A camping trip to remember
I can’t recall whose bright idea it was to go camping in Hastings during the Whitsun bank holiday of 1967. However in keeping with the carefree image of the Swinging Sixties, Cobby, Malcolm Reader, my younger brother Trevor and I duly packed our kit and set off after work on the Friday night on our adventure.
Cobby was riding his Lambretta GT200 with Malcolm as pillion, while I was on my Lambretta Series 2 Li150 ‘fat boy’ with Trevor on the back.
Our enthusiasm was soon dampened when at about 9pm, at half-distance, we encountered the thickest of ‘pea souper’ fogs, making any further progress impossible (you have to remember that Lambretta scooter headlights in the 1960s were illuminated by asthmatic glow-worms. So we pulled into a lay-by, climbed over a wall and then pitched our tents.
Imagine our surprise the next morning to find ourselves surrounded by a flock of curious sheep. After brushing off the sheep poo and re-packing, we eventually set off for the campsite on the cliff top at Fairlight, just outside Hastings. We set up camp with our two tents (which, I should add, were absolutely basic models – no such luxuries as sewn-in groundsheets, or flysheets, or even being waterproof!).
By this time, the weather had taken a turn for the worse with the wind getting up to gale force and the rain coming in horizontally. The weather would have proved a severe test for even the most professional of camping equipment.
What followed can only be described as a bloody miserable night from hell; it was freezing cold, and with the rain coming straight through the tents, we might as well have lain outside – still, I suppose the rain saved the need for a shower.
NEW DAY, NEW ADVENTURES
Dawn the following morning brought us little respite; our clothes were soaked through (as can be seen in the photo which was taken later on the pier). Lady Luck was to smile upon us though; we had parked the Lambrettas in the underground car park near the pier and the attendant, a very kind old boy, seeing our bedraggled state, took pity on us and offered to dry our sodden parkas in front of the electric fire in his office. Eternally grateful, we slipped him a couple of bob and went off to find some food.
Along the seafront, we chanced upon the Seagull Cafe and eagerly ordered large cod and chips all round. The rigours of the night had left us famished. After devouring the first course, we ordered baked jam roll and custard, which didn’t touch the sides. This was followed by a second helping of the same, followed by a request for a third helping. By this time the chef had left the kitchen to see who were the ravenous customers devouring his desserts.
I wonder if the Seagull Cafe is still there? If so, I must return and see if baked jam roll and custard is still on the menu.
’ALLO, ’ALLO
The following day brought slightly brighter weather; we again parked in the underground car park and negotiated the same clothes drying arrangement.
As we were walking up the slope on the exit of the car park, a pale blue Mk1 Cortina with two men in was trying to enter. The driver made a complete balls-up and managed to graunch his sill against the raised kerb. Here we made our first mistake, by laughing at his misfortune. We carried on walking down to the Fishmarket end of Hastings. About an hour later the Cortina drew alongside us and the two men got out, identifying themselves as Hastings CID. In an instant they had manhandled me into the back of their car and proceeded to interrogate me, saying they were going to contact East Sussex criminal records and that I should confess. I am a keen photographer and I had my camera around my neck – my second mistake. I told them I wasn’t a Catholic and I wasn’t going to confess, especially to stealing my own camera, or to anything else. They alleged that I had stolen the camera from the car park and that we had threatened the attendant; this was obviously a complete load of bollocks, and they didn’t know the attendant was our mate anyway. This was just their petty revenge because we had laughed at their crap driving.
OUT ON BAIL
Eventually they relented, accepted I was telling the truth, and they let me go. This was just the sort of experience to endear the police to you, along with all the unwarranted roadside police checks we were always encountering.
Luckily the weather – the worst Whitsun weather on record – relented and we were able to get in an afternoon of sunbathing on the beach.
What a weekend – we had encountered fog, gale force winds, horizontal rain and freezing sleet, then endured being soaked to the skin, frozen and finally grilled by the Old Bill.
Memories indeed; thank goodness for our mate, the old car park attendant, who saved us from pneumonia – and the baked jam roll and custard at the Seagull Cafe.