Childhood Memories of a Holiday in Wales

Both my maternal and paternal grandparents had caravans when I was a child. Both of these caravans were situated on the same caravan park in North Wales. I vaguely remember the place as being small, very green, and surrounded by lots of tall trees and mountains. We would visit the nearby seaside town of Rhyl and play on the beach and in the sea, enjoying picnics and games.

Anyway, standing in my back garden I breathed in the fresh scent of spring rain. The weather is warm today, but still cool enough to warrant long sleeves. As I write this, the clouds are finally turning white and breaking up, and I can even see the sun starting to poke through. There may even be a glimpse of blue sky if you look carefully…

So I returned to my daydream about our holidays in North Wales. My younger brother and I would wake up in the morning, bound down the steps of our small caravan, and sometimes run across the campsite and visit our other grandparents if they were staying in their caravan. We thought this was wonderfully exciting. Fancy visiting your grandparents while on holiday, when you live in the same hometown anyway! Simple things amused us back then, and I remember our excitement with fondness.

Standing in the back garden of my home, remembering our holidays, I heard a wood pigeon cooing in the trees behind our neighbours’ houses. And once again I was hit with another memory. This time it was my dad, on holiday, complaining about the noisy pigeons. He used to grumble that they woke him up early and he wanted a lie-in while he was on holiday. He would joke about getting a shotgun, to which I would react in horror and tell him he couldn’t possibly shoot the poor pigeons! I knew he never would, but I did not like the threat.

Still, every time I hear wood pigeons I remember those holidays, and have flashbacks to those happy times. The human mind is a funny thing! I also remember how my dad would get up after the pigeons woke him, and he would walk down to the campsite shop and fetch the daily newspaper. Then he would sit outside the caravan in his deckchair with a mug of tea and his paper, and he was happy for an hour or two. Meanwhile my mum would be preparing breakfast or packing up a picnic. Poor Mum, we never did appreciate all she did on those holidays. Sorry Mum!

So there ends my nostalgic flashback. I really did love those childhood holidays. They were filled with such simple pleasures. We would collect seashells, search the rock pools for crabs and starfish, build sandcastles, and fly kites on the beach. We went exploring in the mountains, and more often than not my brother would find a way to injure himself by attempting to jump a wide stream or climb a tree. I was too much of a wimp, and would just stand at the side watching. They were fun times.