Our holiday in Kent: 1947
When I was about ten years old we went on our first holiday. My Father’s cousin, George Cheeks, was married to a woman called Eva whose brother Bert lived in Kent with his wife Dorothy. A couple years after the war, Dorothy and Bert came to stay with George and Eva for a week.
During that week, Mum took us round to Auntie Eva’s for tea where Auntie Dorothy (as we were to call her) told us about the village of Aldington where they lived. To our delight, she asked Mum if she thought we would like to go and stay with them for a week in the summer.
‘Of course!’ We were so excited and could not stop talking about it.
The big day arrived. We were to leave after dinner to get the bus to Charing Cross Station in Central London, from where we would catch the train to Ashford in Kent. The idea of a railway journey in itself filled us with great excitement. Because it was a Saturday, Dad was at the pub and late home as usual. Mum was mad and sent us to the Triumph in Summers Lane to hurry him up, because he was supposed to be coming with us to the station. Needless, he was not too pleased to see us. One of Dad’s mates laughed as someone called to him from the pub doorway.
‘Here, Frank! Your kids are calling you to go home.’
We got to the station in time, but I think Dad was a bit sad to say goodbye. Barbara and I ended up with juice down our clean frocks because of a big peach he had bought each of us from the fruit stall in the station front. The huge steam locomotives hissed and whistled while Mum found us a compartment with windows facing the platform. Among the great noise and bustle we waved to Dad from our seats. Then, we were off.
The old corridor trains were the best. Sliding open the compartment door and standing by the window rail in the narrow passages meant having a better view of the countryside, and of course, there were a lot of tunnels to go through which sent plumes of smoke through the open windows.
After what seemed like ages and with many stops, we finally arrived at Ashford in Kent. There was a scramble to get the cases and gather our things together from the overhead rack. As we walked into the ticket hall we saw Auntie Dorothy getting up from a bench, her jolly round face beaming, hair tucked up at the back in a bun and a small hat perched on her head.
‘We are just in time for the bus,’ she said. This was good news as they were not too frequent. ‘How are you Elsie? Did you have a good journey?’ Mum, tired, just nodded.
The little country bus was almost full. Shoppers held wicker baskets and young women balanced children upon their knees as we passed pretty cottages and fields of hops as far as the eyes could see. There were orchards of ripening apples, wildflowers in the hedgerows and air sweet with the smell of hay.
Arriving at Mill Road, we got off where two roads crossed, one winding up the hill and the other downward. Mum and Auntie chatted on as we all climbed the hill toward Mill Cottages,[33] the home of Dorothy and Bert.
‘Here we are my dears,’ Auntie said, in the lovely Kentish accent.
The terrace of three small cottages stood at the top of the hill, next to the house of Jack Prebble, the man who owned the small mill just up at the turn of the road where Uncle Bert worked as a lorry driver. We walked down the little front path to the unmarked ‘No. 1’ cottage with its small narrow shed up against a hedge.
The inside of the cottage was most welcoming. Closing the latched front door, we found ourselves immediately in the living room. A small dresser was to our left upon which were bright plates, cups and saucers and several pretty teapots. There was also a black iron kitchen range which Auntie did all her cooking on. The steps behind a cupboard-like door leading upstairs became the place we were to sit and listen to Mum and Auntie talking into the evening.
The kitchen sink was under the window, overlooking a tiny front garden with a narrow lawn, but giving a view of the vast country beyond. All washing was done at the sink as there was no bathroom and, as we were to find out, no inside toilet.
Throughout the living room and sitting room was old-fashioned black leather furniture that, together with the brass fire iron and a polished fire screen, gave the house a Victorian atmosphere. On the table in the middle of the room, producing a fragrant aroma, was a vase of sweet peas recently cut from Uncle Bert’s back garden.
After we had taken off our things and unpacked the cases, Auntie called us down from the bedroom for tea. We had eggs and bacon cooked on a portable Primus stove that smelt of methylated spirit, followed by a currant cake. Auntie was a plain cook, but we enjoyed it all.
Uncle Bert, arriving home from work was pleased to see us, his smiling face tanned with the country sun and showing the lines of a man getting on in years. He was as small in build as aunt Dorothy was big and comfortable. They were a lovely couple, and, having no children of their own, were glad to have two little girls stay for a week.
We were tired after the long day and went to bed fairly early, but first there was a visit to the little shed at the side of the front garden. Dark and gloomy inside, with a bench and bucket underneath, I sat down while looking for the toilet paper. Above my head were cobwebs, at which point my fear of spiders returned and I was glad to leave the outside privy, hoping that I would not have to go back during the night. There was no need to worry, because a large chamber pot was under the brass-knobbed bed which Mum and Barbara shared. I had the single bed by the window.
I was awoken by someone gently nudging me. It was Auntie Dorothy, and it was already morning. We had slept well.
‘Here you are, Elsie. I brought some tea.’ On a tray were three cups of tea and some triangle shaped pastry biscuits with currants in. They were Auntie’s ‘sweetie pastries’, as she called them. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before sipping the tea.
