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My Sand Life, My Pebble Life: A Memoir of a Childhood and the Sea
My sand life, my pebble life. My life measured out in tides, coming in and going out. My life measured out in games of trying to spot the sea first. My life measured out in the delicious and indulgent sadness that comes from leaving a holiday cottage for the last time and for the first time in several days it isn't raining, but at least the kids have had a great time and, let's face it, so have you.
Warm and darkly funny, this sublimely crafted book transports you (in a blue Ford Zephyr, with an AA route map, a granny in the back and a bingo hall on the horizon) to the world of childhoods by the sea. Specifically, Ian's memories of childhood: ones we'll all identify with – endless sunny days on the beach, done to a turn fish and chips, legendary games of cricket, tea and cakes and family crammed into a tiny caravan, holiday cottages that live forever, buckets of shells, a busted fishing net and enough sand to make a beach, with the tide out, way out…
In this nostalgic collection of reminiscences (with the odd poem thrown in) journey with Ian as he walks barefoot to the sea to see the sun rise. He is attacked by seagulls, and midges, and wasps. He eats a lot of fish and chips and it's always the best yet. He nearly avoids a frisbee. He searches for jazz in Scarborough. He walks. He even tries to run. But mostly he savours the sea and our seaside moments and our seaside dreams.
If you want a shot of salty sea air, a tussle with a seagull and the congenial companionship of someone described as 'relentlessly jolly' (The Guardian), this will be a joyous and moving read.
Warm and darkly funny, this sublimely crafted book transports you (in a blue Ford Zephyr, with an AA route map, a granny in the back and a bingo hall on the horizon) to the world of childhoods by the sea. Specifically, Ian's memories of childhood: ones we'll all identify with – endless sunny days on the beach, done to a turn fish and chips, legendary games of cricket, tea and cakes and family crammed into a tiny caravan, holiday cottages that live forever, buckets of shells, a busted fishing net and enough sand to make a beach, with the tide out, way out…
In this nostalgic collection of reminiscences (with the odd poem thrown in) journey with Ian as he walks barefoot to the sea to see the sun rise. He is attacked by seagulls, and midges, and wasps. He eats a lot of fish and chips and it's always the best yet. He nearly avoids a frisbee. He searches for jazz in Scarborough. He walks. He even tries to run. But mostly he savours the sea and our seaside moments and our seaside dreams.
If you want a shot of salty sea air, a tussle with a seagull and the congenial companionship of someone described as 'relentlessly jolly' (The Guardian), this will be a joyous and moving read.
- GenresNonfictionMemoir
176 pages, Hardcover
Published August 9, 2022
5 people are currently reading
80 people want to read
About the author
Ian McMillan
71 books18 followersIan McMillan is a British poet, journalist, playwright and broadcaster who has continued to live in Darfield.
McMillan graduated from North Staffordshire Polytechnic in 1978. He started performing on the live poetry circuit in the 1970s. He has had several volumes of poetry published for both adults and children. He is an enthusiastic advocate of poetry. In addition he has had journalism published in Q magazine, Mojo magazine and writes a weekly column in his home town's local newspaper, The Barnsley Chronicle''. He has the unique honour of being the first poet in residence to a football club, his hometown Barnsley FC.
His play Sister Josephine Kicks the Habit, based on the work of fellow Yorkshireman Jake Thackray premiered in 2005.
McMillan graduated from North Staffordshire Polytechnic in 1978. He started performing on the live poetry circuit in the 1970s. He has had several volumes of poetry published for both adults and children. He is an enthusiastic advocate of poetry. In addition he has had journalism published in Q magazine, Mojo magazine and writes a weekly column in his home town's local newspaper, The Barnsley Chronicle''. He has the unique honour of being the first poet in residence to a football club, his hometown Barnsley FC.
His play Sister Josephine Kicks the Habit, based on the work of fellow Yorkshireman Jake Thackray premiered in 2005.
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Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews
May 15, 2022
There’s no question that Yorkshireman Ian McMillan is a great story teller and poet, giving live performances throughout the UK to appreciative audiences.
In his memoir, he regales us with a nostalgic collection of holiday reminiscences (with the odd poem thrown in). Journey with Ian as he walks barefoot along many of the UK’s beaches, one of which is at Beadnell Bay in Northumberland, still one of his favourites today. Coincidentally, whilst reading this memoir, I had a stunning view of that very beach whilst on holiday, gazing at those very sand dunes of which he was waxing lyrical!
He also reminisces about childhood holidays - endless sunny days on the beach, done to a turn fish and chips, legendary games of cricket, tea and cakes, and the family crammed into a tiny caravan, holiday cottages that live forever, buckets of shells, a busted fishing net and enough sand to make a beach, with the tide out, way out.
Some great recollections of seaside holidays, some amusing, others deeply emotional, and as I leave my own footprints in the sand at Beadnell Bay, long after the sea has stolen Ian’s, I reflect that although these footprints may be temporary, the memories can’t be washed away with the tide, no one can steal them from us eh Ian?
*Thank you to Netgalley and Bloomsbury Publishing plc ( UK and ANZ) for an ARC in exchange for an honest unbiased review *
In his memoir, he regales us with a nostalgic collection of holiday reminiscences (with the odd poem thrown in). Journey with Ian as he walks barefoot along many of the UK’s beaches, one of which is at Beadnell Bay in Northumberland, still one of his favourites today. Coincidentally, whilst reading this memoir, I had a stunning view of that very beach whilst on holiday, gazing at those very sand dunes of which he was waxing lyrical!
