right hand side. This road took you to Carrowdore…you remember Carrowdore?... the little village that time seemed to have passed by. I never questioned the reason for the stone then I simply accepted it’s presence, but I suppose that it was dumped there after the ice age for the whole of County Down is known as basket of eggs country, officially drumlins.
Different farms and other sites were passed as we walked though these we dismissed as lesser establishments than our field. Half way along the road to the town on the right hand side, was an old abandoned farm house no doubt left empty when the residents either died or left for a chance of a better life elsewhere. The Irish diaspora in England, Australia and the Americas left the island with a small population in those days and many of my friends took the Liverpool boat in search of a future myself included.
With our vivid imaginations and no doubt encouraged by one of the older members of the gang, we came to believe this old house was haunted. So to prove our lack of fear we would creep up the tangled path and peer in the grimey windows, until one of the gang jumped out and shouted “boo!” Sometimes if I passed by on my own, I would take a sidelong glance and hurry on as fast as my little legs could carry me. Well you know the old saying...there’s more to heaven and earth than any of us realise.
Fresh air and the salty smell of sea was ever present and even now when that wonderful ozone once again hits my nostrils, I’m catapulted back in memories to the sensuousness of it all.
One of the reasons I liked to walk along the road to Ballywalter was that some of my relatives had caravans on a site close to the town. They had their vans pitched on Robinson’s field with the farm on the landward side of the road and the vans tight up against the edge of the coast. Aunt Cis, was my father’s sister and she and her husband John occupied one of these sites with their three sons. And Aunt Sally and her husband Cecil, dad’s nephew, had another site close by with their two daughters. Both men had built their caravans before dad made ours, and the legend was that they were so good at it that even the line on the screw heads were level throughout. Quite a boast. Sometimes Aunt Cis's boys went out rabbiting, not to catch or kill but to bring back some little wild ones to have as pets by the caravan. Then I assume that at the end of the summer they set them free…well that’s what I want to assume! I’m not saying that dad didn’t catch rabbit for food, oh yes he did, and mum was expert at turning it in to best chicken! She was a magician. And talking about chickens, none of these sites were the clean cemented establishments that so much of today's caravaners know. Chickens, ducks and various fowl wandered at will in among the caravans.
Aunt Sally had a little saying about her girls. The farmer’s son was John and like many of the farmer's sons locally, he was a flirt, so Sally with a wry smile would ask him quietly to remember that she was always watching out for her beautiful daughters and he should be a good boy. Hmm! That seemed to me even then like a lost cause. They were such fun the country lads, but good, no they were not!
Aunt Cis
Food played a big role in my wanting to stop here. Aunt Cis was renowned for exotic sandwiches. Always the crusts discarded...a feast for the gulls. The white bread would be “sliced pan” no doubt from the Ormeau Bakery, buttered with best Ulster butter. There might be some amazing combinations such as freshly cooked ham sliced to within an inch of it’s life and maybe on top of that some thin slices of pickled peaches. Where did she get such luxuries in those days of belt tightening? Best not to ask! Onions also played a role with thin sliced beef and even thinner slices of onion rings on delicious wheaten bread. I missed Irish bread so much when I first made my way to these English shores and really I still do..
The Ballyferris gang were always eager to be on the move... eager to get to the multifarious delights of the town of Ballywalter. So reluctantly I would have to leave the gourmet pleasures of Aunt Cis’s food and the verbal joys of Aunt Sally’s caustic remarks and join them. I didn’t ever want to be the one who missed out on the big happenings at the town.
I'll write another missive on the activities we got up to there...but I just want to mention this painter of Irish landscapes and seascapes, Kenneth Webb. As a bit of an artist myself now...I studied Fine Art degree at the college in Birkenhead... how I wish I had known that he lived in the town of Ballywalter even while I was there during the caravan days. Mum was an amateur oil painter of Irish landscape but I don't recall her ever mentioning him...that's not to say she didn't...just that I may not have payed attention to it!
Ballywalter Harbour
Painting by Kenneth Webb
