I do recall that the compartment was stuffy, and Melanie’s father opened the windows on both sides. I spent much of the journey reading Lorna Doone, carried away with the romance of it all, and Melanie had her head buried in the latest copy of Jackie. Occasionally we sneaked glances at each other and pulled faces. Our parents sat quietly, Mother reading her Woman’s Weekly, Dad just puffing on his pipe, gazing out the window, woolgathering. Melanie’s parents had their heads bent over a crossword puzzle. It was all very Philip Larkin, the bicycle clips, the smell of warm carriage cloth, framed tourist scenes on the carriage walls: Torquay, Brighton, Sunny Prestatyn. Through Huddersfield and Hebden Bridge we chuffed and clanked, tall mill chimneys and the dark satanic mills themselves, many still functional at that time, then up into the Pennines we rolled. Rills trickled in deep green clefts down the hillsides. Here and there stood a brooding, isolated farmhouse. I wondered about the people who lived there. Made up stories about them. The magical world their children had discovered in a cave under the waterfall, the witch who lived in the cottage deep in the woods and kidnapped children who strayed too far into the shadows.

Before long we had left Preston behind and it was time to play “Spot the Tower.” You knew you were almost there when you could see Blackpool Tower, that smaller but nonetheless proud replica of the Eiffel Tower, in the distance. Melanie saw it first, and I was miffed. Usually it was me. I always had a feeling that my mother and father let me win, but there was no such indulgence with Melanie. Soon it was time for our fathers to heft the suitcases down from the luggage racks and our mothers to remind us not to forget anything. A few spots of rain streaked the grimy windows as we entered the outskirts of Blackpool, but that was all right. We could smell the sea air.

The rain didn’t last. In fact, I’m at a loss to remember whether it even materialized beyond those few stray drops. Whatever happened, I remember that first day was as sunny and bright as the rest of the days that first week. It must have rained, though. It always rains on seaside holidays. The summers of childhood were surely never as warm and sunny as I remember them.

So what did we do that first afternoon and evening? I don’t remember. Oh, I’m sure we went straight to the boardinghouse, found our rooms and unpacked. Perhaps it was already teatime. Melanie and I were sharing a room, which was all right with me, as we both liked to stay up late and read or listen to the pirate stations, if we could pick any up, or Radio Luxembourg on our trannies under the bedclothes.