EDITOR'S PERSPECTIVE: A not too classy affair

I liked Bridlington. Still do. Something had changed this year though and it would never be the same.

The first year we went, during my dad’s summer holiday factory break, we had stayed on the seafront Shirley Hotel, the second nicest on South Marine Drive, and only a close second to the Monarch where the Barratts always stayed.

My mum had bought me a book – The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame -to read while we were there. Oh, it was a working holiday then. Might as well have brought along a brush to sweep the bloody chimney with as well. How was I going to have time to read when there were amusements arcade to go in, chips to eat, a beach to play cricket on and my brother to fight with?

It was a lovely hotel, a gong sounded for dinner and some old chap would play the organ in the evening as people took to the dancefloor.

We went again the next year and, maybe, a third time.

Then it happened. Money became scarce, probably due to the mill in which my dad worked putting its employees on short time, but it didn’t matter as were still going to Bridlington.

Only we were no longer staying at the Shirley, but in an apartment called the Aladina.

This was a bit of a blow. I liked the familiarity of our regular hotel and the view out to the sea, but IO would get over it. Except I wouldn’t.

The Aladina was only just around the corner, so still within reach of the attractions, the Spa theatre and bar and, most importantly, the arcades.

A brown trousered man greeted us and showed us in. Up the stairs we went and he opened the door to the one bedroom apartment that would be our home for the next week.

It was a sparse affair made up of a bit of a kitchen, a couple of settees, a table and said bedroom. Brown trouser turned round to confirm our approval.and revealed the gaping hole where a zip should have been.

It had been bed, breakfast and evening meal at the Shirley, which also had parking for five cars, but nothing here. We had to fend for ourselves, which on the bright side meant more trips to the chippy.

On the downside we couldn’t look those entering and exiting The Shirley in the eye. “Oh, you’re not staying here this year?”

"No, we thought we’d have a bit of a change.”

"Oh, whereabouts are you?

"The Ala….Monarch. The Monarch...”

"Oh, very nice.”

A good answer but one that meant we couldn’t walk that way anymore.

It made no odds in the end, we still did the same things as always, only with less money and it got me used to the fact that soon we wouldn’t be coming here at all, a three-night break in Blackpool the best we could do the next year.

Apart from a big two-weeker abroad years later, we had peaked at the Shirley, and many others besides us had too.

Gradually the work colleagues my dad used to wave at or try to avoid – everyone had the same holiday time and went to the same places – as we walked along the seafront would disappear too, to the back streets, then somewhere else for a short time and then, maybe, nowhere at all.

It was the late 1970s and hope was going. The Shirley has gone now. As has the Aladina. And, once again, hope too for many.