Recently things have been happening in my life that have made me think of the places I have lived. In my teenage years, one of these places was under the arches running along the back of East Cliff Beach in Folkestone, Kent. In the heady and turbulent days of the 60's, these arches were home to several dozen or so young people who came from all walks of life; some like me had left or been kicked out of home for various reasons, others had absconded (escaped) from one or other of the notorious institutions - Detention Centres, Approved Schools, Borstal - that society liked to dump children into in those days. Other arch residents were of the summer variety; those who enjoyed 'living rough' for a weekend or two or maybe just for a day. Life was simple under the arch. Build a low bank of sand across the entrance to keep the tide out and the day trippers. Light a fire on a cold or damp night to keep warm or to dry clothes and damp bedding - in some arches fires burned for different reasons; here shadowy figures slowly roasted supposedly high quality 'Tangiers Hashish' for theirs and other's consumption and of course an income. Personal hygiene was taken care of in the sea, or in the public baths if you could afford it. Fresh fruit was occasionally provided local girls who worked in the fruit & veg shop just up the High Street and more substantial meals could be had by working in the local coffee bar. The owners of the coffee bar also ran a restaurant where occasionally you would be asked to serve Sunday diners and in return, you would be served with a meal on the house. After a stint in the coffee shop, I got a job on the Rotunda, a fixed local seafront funfair where I worked mainly on the 'Jungle Speedway' collecting money from the holiday makers and local and sometimes visiting French teenagers. In return for a 10 hour day, 6 days a week, I received the princely sum of £10.00 but by the judicious use of a scam, you could up your earnings by another £5.00 or so a week. Working on the fairground also brought other benefits; girls! The Jungle Speedway was divided into coloured sections and if any girls were waiting where your section always stopped, then the choice was yours. Of course fairground work was seasonal and subject to weather conditions and if things got quiet, then you were laid off until things picked up again. Other work was available of course; labouring at the new power station being built at Dungeness - where I did work for a while - or if you had the gift of the gab, then street selling souvenirs was another option. The souvenirs I most remember were the tins of Fresh Kent Air, which on opening gave off the smell of apples and the tins of London Smog - don't ask how the smog manifested itself, as I never opened one. The fairground scam by the way was based on only giving the punters their change once the ride was under way, as they nearly always dropped their money through the gaps in the wooden floor while attempting to pocket their change with one hand while holding on for dear life with the other. At the end of the day, there would be a circle of small change lying on the ground underneath the ride which was collected up and divided amongst those of us who worked there. No doubt similar scams were going on, on the other attractions. You may question the morals of this but it was a case of survival and this extra money made a difference to everyday living. Then, as happens in itinerant life, the chance came to travel to another part of the country, this time to Tenby in Pembrokeshire, West Wales and overnight it was a case of pack up and go. What happened in Tenby is another tale to tell on this blog at some point.
Monday, 17 May 2010
No. 7 Arch, East Cliff Beach, Folkestone
Recently things have been happening in my life that have made me think of the places I have lived. In my teenage years, one of these places was under the arches running along the back of East Cliff Beach in Folkestone, Kent. In the heady and turbulent days of the 60's, these arches were home to several dozen or so young people who came from all walks of life; some like me had left or been kicked out of home for various reasons, others had absconded (escaped) from one or other of the notorious institutions - Detention Centres, Approved Schools, Borstal - that society liked to dump children into in those days. Other arch residents were of the summer variety; those who enjoyed 'living rough' for a weekend or two or maybe just for a day. Life was simple under the arch. Build a low bank of sand across the entrance to keep the tide out and the day trippers. Light a fire on a cold or damp night to keep warm or to dry clothes and damp bedding - in some arches fires burned for different reasons; here shadowy figures slowly roasted supposedly high quality 'Tangiers Hashish' for theirs and other's consumption and of course an income. Personal hygiene was taken care of in the sea, or in the public baths if you could afford it. Fresh fruit was occasionally provided local girls who worked in the fruit & veg shop just up the High Street and more substantial meals could be had by working in the local coffee bar. The owners of the coffee bar also ran a restaurant where occasionally you would be asked to serve Sunday diners and in return, you would be served with a meal on the house. After a stint in the coffee shop, I got a job on the Rotunda, a fixed local seafront funfair where I worked mainly on the 'Jungle Speedway' collecting money from the holiday makers and local and sometimes visiting French teenagers. In return for a 10 hour day, 6 days a week, I received the princely sum of £10.00 but by the judicious use of a scam, you could up your earnings by another £5.00 or so a week. Working on the fairground also brought other benefits; girls! The Jungle Speedway was divided into coloured sections and if any girls were waiting where your section always stopped, then the choice was yours. Of course fairground work was seasonal and subject to weather conditions and if things got quiet, then you were laid off until things picked up again. Other work was available of course; labouring at the new power station being built at Dungeness - where I did work for a while - or if you had the gift of the gab, then street selling souvenirs was another option. The souvenirs I most remember were the tins of Fresh Kent Air, which on opening gave off the smell of apples and the tins of London Smog - don't ask how the smog manifested itself, as I never opened one. The fairground scam by the way was based on only giving the punters their change once the ride was under way, as they nearly always dropped their money through the gaps in the wooden floor while attempting to pocket their change with one hand while holding on for dear life with the other. At the end of the day, there would be a circle of small change lying on the ground underneath the ride which was collected up and divided amongst those of us who worked there. No doubt similar scams were going on, on the other attractions. You may question the morals of this but it was a case of survival and this extra money made a difference to everyday living. Then, as happens in itinerant life, the chance came to travel to another part of the country, this time to Tenby in Pembrokeshire, West Wales and overnight it was a case of pack up and go. What happened in Tenby is another tale to tell on this blog at some point.
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