Kneeling before the window, I drew back the curtains and was greeted by a truly wonderful sight, at least for a child from bombed-out, war-torn London. As far as the eyes could see were fields of sheep and cows, and glinting on the distant horizon, a thin line of brilliant blue sea at Hythe. The window framed the scene as though it were a landscape painting, with the bottom third of the image showing Uncle Bert’s tiny garden, full of flowers, vegetables and clucking chickens. Upon opening the window, the clear pure smell of country air was immediately noticeable.
After breakfast and a quick wash at the kitchen sink, Barbara and I went out exploring. Opposite the cottages was a large meadow with a gate we climbed up and over, running through the grass still with its morning dew. There were toadstools and gorse bushes, small wild flowers and daisies, speedwell, vetch and clover. Later in the day Barbara was thrilled to find a small lizard basking in the warm sunshine.
All morning we made more discoveries. At the side of Mill Cottages was a tiny path leading to a place called Beggars Roost, where we chanced upon a farm with a large pigsty, orchards, sheep and poultry. Naturally, the pigsty attracted us at once. Barbara, always curious, sat on the edge of the stone wall dangling her legs over. The largest pig was a sow that had a lot of young piglets, but she must have found us an intrusion because she bit Barbara through her black wellington boot. Luckily there was no wound, but we learned to view the pigs with caution. They were very amusing to watch though.
Auntie had a sleep most afternoons so Mum took us for a walk down to Aldington village.
‘Look out for the walnut tree,’ Auntie said laughing, as we left the cottage.
The Walnut Tree[34] turned out to be a local pub. From miles around, the locals came to sit outside on summer evenings or to play dominoes or skittles.
Further into the village was the butcher’s shop, and then the only other shop with a Post Office inside at the back. It sold absolutely everything and smelled wonderful: of paraffin, sweets, animal food stuff and coffee. Mum bought and sent home some postcards, and we had sweets, biscuits and a few things for Auntie Dorothy. It seemed longer walking uphill to the cottage, so we were glad of the cool drink of dandelion and burdock when we returned.
The two cottages next to Auntie’s were occupied by families with children, one of whom was the Crumlin family in the end property. One of their daughters, Roda, who I thought was very clever, could walk on her hands down Auntie’s front lawn. Mrs Crumlin, who was probably hard up, did Dorothy’s washing and seemed glad of the extra money.
While on holiday we had a trip to Folkestone, as Auntie had some relations there who owned a restaurant on the seafront. She packed a couple of bags of sugar into her basket and we wondered what they were for. Rationing was still on and the sugar, it turned out, was for a sweet shop that would sell you sweets off-ration if you had sugar to exchange.
We had a lovely day out and were made to feel very welcome by Dorothy’s nice relations. We went upstairs over the café where we had fish and chips, and in the afternoon we all went down to the beach for a paddle and an ice cream.
In the middle of the week a trip to Dymchurch was planned. The trip to Hythe was by bus, and there on arrival we waited at a very small station for a train trip on the miniature Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Railway. The train carriages were just big enough for an adult to sit in comfortably, so we sat facing each other, two by two, enjoying a journey that took us over Romney Marshes. We got off in Dymchurch, but we could have gone on to Dungeness.
We had a great time changing into our swimsuits and going into the sea, which seemed cold to me, but Barbara did not notice. She enjoyed every minute despite not being not a strong swimmer, but she was to learn to swim long before I could. These memories are kept with some photos of us at Dymchurch.
One evening, Uncle Bert told us he was going to take a delivery of maze corn to Whitstable the next day.
‘Bring some sandwiches and I will squeeze you into the lorry,’ he said. Auntie Dorothy did not come, as being such a large person she didn’t want to be squeezed in.
Off we went prepared for a nice day by the sea, but it poured with rain all day and we ended up going to the pictures in the afternoon. Never mind; we did manage to go to the airport and watch the planes coming and going.
We had a nice long walk to a place called The Knoll. This large mound had been a Second World War look out post with an underground system, bunkers and passages. It was easy to see why, as it was the highest point for miles and on a clear day, the coast of France could be seen through binoculars as well as quite a long stretch of the Kent coastline.
We took a shortcut on the way back to Auntie’s, and after climbing over a five-bar gate into a field, we were chased by a flock of turkeys which sounded like a mass of people having an argument. We were terrified of getting pecked and Mum tore her stockings climbing over the stile at the far end of the field. Afterwards we had a good laugh about it.
One evening we all went down to the Walnut Tree. Barbara and I sat in the children’s room and had crisps and lemonade, while Uncle Bert played dominoes and Mum and Auntie chatted with the local ladies. On the way back it was pitch black except for the stars, and we saw glow-worms in the hedgerows and small bats darting across the road. The air was soft and warm and a few crickets chirped in the long grass at the side of the narrow country road.
The days flew by, and it was soon time to go home. It was a holiday we were to remember all our lives. We did visit again when I was thirteen, and once more when I was married with my husband Arthur and young son David. That first holiday with Mum and Barbara will always be remembered as my first real holiday.
We enjoyed the journey home on the train. Barbara had collected wild flowers which she had pressed in a book, and we sucked sticks of clove rock as we watched the countryside whizz by the train window. Then the grey and smoke of London reappeared together with school on Monday.
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