Uncanny Tales – (013) It Happened on Northey Island

 

I can’t remember if it was the summer of seventy-one or seventy two when it happened but “Chirpy, chirpy, cheap, cheap,” was top of the pops at the time if that helps, not that it matters much to the story, it was certainly one or the other.
Whichever it was, it was the summer when the 6th Stevenage Scout Troup set off in a beat up white Ford Transit panel van heading for the wilds of Essex, sitting in the back on wooden benches, like the forms you get in school gyms, with not a seatbelt in sight and the benches weren’t even secured to the bulkhead.

No one with half a brain would dream of doing that today, not that the health and safety Gestapo would let you, but at the time it seemed quite natural and we didn't think twice about it.
We were camping in a farmer’s field for two weeks on Northey Island in the Blackwater estuary close to the town of Maldon.
It was a time when life still held infinite possibilities for our motley crew, Del, the Lawther brothers, Big Pete, Tiny Tears and a host of others whose names have been lost in the mists of my mind.
We were a mixed bunch and we did all the normal Scouty type stuff, pitching tents and digging latrines and that kind of thing and we had to make our own rudimentary cooker.

Each patrol took turns to be on kitchen duty, which included cooking and scrubbing the burnt on black of the saucepans.
One bright spark in our patrol had the idea that if you mixed washing up liquid and washing powder into a paste and spread it liberally onto the base of the saucepans it made them easier to clean afterwards.

What a load of old tosh that turned out to be, what it actually did was make the job twice as difficult as you had to chisel off the burnt remains of the washing paste as well as the normal blackness.
Apart from the usual land and water based activities we also went off on a couple of day trips, one of which was to Southend-on-Sea,

Which involved us all pilling into the back of the Transit and

We were a very unsophisticated bunch of lads so we had a great time by the sea, the Pier, “kiss me quick” hats, amusement arcades and of course the Kursaal.

The Kursaal was an amusement park, the first purpose built amusement park to open in Britain, which had an assortment of rides, like the Rotor and the Wild Mouse, The Cyclone and the Morehouse Galloper all very tame compared to today of course but we loved them.

Apart from the rides and amusements a day out in Southend gave us the opportunity to get some decent food down our necks while we were there.
Then we returned to the island having had a wonderful day out and turned in early.

In exchange for the farmer allowing us to camp in his field, which as I said was on an island, we were required to plant rice grass in the mud banks around the island.
The reason for this was that the Blackwater estuary was tidal water and when the tide was out there was just a great expanse of mud between the island and the mainland, save for a narrow channel.
Unfortunately for the farmer every time the tide went out it was taking some of his island with it, hence the need for the rice grass.
The idea being that the grass would bind the mud together and therefore prevent the island being slowly taken out to sea.
For our part we had to wade out into the mud at low tide up to our knees and plant the afore mentioned rice grass.
Of course the only problem with this plan was that when you put a group of under sixteen's up to their knees in mud the inevitable outcome was a mud fight and we didn’t disappoint.
At the end of the fight we were, without exception, all covered from head to toe in thick black slimy mud, it was fantastic.
After we finished the task of planting the grass we waded back to shore looking like a group of extras from “Swamp Thing”.
We then had the problem of getting clean, now we only had two options, the first one being to wait for the tide to come back in by which time the mud would have set hard or the second option which was to use water from the standpipe that stood in the corner of the field by the gate, which under normal circumstances was used to water the animals.
This we utilised to great effect taking it in turns to use a bucket filled from the tap to douse ourselves down.
I was the last one to go and after I had removed my trunks I stood tipping buckets of water over my head.

As I was the last to go, the mud had all but dried so I found it to be quite stubborn and I had to use several more buckets that everyone else.
But as I was emptying the final bucket over me and with my hands above my head I heard the sound of a vehicle.

I turned around to investigate and I saw a minibus full of Girl Guides drive slowly past the gate.
I had no time to cover my embarrassment or anything else for that matter so I did the only thing a Boy Scout could do under those circumstances, which was to drop the bucket and give the Scout salute.

They seemed quite impressed by this, they were smiling anyway and the Guide leader behind the wheel winked at me.

Two days later we were back in the Transit and heading back to Hertfordshire.

 

Post Script

I would like to take the opportunity to set the record straight in regard to an incident of which I was accused.

I can state categorically that I was not in any way responsible for melting the plimsolls belonging to “Tiny Tears” on the stovetop.

I do confess unreservedly that I laughed like a drain at the time because it was very funny to see the two red rubber footprints on the hot plate but it was not down to me.

It was bloody funny though.