Sunny areas cloudy

Every summer we packed into buses and travelled the 50 mile journey from Ebbw Vale to Barry Island for the annual chapel day out to the sea-side. Buses would fill with excited children and grown-ups, large plastic bags of food, wind-breakers and flasks of hot tea. We chatted and sang all the way to the coastline, interrupted by at least one person with travel sickness and the weather reports on the radio.

“Today in south Wales, it will be overcast with sunny areas cloudy”.

Once parked, we would assemble deck-chairs and then divide into smaller sub-groups and factions. Women and children would manage the general set-up and cucumber sandwiches. Men would co-ordinate donkey rides, sea activities, crab hunting and the finances for the day. Barry Island was a Mecca of promise. There were sand and bouncy castles, candy floss, ice-cream with raspberry sauce and chocolate flakes. There wasn’t a bottle of sun-cream or a camera in sight, and the day would stretch out before us like a two week holiday. The soundtrack for the day was not only laughter, but also announcements over a loud speaker by the same man every year. He would give a variety of bulletins through the day giving advice to all us day-trippers.

“Would the parents of a little six year old girl, named Kelly, please come and collect her from the lost children’s office” was a typical report. Parents in large groups would have thought that Kelly was in the sea with her cousins and not realised she’d wandered off to the penny arcade.

“Would the owner of a small black and white dog, I think he’s a spaniel, come and collect him from the lost property office”.

One year there was a particular notification.

“We have a little lost boy of about 2 years of age. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue shorts; he’s carrying a red bucket and spade. He’s wearing black rimmed national health glasses and there’s a plaster over his left eye. Can his parents please come and collect him from the lost children’s office” asked the speaker at first.

This was different. Usually one announcement was enough for the parents to panic, run over and collect the child and have the story to tell on the bus home later that night. But the speaker repeated this information a couple of times that day
“We still have the little boy with us, and he’s getting quite distressed now. Would the parents please come and collect him?”
I was fascinated. Where were his parents? If they didn’t go and collect him soon he might miss his bus home. Who would give him his tea? Who would put him to bed later that night, or help him get ready in the morning?

“Can we go and look at the little lost boy?” I asked a grown-up
“Why do you want to go and look at the little lost boy?”
“I don’t know. I just want to look at him” I said.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say” I was told, but I didn’t think it was mean at all. I thought it would be helpful to see him and ask him his name, maybe ask him where he came from. Or what his favourite colour was.

The bus left the car park at 6.00pm on the dot which left one hour for the fair ground at the end of the day. So with sandy feet and sun-burnt noses we went on terrifying rides on clunky old log flumes, waltzers and ghost trains. We bought sticks of rock to take home as presents for those not lucky enough to come to the beach, and we left the ocean.

Now most of the chapels lie empty, have been turned into Bingo halls or have just been knocked down and no one goes to Barry Island anymore. They go to Spain or France or America, children eat sugar free snacks and no one sings. No one climbs onto a bus at the end of a day, tired and happy and thinking about little lost boys.

No one at all.