We splashed and danced, and sang along with the waves.

Grandma however, insisted that she only paddled.

Dignity intact, despite the hemline dampness of her dress.

The sun resting upon the horizon, like a golden globe.

The evening greeted by the day, as it bids farewell once more.

Candyfloss fun as we would run, along the tide, washed sands.

All the impressions of the day's memories, swept away.

A clean canvass, once again, waits eagerly a new day.

For children, with bucket's and spade's, and the imagination to create.

Along the beach the fairground calls, with tunes of rock and roll.

The smell of honeycomb, and hot dog onions, beckons one and all.

The coarse fabric, of such times, stitched together by father’s wage.

Working hard throughout the year, for just a week of dreams.

An exodus off families, would descend the coasts, of this fare land.

Fish and chips, kiss me quick hats, cheers a plenty, at the piers end.

We rode the train, one mile long, to be met by summer, season glitz.

Song and dance, the star of the show, third year in a row by popular demand.

Long before the days of Spain, and those humid package holidays.

The British coasts ruled the waves, for every sun loving, beach hut dweller.

Child times, when we thought that we had it all, and knew our destiny.

But things never turnout, the way one dreams, just take a look at me.

(Photography by Gary Peters)