Memories of a Valley Childhood

Do you remember your first pair of long trousers? I do, it was like yesterday. It was when I left Gelli Junior School to go to Porth County, at the age of 11. Up until then we had all worn short trousers. Remember the chapped knees….???

The Grand Cinema was situated on Ystrad Road, just up from Bridgend Square and Ystrad Railway Station. It was the local cinema that always showed the slightly risqué film, like James Bond…!!!! It was a widely held belief that you would never be alone in the Grand as it was infested with rats. In fact, you never went to the toilets by yourself. The other thing about the Grand was that it was very easy for 1 to get in and let the rest of the gang in.

The annual Church Outing was a time of the year which everyone looked forward to. It was the one day when you would get together with your mates and go to the seaside for the day. Our Church Outings used to alternate between Porthcawl and Barry Island. The one thing you always hoped for was that the club that your Dad belonged to was going to the ‘other’ resort.

I can well remember going to Thomas & Evans or Home & Colonial with my mother and seeing all the biscuits in metal tins with glass fronted lids. It always paid to ‘be a good boy’ as the shopkeeper would more often than not give you a bag of broken biscuits.

Porth County School Dances were something else..!! it was the only event that I can recall where the Boys’ and the Girl’s school did anything together. The first Dance I was allowed to go to was in the Library in Llwynypia and I can remember a good friend, who shall remain nameless due to possible embarrassment, trying to climb the statue of Archibald Hood. In later years, for some reason unknown to myself, the Dance was moved to Judges Hall in Trealaw

I can still remember going into the Co-op in Gelli and watching in fascination as the guy behind the counter managed to measure within an ounce or two loose butter, lard and cheese. These all came in large cardboard boxes, which I think, weighed about 28 pounds each. I was with great precision that he was able to get a pound of butter from the large 'lump' onto your piece of paper. Equally he could judge a pound of sugar, which was placed in blue bags, exactly.

I remember by first day in Porth County as if it were yesterday. Months before I had gone to Hodges the outfitters in Ystrad, with my parents for blazer, cap and long trousers in preparation for the ‘Big Day’. When it finally arrived it was terrifying. I was going from being the biggest in the Primary school to you youngest in the Secondary school. When I finally got there life was very different. We had to stand every time a teacher entered the classroom. The first week we were like yo-yo’s as most of the members of the Upper Sixth form were as big, if not bigger than the teachers.

In the halcyon days of Gelli Junior school, before computers and television in our house, I spent many an hour in the Gulley, or back lane, between Dover Street, Gelli Road and Raven Hill with Richard, Paul, Chris, Vernon, Dennis and other playing marbles. The surface had not yet be covered with tarmac and 3 shallow holes had been dug in the ground to aid in the game. I think I must have constantly had ingrained dirt in my knees due to the constantly kneeling in the dirt.

The other thing I can remember about Gelli Co-op was that unlike today’s sugar it was sold loose and always packaged in a blue paper bag.

When I was 14 years old I was allowed to have my first part-time job – delivering groceries for Barker’s in Church Road, Ton Pentre. This was done with a pedal cycle, which had a large basket in front of the handlebars, which could accommodate a very large cardboard box. It was great in the summer but could be very cold and wet in the winter.

Christmas time mean the Nativity play. The costumes never changed. All the boys, no matter what their role, wore dressing gowns and on their head they would have a striped tea towel that was held in place with an elasticated snake belt.

Remember the days when, once a year buses stretched from one end of the street to the other, waiting to take us youngsters to either Barry or Porthcawl. Our annual trip to the seaside. Each bus, the old Rhondda Transport as it was then, had a small label in the front window with the number of the bus, as there were so many, sometimes so many Rhondda buses were in use, they brought extra buses from Pontypridd, those dark blue buses stood out from the crimson red of the Rhondda buses. It was great sometimes to go on one of those blue buses, as we had probably never been on a Ponty bus. Everyone had to remember the number of their own bus, as when you got to your destination, it seemed like every bus in the country had descended on the car parking area. If you got on the wrong bus coming home you could end up in Maerdy or Treherbert or even Maesteg not from the starting point from which you left.

