Both my parents worked hard at their low paid jobs. My world was Redcar, having only one holiday abroad in Spain when I was 11 and what days out we did have, therefore are a bright memory that still burns bright.
Our grandparents supported my parents, my wonderful Nana and Grandad were steadfast in their duties to bring us up right, feed us wholesome food and teach us the value of life through family activities and gardening. My grandad stood out among the rest and, as is life, I never truly realised this until I lost him. My grandad was a wise and steady man. As far as my memory allows, I only ever remember him being fruitfully retired, filling his days with his garden, allotment and fulfilling any duties set out by his love, my Nana. Weekends and summers with them while my parents worked were bright and happy, even on the dull days. When the sun did shine, Nana and Grandad packed a picnic bag full of food, a blanket and a football and would tell us we are going to the Gare. Me and my brother would get excited, because the beaches and dunes were so fun, and the beach would be warm even though there was always a strong breeze off the point. We jumped in the car together, and watched out of the window while we made the short journey over to Warrenby. I remember the road always seemed so long back then because Grandad appreciated the journey, and he would slow down as he made the bend past the roundabout and started talking about ‘The Works’. Every time we made that meandering journey along the private road to the beach, Grandad spoke with continued interest in the works, sometimes speaking about his job there, but mostly it was about the work that takes place there and the landscape surrounding it. He would start by talking about the foxes and he pulled over by the first stretch of steel fencing where you get the first view of the blast and its surrounding buildings. We would sit for around 2 minutes in the car, just observing the vast land leading up to the works looking for foxes. I always remember the car feeling so still and feeling a buzz of expectation waiting to see if a fox would jump out from a low lying bush. Waiting and waiting, until Grandad put the car into gear and steadily pulled back out into the road and made his way to the next point. The next point was always the most interesting, as he gradually tried to look ahead to see if it was happening. He always made an extra manoeuvre when he spotted it, making sure we got the best view from the car. Grandad would line up as best he could to the dark, square tunnel that seemed to go straight back into the heart of the works. He would open the windows and we would be hit by an intense smell of sulphur, and watch in awe as molten hot liquid filled the torpedo. Grandad would explain everything about how steel was made and what happened to it once the torpedos were full. We watched from the car listening to the loud roar of the works as Nana reminded Grandad to quickly close the windows as a turbulence of wind would catch at the entrance of the tunnel and whip intense sulphuric wind in the direction of the car. It was then, once the car was full of that murky egg like smell, that we would continue our drive to the beach. As we pulled away from the entrance of the torpedo tunnel, Grandad reopened the windows to let the sea air back in and remind us of our destination. The remaining tinge of sulphur always encouraged Nana to make the decision to go further down, and go to the main beach on the right where the wind can carry away the smell of the works. The sand is still soft on that beach, almost white and light with the sharp grassy dunes to get lost in if you have little legs. The dull ache and movement of the blast no longer moves with the low lapping waves. When you walk down to the beach, you no longer get the thin remnants of the sulphuric grandeur of the works, but a brief and intense smell of dog waste as you pass a monument created by the community of dog walkers who still explore the land. Turns out a multi coloured wind break can’t help you escape any bad smells. Everything is still now and the wind coming off the point is sharp and empty. You could once never escape the low, reverberating hum of the Blast Furnace at South Gare, a constant vibration through the air and your body as you ran to the meet the sea. Its absence has brought peace to the beach, like the bad air has been sucked out of the room and you can suddenly hear the gulls, oyster catchers and swifts. Yet, I feel fuller thinking of my Nana and Grandad and those car journeys we took when the sun came out every summer. As the sun lowered in the sky, we packed up our things and we towelled off the sand and jumped back in the car. Meandering through the narrow dunes, watching the Blast Furnace lean closer, the noise grew once more and we slowed down again. This time, it would be to watch the torpedos dump the slag onto the land, slightly further away and protecting us from any unwanted smells. A day at the beach made this observation quiet and less dramatic, peaceful and short with little commentary. Our day had come to an end.
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AuthorKirsty O'Brien ArchivesCategories |