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Blitz Boy

Page 12

by Alf Townsend


  We came to a halt and that meant I had finally returned to my boyhood after all those years. But I was rather confused. I had always pictured Newquay station in my mind as a buzzing hive of activity with hordes of people flocking around the four platforms and trains coming and going. Not any more. Most of the platforms had been concreted over leaving just the one. And as for the hordes of people, now it was just my wife and myself, plus a very old lady with a similarly ancient dog!

  We came out of the station and I couldn’t help but notice the Great Western Hotel almost opposite, one of the town’s first major hotels. Back in the 1940s this grand hotel enjoyed almost total isolation and its creamy paintwork, elaborate classic design and wonderful sea views made it a must for the rich and wealthy. This is where the American officers stayed before D-Day and this is where I spent many a pleasant evening sneaking up and peering through the French windows at all the latest movies – not forgetting my gashed leg and being sewn up like a chicken by that American Angel. Now the view of the old hotel is almost obliterated by ugly buildings and, would you believe, a karaoke club! We turned left and headed for the town centre passing by my last home in Newquay, the Cliff Close Hotel, or rather where it used to be! Surprise, surprise, it had been demolished and in its place was a rather large pub and restaurant called Griffins. The other side of the old tramtrack where the American soldiers used to live, including my eldest sister’s heartthrob the ‘Mexican Bandit’, was now a pile of rubble waiting to host yet another apartment block or hotel. Straight down Cliff Road and we were in the centre of town. Lots of surfing shops, lots of bars and cafés and lots of amusement arcades. It could have been Brighton, or even Southend. No, definitely not Southend – they don’t have breakers! The old Wesleyan chapel opposite Towan Beach, where I intermittently went to school, and where I got a whack around the ear from a teacher for cutting off all the tops of the lettuces with my hoe, is now, would you believe, a funeral parlour. The view across the Killacourt Green to the sea was still stunning, even though it had been intruded upon by an ugly block of flats that blocked the famous view of Jago’s Island and its suspension bridge. Apparently, there has been a dwelling on this island from the turn of the twentieth century and its most famous resident was Alexander Lodge, the inventor of the Lodge sparking plug!

  Back at Newquay again – still with hair! (Author’s collection)

  We walked past South Quay Hill by the harbour and I recognised the site of Stanley Cottages, our very first home in Newquay. Again this had been demolished and replaced by trendy arts and crafts shops. I was sad that it had gone, but thank goodness it hadn’t been replaced by some ghastly amusement arcade! It was a brisk walk down Fore Street until we came to no. 92, Rockpool Cottage, our chosen home for the next few days. It’s a funny old world isn’t it? Out of all the many hundreds of hotels and bed and breakfasts in Newquay, we just happened to choose Rockpool Cottage on the internet. This place had a notorious reputation back in the 1960s and ’70s when it was called the Yellow House. The Yellow House was the abode of hordes of young, beer-swilling, wacky baccy-smoking mad surfers of both sexes. In effect, it was probably one of the very first hippy communes totally devoted to the love of surfing. So when the present owner Craig Smithurst – himself a keen surfer – came down to Newquay from up north some thirty years ago, he never went back. He eventually purchased the house, which was in a terrible state. But by sheer hard work and a penchant for DIY, Craig has transformed the ‘pits’ into a ‘palace’. Believe me, it’s never a simple exercise when I travel – there’s always a good story to be had! So we settled in after having a good meal and some drinks in the Red Lion pub and looked forward to our next day’s exploration. I have to mention the superb view of the harbour from the lofty vantage point of the Red Lion, it really is like a picture postcard. I could pick out the steep wooded cliffs that we use to shin up for crab apples and, looking to the left by South Quay, was the bore hole through to Towan Beach. This is where our gang sat in nervous silence waiting for the tide to come rushing in. But after over sixty years of tides and rising sand, only the top 3 feet were now visible. But not much had changed about the harbour after all those years.

  The next day dawned a bright and sunny October morning and, after a full English breakfast in our room, we were ready to go. We headed up Fore Street towards the five-star Atlantic Hotel on the headland. On the left of the hotel is the war memorial, commemorating all the Newquay men and women who died in both world wars. To the right and overlooking the harbour is the Huer’s Hut. The huer was basically a lookout and as soon as he saw the distinctive ripple on the surface of the sea and the reddish purple hue just beneath the surface, denoting the approach of a shoal of pilchards, he would yell down a megaphone-like trumpet to the waiting fishermen. This cry of ‘hubba, hubba’ would spread throughout the locality, causing much excitement. Everyone would rush to the quay and to their boats, urged on all the while and guided by their huer. Each fish cellar had its own huer and competition was fierce.