You used to get 2s 6p (half a dollar) (for those who can't remember pounds-shillings and pence - twelve & a half pence) off the church and 5 shillings (five bob) (twenty five pence) from the club, they used to come around giving out small brown envelopes to each child, hell, you were rich on that day.

There were no motorways to go on in those days; the double decker buses would weave their way through the narrow lanes, where the branches of trees would bang against the windows. Bus after bus like a huge snake in the countryside, speeding through the lanes at breakneck speed, or it seemed like that at the time. Singing "Ten green bottles", and "She'll be coming round the mountain". By the time we were almost at the end of the journey, those ten green bottles had turned into ten thousand.

Then would come the mighty cry from those on the top deck of the bus "I Can See the Sea" necks would be craned, where? someone would ask, 'over there between the sky and the land', would come a harmonious reply. This is the time you knew the journey was almost over - or so you thought! There were so many buses trying to get into Barry Island, the roads were chock a block. Once your bus had parked up, usually a good 10-minute walk away from the beach - then your day at the seaside began.

Once at the beach, the grown-ups would form a circle of deckchairs, once they figured how to get them to stay up, there was always one father who could never get the hang of the physics of assembling a deckchair, and it would be one of the children who would fathom it out. Once erected and the swearing had stopped, the circle was formed, it was like 'Custer's last stand'. Of course, us little ones didn't have a deckchair; we had to sit on a towel, if we were lucky. We were always next to a posh family who a had a windbreak, 'why can't we have one of those' you'd ask Mam, 'they are too expensive, now sit down and be quiet' would be the retort. We had only been there a few minutes when the cry would go out, "can we go on the fair now". 'the fairs closed', you were told, but the rides are moving and there are people on them you would observantly point out, they are testing them for later, was the reply. Forget it, we had to wait until half-hour before the buses were due to leave before we could go on the dodgems.

One of the rituals of the seaside trip was the grown-ups would go to get a pot of tea, they would trudge through the sand and crowds of revellers to get to the shop that sold the tea, they would carry it back on a tray through the masses of coloured deckchairs, the tea would probably have been cold by the time they got back, we never found out, as it was only the grown-ups who had the pleasure of sampling the Earl Grey. Then out would come the culinary delights for the day - tomato and cucumber sandwiches, they new how to throw a bash in those days. By the time you had eaten half your sandwich, a gust of wind would blow and our soggy sandwich would be covered in sand. 'Not to worry' your mother would say, and she would brush off as much sand as she could, then hand the sandwich back to you. You would then get that crunching feeling each time you chewed on your soggy and sand laden sandwich. But they tasted great, because we were at the seaside.

It was then time to change into your woolly bathers, who ever invented these was a total sadist. Great when they were dry as they kept your extremities reasonably warm in the normally cold wind. But once you hit the sea and they got wet, it was a different story, they would sag down to your ankles almost, and you had to have the strength of Charles Atlas to hold them up. And to get sand in them was a nightmare, it was like walking around with a dozen Brillo Pads stuffed inside them - talk about chaffed! But the worst wasn't over, next your mother would dry you - now that is some experience sand being rubbed onto tender young skin which had not seen the light of day for almost six months, the pain was unbearable. It surely couldn't get any worse - yes it could.

When the tide was out, you would have to trek down the beach, through the masses of brightly coloured deckchairs, posh families with windbreaks, and fathers who had been buried in the sand, just to keep us kids happy, and to give Mam a break from all the grizzling. Dodging beach balls, footballs and the odd cricket ball, it was like making your way through a minefield. You then reached the edge of the sea, your next mission was to actually put your foot into the water, something, a penguin would have found traumatic. You could see the other kids along the shore, taking one-step forward and running ten back. You would stand there for some time deciding whether to brave the elements, eventually, insanity got the better of you, and you would slowly move forward until the water was up to your knees, as the waves lap perilously close to your extremities, you try to make yourself taller by standing on your toes, but being young and naive, you thought all the waves were the same size - wrong - the next wave would catch, right up to your waist, your screams were drown out by the screams of all the other unlucky or insane kids who had gone in a little to far and were engulfed by a tidal wave. I remember my mother saying as I left for the sea, 'don't go in too far' obviously she had never encountered these Arctic conditions before. If the water reached your chest breathing became almost impossible, and by this time hypothermia had set in. All that could be seen running back to their encampment, were kids coloured a lovely shade of blue and purple. When you arrived back at the encampment, a towel was wrapped around you, and Mam would perform the drying ritual, rub as hard a possible, particularly between your legs, as stated above, sand and skin do not form a good partnership when rubbed together. By now, sunburn had also set in making the pain that much more unbearable - we didn't factor this and factor that in those days, we had to wear our white 'Sloppy Joe' (a T-Shirt for our younger readers) to keep the sun off.

