I was 14, independent and responsible... and naive enough to be adventurous. We lived in a safe street in a safe-ish town in a time when the innocence of childhood could still be relevant. We played in the streets, we camped in the fields, we role-played our dreams and ambitions - and summers were always long and, generally, always hot.
I had a friend in the street called Grahame, also 14. Lived with his mother and sister, no father. He was adventurous like me; he had a shed that he used as his private hide-away; he had a secret cave in the drainage pit in the garden; he had a stash of men's magazines... his mother knew, but she gave him a lot of freedom.
This was small-town. So small it wasn't a town, I suppose a village, but really a new-estate build on some fields that had yet to become a village. Anyone asks me I say near Liverpool, but it's just as near Manchester and it's not either of them. It was a good place to grow up - lots of open fields, for us the wilderness. There were few cars around, only some people had telephones. Holidays, if you got them, were camping trips to Wales. Wales was considered a different country.
Grahame was from Wales. He suggested that summer, when we were 14, that we go there on a camping trip, without our parents - now that would be an adventure. His mother allowed it, my parents agreed too. Dad gave me ten pounds for the week and we set off with our two tents and camping-gear, caught a bus into town, then a bus into a bigger town, and then a bus to Wales. I bought a floppy army-type hat for the occassion.
This was our big adventure, we'd really live it up, freedom, beach... maybe girls... we were young, naive, enthusiastic, positive - and not a little careless.
We headed for Rhyl. Rhyl is the Ibiza of Northwest Britain. Now with only 10 pounds each for the week, we didn't want to waste our money on camping sites, so we found some wasteground behind the beach and asked the hippies there if it was safe to camp - they'd know. This was a time when common-ground was still for commoners and squatting was still legal, so no-one was going to drive a couple of kids away. We pitched our tents, one for us and one for the gear - we were organized - and we headed for the town to see what Rhyl had to offer two excited 14 year-olds. Nothing!
We were too old for the fairground rides and too young for the bars. Prowling the beach was out because this was the summer I remember when it wasn't hot all the time. There were girls, but those around our age were with their parents. So we walked... and walked. Then we took a bus-tour - one of those double-dekker tourist busses with an open roof. We sat upstairs and the wind blew my hat away. That was annoying. By the end of the day I'd lost my 10 pounds too - now that was a bummer!
We were resourceful though and we didn't want to ring our parents on the first day. Graham's money wouldn't last us both for the week so we tried our hand at shoplifting. Just once though - being chased down the street by the shop-owner for a packet of Eccles cakes wasn't really worth the risk.
Day two we met an older bloke somehow, and he was really friendly. Bought us some ices and something to drink. Maybe he felt sorry for us when we told him about losing my money, because he offered to take us on the fairground and pay for some rides - maybe we weren't too old for them after all. Later in the day he but us lunch, then our evening meal, and much later he was saying that he'd probably had a little too much to drink to drive back to his camping, so could he spend the night in our tent.
What can you say when he's been so generous? So we're in the tent, all three of us, I'm falling asleep when I hear Grahame muttering aloud - something about not wanting him here and why doesn't he just buzz off. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes closed. Then I heard the guy leave. I quizzed Grahame about what he'd said to the man, but he said he didn't remember saying anything and could have been talking in his sleep. I didn't believe him.
On the third day the skinheads turned up. Three loud 16 year-olds from Liverpool. They were surprisingly courteous and friendly - not at all what I expected and totally out of character for "Scouse-football-hooligan-bovverboys". They told us they'd been kicked off all the other campsites (okay, back in character), and needed an alternative - would it okay to pitch tent here next to us. Well it's a free world, and since they asked so nicely, sure!, and yes you can put your baggage in our spare tent.
After they'd set up, they headed off to another bar to get drunk and loud again, and Grahame and I did some walking and talking... money was a problem, weather was a problem, could we go home after three days without losing face?
Evening came around and the skinheads came knocking. They were back and drunk, and one of them had a girl and could he use our tent for a half-hour. We didn't want to seem unfriendly, or uncool, so we said yes - but we wanted it back in a half-hour! No problem, he said.
Only after that half-hour he wasn't ready and he'd come out when he felt like it. Grahame was pretty persistent in his complaining - it wasn't fair, he'd said a half-hour, time is up we want our tent back... and it worked, he came out, but he wasn't happy. Anyway, we settled down to go to sleep - but then the commotion started. The skinheads were getting abusive, aggressive, calling us names, swearing at us, rattling the tent, pissing on it - one of them kicked the tent and I got it full in the face. Now it may be fine to complain about getting our tent back, but that's where the confrontation ends - even Grahame realized that - start complaining now, or go outside and ask them to please stop... we'd get our heads kicked in for sure. So we sat it out and waited for them to get bored kicking a tent.
It stopped eventually, they probably went off to be obnoxious in another bar. We decided we'd be leaving the following morning.
Morning came early, around 5 o'clock. The plan was to pack up quickly and quietly and head for the bus station. There we could wait until Grahame's uncle, who lived nearby, was awake, then we'd go there and call his mother, who had a phone, to get my dad, who had a car, to pick us up.
It was pouring with rain, which helped disguise any noise we made taking the tent down. We didn't speak any louder than a whisper, we were efficient and effective. When all our bags were packed we took the reserve tent down. The skinhead's baggage we'd have to leave in the rain, no point in waking them, they'd be sleeping until midday anyway. Time to go...
But wait... just one more thing...
Before we left, we opened all the baggage and scattered the contents around, just to get the full effect of the rain. NOTHING would be dry when the guys woke up. All their spare clothes and belongings would be drenched through - puddles of sandy water were already engulfing their gear, their bags were filling up with rainwater. They'd pissed on our tent - nature was pissing on theirs.
We ran, silently, and spent three hours shivering in the bus station. We called Grahame's uncle, then went to his house to dry out. We called home and my father came to pick us up. I told him about losing the money. He said if I'd called earlier he would have brought some more. It didn't matter. The holiday was over. We were glad to be going home.
This is the shortest holiday I've ever had, but strangely one of the most memorable. It wasn't successful as holidays go, but it was an experience, an awakening, a test of our independence and resourcefulness. We'd had an adventure and survived, we wouldn't forget it.
And we'd had payback, revenge... and it was sweet.
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