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On ...
The 3 big poo’s incident
They still speak of it today, 25 years after the day that left two old ladies severely traumatized and their “ye olde tea shoppe” business in ruins, the good people of Seahouses still operate an early warning system to prevent the return of the three scruffy hombre’s who turned their collective lives upside down on that fateful day ...
It was August Bank Holiday, 1979, a long weekend with fine weather predicted and as was our custom, myself, Charlie and Burty, two fine compatriots, needed a location to pitch a tent and drink some serious beer for the three day weekend.
I was working and lodging in Whitley Bay at the time and my two buddies had asked if it was worth a visit, I wasn’t keen as I’d been there for a year already and was seeking different pastures for the break, but then my manager at the office came up with a solution - he told me of the fabled coastline of Northumberland. Not 20 miles away from where we sat every day was a region of long sandy beaches backed by high sand dunes and fringed with small villages each of which had a plethora of pubs - just for a laugh he offered to take me up there to have a look around that evening.
And so it was that a three night stay was booked at perhaps the most beautiful bay location on the North East coastline - Budle Bay, a whole wide bay with its tidal flats and the mysterious Holy Island, all owned and managed by the National Trust.
Not that this information meant anything to us, bank holiday weekends started with the large tent being erected (a not inconsiderable feat in itself) and continued with mainly pub visits and perhaps the odd bit of walking when we had to travel the short distances from one pub to another.
My two friends travelled up from Leeds on the Friday evening and I met them in a pub in a village just up the road from Budle Bay, the idea being to have one or two pints in there and then travel the short distance to the camp site, put the tent up and then walk to whichever fortunate pub was near to the campsite.
Unfortunately the chosen pub happened to be a damn good pub, full of local farm workers all intent on filling themselves with beer, singing songs and generally having a good time - far to good to leave, so we stopped there until closing time and then carefully, very carefully drove the two cars down the narrow winding lanes to the Budle Bay campsite where we ever so carefully and quietly erected the huge tent that was home to us on such weekends.
The tent had belonged to a local scout troop and was built to sleep at least 20 adults, more like a circus tent really it was supported by two 3x3 wooden posts each of which were eight foot long and had to be buried at least a foot into the ground, the whole thing being finally supported by thick guy ropes that extended several feet away from the tent, you may have the idea now that erecting such a construction could not be achieved quietly or without access to a large square yardage of space, nor could it be erected quietly whilst intoxicated, in the dark and without falling about in fits of laughter every time one of the posts fell over, again and again.
So we set off on the wrong foot with our neighbouring campers, all of whom had large multi-coloured canvas erections with several internal bedrooms and fitted furniture, and all of whom had arrived there several hours before and had settled down to a good nights sleep, until we arrived.
The next morning we were scowled at whilst plumes of lard-generated smoke billowed from our frying pan as three cooked breakfasts were prepared despite the hangovers. Our cheery “good mornings” were cold-shouldered and black-balled by assorted bank managers, school teachers and civil servants, all of whom regarded our dirty brown stained ridge tent with disgust
t didn’t matter, the weekend lay ahead of us, 72 hours of fine weather in prospect, a wallet full of money and pubs galore to drink from, what more could three 22 year old single lads wish for ?
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