  Then we turned left and followed the clifftop path up to the impressive Headland Hotel. I can distinctively remember this hotel during the war. An imposing red-brick Victorian edifice that I always thought looked like a lunatic asylum! The building of this hotel was completed in 1900, even though there were riots from the locals. For generations, local fishermen had dried their nets and grazed their sheep on this headland and they felt very angry about many areas of Newquay being snapped up by property speculators. But since the coming of the railway, the landed gentry and well-to-do visitors demanded high-class hotels in which to stay. In 1911, Edward, the Prince of Wales, himself stayed there while convalescing from a bout of measles, thus attracting the wealthy from all over the country and ensuring that Newquay developed into a thriving holiday resort.

  After reaching the end of the headland and taking in the Old Coastguard Station and the Old Lifeboat House, we turned left again towards the famous surfing Mecca of Fistral Beach and past the once-familiar golf links of my boyhood. I have since discovered that the links are on the site of an old commercial lead mine. Finally, we reached Pentire Road close to the Pentire Hotel where I spent many happy months with my family and the buxom matron. What caught my eye were the dozens of notices all over the place saying ‘No camping, no cooking and no sleeping overnight’. I can well imagine all the aggravation the local residents had in the past with the young surfers and beach-bums until the council sorted it out!

  A pensive Alf looking out over Fistral Beach. (Author’s collection)

  Alf, the casual observer, above Great Western Beach. (Author’s collection)

  But by far the biggest surprise on my journey back in time was to see the massive amount of building all over Pentire Head. Okay, so I didn’t expect to see the same desolate, scrubby headland with a few dilapidated cottages dotted about. But neither did I expect to see every inch of it completely covered with hotels, apartments and houses of all shapes and sizes. Even areas that I remember as green fields, with cows and sheep grazing in them, have now been turned into high-class housing developments and still the building goes on! Our old home, the Pentire Hotel, was no more and is now a posh, new apartment complex with a rather ridiculous Spanish-sounding name. The old-fashioned lamp post, where my American buddies placed their candy collection, had been replaced by one of those modern things with sodium lighting. As for the old view from my bedroom window down the once deserted U-shaped lane where my American friends arrived before D-Day. Sadly, like every other little country lane on Pentire, it has been turned into a residential street with houses, hotels and apartment blocks on either side. In retrospect, I suppose it was inevitable with the increasing popularity of Newquay over the many years since I left.

  Finally, it was to my boyhood retreat, the River Gannel. It’s still a wonderful sight to see from the steep and rocky footpath that leads down the side, although it appears that the developers are doing their utmost to obliterate the public right of way to this outstanding
scenic view. During the war – I’m sounding like Uncle Albert again, aren’t I? – I often visited the two-masted schooner that was moored on the other bank, in between my spear fishing of course! The Ada was a museum of curios and American servicemen stationed further up the Gannel used to flock to the ship paying a shilling a time to see the exhibits. At the peak of its popularity, there were as many as 100 visitors a day. The old ship finally came to its end in 1951. She was sold for a paltry £40 and much of her pitched pine decks were removed, before she was set alight. Locals say the Ada burned for two whole weeks!

  Going to the Gannel. (Author’s collection)

  Gazing out to the Gannel. (Author’s collection)

  The author at his Hampstead home – well the top flat, anyway! (Author’s collection)

  And that was just about that. We took the same scenic walk back over the cliff path and a tasty dinner and drinks at the Red Lion. Then a good night’s sleep, followed by another full English breakfast, and it was time to take the same walk back to the station. What struck me about Newquay was the preponderance of sparrows – they are all over the place. The dear old cockney sparrow may have left its home in London, but they are alive and kicking in Newquay!

  So, was my journey back to my boyhood after all that time away worth the effort? The answer is most definitely yes, because it has enabled me to finally exorcise the perennial demons in my head that have haunted me since childhood. I can now comfortably say that my sometimes terrible experiences in the Second World War as an evacuee were almost from another lifetime – even though I still abhor going down the Tube!

  Alf advertising his first book on his taxi. (Author’s collection)

  I thought the return journey home might bring on morbid thoughts of ‘popping my clogs’ before seeing Newquay again. But my lovely wife, forever the realist, made the pertinent point that if we all thought in that pessimistic fashion, then it would soon encompass every single facet of our lives, even on the next round of golf! And she was spot on, as usual. Enjoy every minute of every day my friends, because none of us can see through the mirror of life.

  I hope that the ex-evacuees among you have got something positive out of reading my book and that my new interpretation of the past will strike a chord with others who lived through the Second World War.

  Alf’s first attempt at writing – at the age of eleven.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also by Alf Townsend

  London Cabbie

  Bad Lads: RAF National Service Remembered

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in 2008

  The History Press

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  Reprinted 2009, 2013

  This ebook edition first published in 2014

  All rights reserved

  © Alf Townsend, 2014

  The right of Alf Townsend to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 5906 3

  Original typesetting by The History Press

 

 

 


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