This is were it always started, Victoria Coach Station, usually in August and always early in the morning, I’m talking about the Annual holiday to Ramsgate for the family, Mum, Dad, little Sister and a young OMG, short trousers, school cap and best blazer. We would journey up to Victoria by bus as Dad worked for London Transport putting up bus stops and shelters so he had what was known as a ‘sticky’, a staff pass for free travel on the buses and tube. Suitcases were not a problem as we only used to take one or two, unlike today when I and MrsOMG require a few coolies and pack elephant just for a dodgy weekend in Brighton. Upon arrival Mum would take us kids to the cafeteria, a place full of gleaming machines, hissing and belching steam into an atmosphere already full of smoke fom cigarettes, pipes, cigars and from griddles burning industrial amounts of lard as the bangers and rashers sizzled their calories and cholesterol into a public blissfully unaware of the terrors to come once the funsuckers got their claws into the nations favourite start to the day. While we kids were being squeezed between large ladies all wearing their best frocks and coats, together with the obligatory hat, Dad was away sorting out the tickets for the coach that would take us to, what was to me, was an exotic location on the Kent coast, Ramsgate. When we were ready, Dad would bang his empty tea cup down and with the words, ‘Right, let’s get weaving,’ would march us out to join the queue for the East Kent coach to the seaside and paradise.
I loved this bit, the hustle and bustle and the long lines of people waiting in line, the coach station inspectors with gold braid on their peaked caps weaving importantly in and out, shepherding lost families, checking their huge fob watches to wave coaches off on time and then clearing a space as the next brightly coloured behomath took its place underneath the correct bay number hanging from the roof. Blues, Reds, Greens, all the colours you could think of as each individual company showed of their own particular livery. These were not the dusty rag tag and bobtail coaches that you may imagine in old black and white films of the era, these were gleaming, with coachwork polished to a high sheen and windows like freshly minted crystal glinting under the lights. I would look and look until I saw what I considered to be the creme de la creme of coaches, and would greedily drink in the lush and futeristic lines of the space age looking fleetliner of ‘Bristol Royal Blue,’ the one with the ‘Flash Gordon’ fin on the back.
FIRST DIVISION
So as I stood there looking at my dream machine and going into a minor whinge as to why were not travelling in the space ship, the chug of a diesel engine and a bellowed ‘Stand back there,’ from an Inspector announced the arrival of the red liveried ‘East Kent’ coach proudly bearing the destination ‘Ramsgate,’ on its illuminated destination board on the top. As Dad nipped to the back with the suitcases to be loaded on, Mum pushed my Sister and Me onto the coach to find our numbered seats, which brought on another minor whinge as I realised we would not be sitting in the front and I could not play at being the driver. But within a few minutes I was sitting happily in my berth sucking a mult coloured gob stopper and losing myself in the latest exploits of my hero ‘Dan Dare’ in the latest edition of ‘Eagle’.
SECOND DIVISION
To be continued…………………………….
Boadicea's Chariot 
Excellent brings back memories for me as well. But I went by train for a four day trip to Greece, yet I was envious of the guy down the road who went to Bognor. Why because every year it was 8 weeks plus in Corfu and Bognor sounded good.
Wonderfully evocative of a bygone age.
I remember going to Herne Bay once, an absolute rat hole, but then I was 16 or so. Huge groynes and mud! Can’t even begin to remember why I went there.
A very enjoyable trip down memory lane, OMG.
I used to go to Whitby and Filey when I was that sort of age. I can remember the sea being very very cold!
Araminta
My Dad’s brother used to run a pub in Whitby so we sometimes made the trip there. I do remember it took all day and most of the night as well. And yes, the sea was bloody cold. I also remember the fishing fleet from Whitby and The Dutch boats stacked four or five deep alongside the harbour, all gone now.
Wonderful post, OMG. There’s nothing quite like the seaside and it’s especially exciting for children. Happy memories for me too. A jet necklace from Whitby was one of my most treasured possessions for many years.
PS Great looking coaches. 🙂
Nice one again, OMG.
But it’s a bit of a bugger when you remind me how bloody old I am. 😦
Comes to us all Bearsy, I haven’t worn short trousers for a least…..three weeks. Keep your head down mate in the days to come, Cairns looks like it’s going to cop a packet, shame, we liked Cairns, stayed in a circular hotel there a few years ago.
OMG
Wonderful post.
We rarely went away on holiday. A trip to Weston super Mare when I was about seven, and a frightful four days in Clacton when I was about fifteen. Other than that, it was the odd day out – and Ramsgate was one of the places we visited.
I always insisted on going round the model village:
Apologies for missing commenting here before now OMG; this has been a delight to read, evoking so many memories for me too. As a child I too travelled with family by train to holiday resorts, never minding the time it took, sandwiches and flasks on the train was all part of the exciting journey. I recall staying with an Aunt at her house in Criccieth North Wales when I was about 8 years old, I got friendly with a local girl who lived next door, I never understood a word she said for the whole week we were there, I thought Wales was a foreign country then.
Oops, Forgot to click follow-ups.
“As a child I too travelled with family by train to holiday resorts”
Now there’s posh for you.
Those of us at the other end of those East Kent coach lines used to take them for days out at Ramsgate, Margate, Folkestone, etc,. too 🙂 My fondest memories, though, as I have written here before, are of Charing Cross station, the whooshing of steam and the bumping. clanking and clattering of the carriages and, or course, the Oxo Tower on the South Bank with its message that. ‘You’re going to see Nanna.’ 🙂
Great piece, OMG.
Thanks Bravo, OxO tower is still there but is now home to a fairly ok restaurant.