Family Traditions and the Sunday Picnics

All through my growing years it was a family tradition, during the summer months, to head for a beach on Sunday afternoons. Which beach we chose always depended on the wind. A northerly breeze meant Old Town, an easterly took us to Shark’s Pit or Porthloo, if the wind blew from the west we made for Pelistry, and a southerly sent us to Porthmellon. Very occasionally we went to Porthcressa, but that was usually too crowded. Mind you, with over twenty of us sometimes, you could say whichever beach we landed on became “too crowded” anyway!

The mainstays of the gatherings were Auntie Ena, Auntie Rene and Uncle Ben, Auntie Laurel, my sisters and Mum (I don’t ever remember Dad sitting on the beach), plus a gaggle of cousins and second cousins. Some lived on Scilly, others were over for holidays. Then there were the visitors—guests staying at Auntie Ena’s guest house Auriga, or with us up at Longstone. Over the years, many of them became so much like family that our picnics were never short of new faces to play with.

The children loved it for the freedom to run, dig, paddle and swim, catch crabs and play games. The adults loved it for one thing: Scrabble. They were Scrabble mad. As soon as the rug was spread on the sand, out came the board and tiles. They would usually play at least half a dozen games in a single afternoon. Obsessed doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I remember one Sunday at Shark’s Pit. The sun was sinking, the tide was low, and by about half past six we were—as was always the tradition —the very last to leave the beach. On one particular Sunday Auntie was giving Mum a lift home in her little Mini, so we children walked back along Porthloo Lane. Past the duck pond along Rosehill and onto Pump Road… only to find the Mini parked up ahead. Thinking they’d broken down, I hurried forward—only to discover them sitting quite happily inside, Scrabble boards in hand, playing 'one more game' before going home! I actually beat them back to the house by ten minutes. Like I said, they were obsessed.

But there was one thing we children loved more than anything— getting Auntie Ena into the sea.

Now, this was not an easy task. Auntie would only go in if the water was warm. When she finally declared it was warm enough, it became an event for the whole beach. She would first change into her best summer frock—yes, her frock—and then gather us children around like a General briefing her troops. We’d be given careful instructions, everyone allocated a role, and then sent off to our “stations.”

The plan was never the same each time. On one Sunday, at high tide we had to make it look as though we were playing happily in the shallows, tossing a ball to and fro. At some point the ball had to “accidentally” bounce towards Auntie, who would come to the water’s edge to fetch it. Then, with perfect timing, one or two of us would stumble into her, sending her toppling into the sea—fully clothed, or so it looked! Once in, she was in her element, splashing, laughing, and swimming with us as though she’d planned it all along.

The last time I was part of such a scheme was at Old Town. The tide was high, the sun was higher, and a few boats bobbed lazily on their moorings. In one sat Brian and Della Boudeaux, enjoying the peace and quiet. Auntie spotted them and insisted I row her over in my little six-foot skiff.

The skiff was fine for me and one small passenger, but Auntie, not exactly a small child, was determined. Carefully she clambered in at the stern while I balanced the skiff and then got in myself, holding my breath as the freeboard shrank to an inch above the waterline. Very slowly I paddled us across the bay, the boat swaying dangerously as I tried to keep us afloat but with water slopping in over one side, then the other it was certainly a struggle.

Halfway there, Auntie gave me her plan. “When we get close, I’ll stand up and say hello—and you must push me in!” she said with absolute seriousness. I wasn’t sure she quite understood the limits of a six-foot skiff. Stand up? Really? but I nodded gamely.

Sure enough, as we drew alongside Brian and Della’s boat, Auntie tried to stand up with a delighted cry of, “Oh! Hello!” The effect was immediate. Her weight drove the gunwales under, and down the skiff went—straight to the bottom. Auntie sank vertically with it, while I clung to the bow like a flapping flounder, desperately trying to save the oars.

Auntie, of course, surfaced laughing, utterly in her element once more. Brian and Della leapt to help her, but she waved them off and spent twenty minutes diving and splashing like a dolphin, helping me recover the skiff and tow it back to the beach. The laughter that followed still rings in my memory—Auntie Ena disappearing beneath the waves, and surfacing again, triumphant and with shrieks of laughter coming from the beach

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Well, that was the Summer Sunday Family Tradition! What about the Winter Sunday Family Tradition? I hear you ask!
In the winter, every Sunday evening the Àunts; Ena, Rene, Laurel and Mum took it in turn to host the Sunday Card Night. The ladies would get together around the table at 7.30 and play cards until their men folk turned up at about 10p.m. after the pubs kicked out. The cards were put away and the sandwiches, cake and tea were brought out and a feast ensued, one to which we were never invited! My memories of this are all from bed, we would be sent up before the cards started and then would lie there listening to them laughing, shrieking and calling each other a huge array of names, "You Mossy face," "You Faggot" "Damn you, you Bitch!" Etc. Etc. All in good humour, I hasten to add. After every hand of cards they would have an inquest in to what each had just done with their cards. "If you'd put your Queen on my three, I'd have been out earlier" "Why did you hold on to that seven of hearts?" "I wanted that eight of spades to go with my nine, you faggot" "Which of you blighters had the Ace of spades?"

And so it would go, all evening until the menfolk arrived. Then the cards would be packed away and the Clinking of tea cups and rattling of plates took over and the chattering and laughter would eventually send us to sleep until they all got up to go, the front door would be opened and closed, the cheerios and bye byes, the car doors banging, engines roaring in to life with uncle Ben's old banger backfiring as he drove off down the lane and off they went! Sleep once again washed over us!