By David Robinson in OAPsChat.
Seventy children, all aged about eight, crowded onto two buses for a 70-mile journey to the coast. I made sure I was sat with my best pal, Stubbsy. Our destination: Filey. Mother had prepared me well. I had a duffel bag packed with boiled egg sandwiches a bottle of fizzy drink, sweets, and packet of potato crisps; the old-fashioned kind with the salt in a tiny blue, twist bag.
There were no motorways back then, and the journey would take anything up to three hours, including a half hour toilet stop on the outskirts of York. For a gang of eight-year-olds, three hours on a bus passed surprisingly quickly. All anyone could talk about was the sea.
Other than in books, on TV or postcards, most of us had never seen it, or if we had we were too young to recall. Some of the lucky ones, Stubbsy included, had been on caravan holidays and they’d seen it, they knew the thrill of playing on the sands, of looking out over the gleaming blue waters of the North Sea. I drooled at the prospect.
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