Whilst walking the dog along the promenade on Monday an ‘old lady’ (nothing wrong in using that descriptive and yet, I am feeling conscious of writing the word, as though this is derogatory and yet I see it as an empowering term) that I regularly chat too started to tell me about the beach in wartime (World War Two). She was saying that her family had lived in the area for many generations and that her father worked at the local power station. He wasn’t sent to war but instead worked for the Homeguard. He used get into a rowing boat to cross the harbour to reach the power station.
She glanced at the harbour and then said, “You know, I never got to go the beach for six years 1939-1945 my access was cut off.” She talked about how the whole promenade was cut off from the roadside, access was denied by large rolls of barbed wire and the beach was full of landmines. Apparently they took out mid sections of the piers to deny troops landing. From here it is a direct route up to London and the airplanes used to drop off any leftover bombs and unload the rest of their bullets down the railway tracks pre-flying back to Germany/France.
All quite scary events happening around her but she used to regularly stare at the beach on warm days just wishing she could dip her toes into the sea. This was a sunny day and she really was feeling those six years of youth, denied the liberation of swimming in the water.