You had to go on the donkey's, an exhilarating experience, what with the sand trapped inside your Neolithic speedos, enough to build a small wall, and still sore from the rubbing dry your mother had so vigorously performed, some minutes earlier. You were now exposed to a leather saddle, and a creature which doesn't take into consideration, you are not a show jumper. Off we would go like the Charge of the Light Brigade, galloping down the beach, all could be seen were us poor kids bobbing up and down, holding onto the metal hand bit, knuckles white, the same colour as your legs. But that wasn't the worst part - sand, skin and saddles do not mix, by the time we arrived back at the donkey pound, it felt as though someone had used your thighs to sandpaper a wardrobe.

The sea at Barry Island was certainly not the Med; the Med had fish swimming around you and water so clear you could see anything around you. Now the sea at Barry was another kettle of fish, there were items in that water that even Greenpeace would find hard to believe. There were all kinds of waste that would float past you, the sea was so polluted it's a wonder we never had the Black Death on our hands again. The clarity of the water was zero visibility, if there was anything that wanted to bite you or sting you, you never had a chance, because you couldn't see it coming, and it would have probably bitten or stung you and quietly made its way to the next poor victim, knowing it would never be detected. The water was so cold that your manhood would try to hide somewhere inside your body, it would retract to such an extent, I thought I was turning into a girl!

By mid-afternoon, all the fathers would get up together and state they were just popping off for a while, I always wondered where they went, there must have been something that only the fathers could do, also all the mothers would have faces that would kill at thirty yards. By about 2:30 the fathers would return to the encampment looking red in the face and talking funny. Apparently the pop they were drinking had caused some strange effect on them all. They would slump into the deckchair and within minutes would be snoring and breaking wind in harmony. I came to understand some years later that they used to go to the local club and drink as much as they could in two hours, 12 till 2, the opening and closing times at that time.

At last it's time for the fair, that half a dollar had been burning a hole in your shorts all day. Which ride shall we go on, there loads of kids queuing to get on the rides, obviously their parents had the same idea, go to the fair half hour before the buses left. You had two or three rides then those dreaded words, 'come or we'll miss the bus, it's a good ten minute walk back'. 'Come on Mam, only one more go' you would try to persuade her by throwing a tantrum, worse thing you could do, as on top of the thighs rubbed raw by the sand, and your skin blistered from the midday sun, you would get a slap across the back of the legs from your mother, who would state in a voice which would scare a werewolf, 'that's enough of your nonsense my boy'. So you then give up the tantrum and try the charm - it never worked, and we made our way back to the bus, with pain from three different parts of my body.

It was then time to leave the golden sands and deep blue sea!! and head for home. We had to be back by 7 p.m. so the fathers would be in time for opening time at the local pub or club. You would see families who looked like lobsters, the same colour as the Rhondda Transport buses that had brought us, and screaming when someone touched them or got within six inches of their glowing skin. The trip home was a nightmare, kids were crying because they were tired, hungry or burned to a crisp, fathers and mothers were arguing about something or other. Apart all that, it was a great day out at the seaside, and we now looked forward to next year, hope it's the club trip, you get 5 Bob on that one.

Catching the train at Treherbert Railway Station of a Saturday morning to go to Cardiff. By the time the train got to Ystrad it was packed, with standing room only. Those who were going as far as Cardiff were extremely lucky as the train would be three-quarters empty on pulling out of Po0ntypridd Station as the majority of people would be going to 'Ponty' for the market.