Spontaneity

T and I were walking her dog (Billy) in the park today and I happened to mention that this week’s blog was to be on ‘Spontaneity’. She looked at me with a slight look of incredulity and exclaimed “Spontaneity. You are writing about Spontaneity?!”

I was more than slightly aggrieved and that was before I noticed that even Billy was guffawing.

I told her, after explaining calmly that spontaneity was a part of my routine, that I was thinking about doing something on haiku but wasn’t keen and when she had recovered she reminded me of a story I’d told her a few years ago. This is it.

the Gaiety Coffee Bar, Butlin's, Pwllheli, 1970

In the summer of 1970 I had worked as a Plain Clothes Security Officer at Butlins in Pwllheli. During that time I had met my first proper girlfriend, Millie (Irmeli), a Finnish girl who was spending her summer working as chamber maid to get some money and better her English. It was an emotional parting and we kept writing to each other over the following months and looking forward to seeing each other again. She was going to work at Butlins again but didn’t know when or where and I was going to take the summer off by signing on the dole, as I was then at college, and travel to wherever she was posted.

So, it was in June 1971 and end of exams at Wolverhampton Poly so we had decided to have a party to celebrate. Our house was near the college so plenty turned up and it wasn’t until about 7 am that we kicked the last ones out. At which point the post arrived with a card from Millie. It said:

‘In Ayr. Where are you?'

At this point it should be noted that faded tie-dye jeans were in. Desert boots were in. Long hair and beard was in. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I can’t remember the rest or what bag I took. I do remember the jolt of electricity I got when I read the card and chucked whatever was around in it and headed off for Scotland immediately.

Hitching was so normal then that I must have got up to around Gretna without anything noticeable happening because it was there that to my surprise a Rolls Royce stopped and offered me a lift. 

It turned out the driver was the head of a major international company and it was the first time he had been back to his home territory since he was a boy. It was quite moving as he pointed out hills and lochs where he had played as a boy. He was kind enough to drop me at the Ayr Butlins camp. But by this time the place was closed and I was lucky enough to find its stables and managed to get some intermittent sleep.

Ayr Butlin's stables

In the morning I went to the main gate and asked for Millie. Minutes later we had an emotional reunion. Even more emotional when she told me that she and the other Finnish students were being moved to Pwllheli right then.

She turned back into the camp and the next thing was that I was waving to her as she passed in a coach. She had got a window seat and tears were flowing. I kept on waving until the coach disappeared and then sat down on the side of the road as I realised that I was going to have to follow.

But that was fine. It was wonderful. Young and in love.

I could have written another article on the journey to North Wales that I seem to remember involving sleeping under the Menai Bridge and a milk lorry getting me the last few miles to the gates of the Butlins camp where I knew all the holes in the fences due to the previous year.

map of Butlin's, Pwllheli

I was looking for a particular poem to end this and as I couldn’t find a suitable one in my main files I looked in my paper based ‘Useless’ one and gave a gasp of surprise at finding the one below written when it says it was but I don’t remember writing it. Lesson: Never chuck stuff.

Dole Q (Summer 1971)

Sitting in the dole queue
I’m waiting for my name
Staring at the dark brown floor
Seeing through the same.
A cigarette sub sails
Under a spit wet sea
Rising to an occasion
Which is more than
Can be said for me,
Feet seem to walk this water
Well, it’s a point of view,
Stepping on stony glances
Or merely another shoe.
Somewhere in the distance
Lies a promised hand
So I’ll be off tomorrow
Towards another land.
A number is called
A number are bald
But many more are younger.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.