The Hill.
Im standing at the top of Castle gate near the old castle doors looking over the old coastguards cottages and over the wonderful vista that is Scarborough south bay, still as yet unspoiled by scarborough councils .Its early in the morning and there is a slight frost on the gravestones and surrounding grass edges.
Here comes the sun, showing its bright edge over the horizon and bringing a wonderful “curtain up” to another day, like the star of the show appearing from the back of this amazing stage she knows The earlier lighting display was only to announce her arrival.
Now that the she has arrived, its time to drop down the hill onto the harbour side and find a place for an early breakfast.
This hill, from the castle gates down half a mile of steep incline with many curves, was our toboggan run in winter snows. Despite the attempts of the shopkeeper half way down to “stop those blooming ooligans we could attain enough speed to skate across the barrier of fire ashes he would strew across the road way.
Ah what a variety of toboggans we built, mostly from fish boxes or the wood originally destined to be, made into “crab pot bottoms” but now with saw and hammer and a few straightened fish box nails turned into a thing of beauty.
The steel runners, if one was lucky enough to have them, came from herring barrel hoops or the odd busted beer barrel, every sled showing the ingenuity of the builder.
All indulging a need for speed and danger, for danger there certainly was, on this cobble stoned sleigh run.
A quick three sixty degree turn, often followed b a few yards along the ground without the benefit of the sledge, many a trouser arse were left here! along the front of the Newcastle Packet pub.brought the reality that one had survive another dice with danger (other sledges, perhaps slower or faster than yours, people pulling back up the hill, grown ups shouting and Mr. Evans’s barrier of ashes, none had managed to stop the dash down the run, everything blurred into one or two crazy exiting minutes.
The top section being a drop of one in six and a tight right hand blind bend. Once off and running, the only way was down, accompanied by loud screams from the girls and “Ey-up lookout” from the pilots of these speedy, only part controlled, missiles.
Oh yes! Fear rode with us on the trip down but it was no match for the sheer excitement of the bumping gut wrenching bucking bronco’s we rode down the hill onto the sea front. Sitting or lying flat, the choice was yours to make, no crash helmets or body amour here. Wellies, a fisherman’s smock and maybe some woolly gloves with the finger ends cut off for more grip.
The better constructed sleds could achieve fifty miles an hour on the run down to the bottom curve a sharp right-hander which, if negotiated successfully took the slewing careening machine onto the final hill down through Tuthill a narrow steep street onto the harbour side.
Sixty years ago ! Where did all those years go? I smile when i think YES I I was one of THOSE BLOODY KIDS!!!
OH Yes! I feel the madness of that run as if it were yesterday…while the Lexus; with the luxury of brakes.. takes me down the same run at a more civilised pace.; is it realy sixty years?.
pete skipper
