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Saturday 22 November 2008

On the beach

Jonathan Ray returns to the holiday haunt of his youth — Camber Sands

Mrs Ray had decided on a whim to go and sun herself in Morocco with her mate, Mrs Smith. I was left at home in Brighton with our boys — Ferdy, six, and Ludo, four — and told to get on with it.

To ensure that I bathed them at least once, Marina cunningly put soluble transfer tattoos on the chaps’ arms, explaining that if they were still there when she got back I’d be for it.

‘Just feed them, entertain them and keep them out of mischief,’ she shouted from the back of the departing taxi. ‘I’ll be back in a week.’

The boys were thrilled. ‘Yippee!’ shouted Ludo. ‘Ketchup sandwiches in front of the telly!’ As a treat/bribe for good behaviour, I promised them a trip to the happy haunt of my own childhood — Camber Sands, near Rye.

‘Does this mean,’ asked Ferdy slowly, not trusting himself to speak at normal speed, ‘that we’re going to stay in a h-o-t-e-l? A real HOTEL?!’

This was a first for the boys and, having just read Eloise in Moscow, they could barely contain themselves. Ludo ran to his room and packed his ‘suitcase’ (his plastic lunch box) and sat clutching it on the stairs, refusing to budge in case we left him behind. Ferdy kept asking what flavour ice-cream to expect.

Since this was a boys’ weekend, I asked my chum Mark (Mrs Smith’s abandoned husband) to join us, on the understanding that his seven-year-old daughter, Portia, agreed to be an honorary boy for 48 hours.

We set off in convoy, heading east along the Downs, through Hastings (‘The Birthplace of Television’) towards Romney Marsh.

‘Can we listen to the Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World, please?’ asked Ferdy, warming the cockles of his daddy’s heart. Despite Marina’s attempts to brainwash them with Jack Johnson, my boys have a healthy devotion for Led Zeppelin and we sang raucously along to Houses of the Holy and Led Zep IV.

‘“Rock and Roll” is the best song EVER,’ yelled Ludo.

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