He also reminisces about childhood holidays - endless sunny days on the beach, done to a turn fish and chips, legendary games of cricket, tea and cakes, and the family crammed into a tiny caravan, holiday cottages that live forever, buckets of shells, a busted fishing net and enough sand to make a beach, with the tide out, way out.
Some great recollections of seaside holidays, some amusing, others deeply emotional, and as I leave my own footprints in the sand at Beadnell Bay, long after the sea has stolen Ian’s, I reflect that although these footprints may be temporary, the memories can’t be washed away with the tide, no one can steal them from us eh Ian?
*Thank you to Netgalley and Bloomsbury Publishing plc ( UK and ANZ) for an ARC in exchange for an honest unbiased review *
June 9, 2022
From Blackpool to Cleethorpes to Cornwall to Llandudno and Scarborough, the 'Bard of Barnsley', Ian McMillan reminisces on holidays of childhood and of more recent times. Into the bargain there are a few poems especially on the seasons which are really good and I especially like the one that rounds the book off. Ian's poetry is always a pleasure and is very accessible.
I knew I'd enjoy this as I've had the pleasure of listening to Ian's thoughts and his poetry on several occasions and he has never failed to entertain and makes his audience laugh. So much resonates as his non linear memories takes the reader to places that are familiar and loved which he describes so aptly as 'earworms of the soul' such is the sentimental attachment. It's witty, funny and vivid and so colourfully written that you can picture the scenes, feel the wind and the heat of the sun and the sand between your toes. Ian and his family are such pleasant companions on this memory trip, I especially like the portrayal of his father and his mother in law who at the ripe old age of 92 is still gamely and enthusiastically going to her much loved Cleethorpes caravan. You can hear Ian's dulcet Barnsley tones echoing through the writing as he uses fantastically creative turns of phrase that are so perfectly apt.
This is highly entertaining as you travel on this wonderful journey of memories written in his own inimitable style. The magic of family holidays, the magic and lure of the sea and our equally magical coast. It's laugh out loud on occasions and a bit emotional at others. I can't wait until my next sand/pebble life experience!
With thanks to NetGalley and especially to Bloomsbury Publishing PLC for the much appreciated arc in return for an honest review.
I knew I'd enjoy this as I've had the pleasure of listening to Ian's thoughts and his poetry on several occasions and he has never failed to entertain and makes his audience laugh. So much resonates as his non linear memories takes the reader to places that are familiar and loved which he describes so aptly as 'earworms of the soul' such is the sentimental attachment. It's witty, funny and vivid and so colourfully written that you can picture the scenes, feel the wind and the heat of the sun and the sand between your toes. Ian and his family are such pleasant companions on this memory trip, I especially like the portrayal of his father and his mother in law who at the ripe old age of 92 is still gamely and enthusiastically going to her much loved Cleethorpes caravan. You can hear Ian's dulcet Barnsley tones echoing through the writing as he uses fantastically creative turns of phrase that are so perfectly apt.
This is highly entertaining as you travel on this wonderful journey of memories written in his own inimitable style. The magic of family holidays, the magic and lure of the sea and our equally magical coast. It's laugh out loud on occasions and a bit emotional at others. I can't wait until my next sand/pebble life experience!
With thanks to NetGalley and especially to Bloomsbury Publishing PLC for the much appreciated arc in return for an honest review.
May 18, 2022
Ian McMillan’s “My Sand Life, My Pebble Life” is a charming and enriching collection of prose and poetry in the form of a memoir, as the author shares his reminiscences of holidays past (and present). The book evoked my own vivid memories of childhood family holidays at the beach, way back in the day.
By turns both poignant and funny, this is a memoir full of magic, nostalgia and the impermanence of time.
By turns both poignant and funny, this is a memoir full of magic, nostalgia and the impermanence of time.
July 5, 2022
A charming collection of nostalgic nonfiction about the seaside.
Perhaps the summer sun has me in a lovely daze, but I found My Sand Life, My Pebble Life an utter delight. Not every memoir essay struck a chord with me, and the poetry had less impact than the prose, but McMillan's writing style remained very appealing throughout. There is a broad Yorkshire accent in these sentences that I found tremendously comforting and his lyrical description always took me pleasantly by surprise. It occurs to me that McMillan has a similar breathless optimism to Ray Bradbury, but with a touch of Northern realism that keeps metaphors from getting too lofty.
The backstory of this book seems to be that McMillan was intending to write a book while drifting along the coastline, but then the 2020 lockdown happened. Subsequently the poet was forced to re-tread the beaches of his memory. Though it's unfortunate that he couldn't fulfil the book's original spec, I am so glad it led to My Sand Life, My Pebble Life. Going backwards and forwards in time was much more fun for me than a poetic interpretation of UK beaches promised to be. This more insular beach walk is infused with McMillan's uplifting personality and even family history. Your opinion on McMillan and his jolly Yorkshire outlook is essential to how you will receive this book.
I certainly enjoyed riffling these pages, feeling the sand between my fingertips and watching the sun set on the sea through a friendly poet's words. If you should need a book to restore your summer spirit and encourage you back to the shoreline, I highly recommend My Sand Life, My Pebble Life.
Notable Stories
• Jazz and Bells and Early Morning Coffee – ‘Dawn was lighting a one-bar electric fire over the sea.’ – a musical insight into McMillan’s teenage eccentricity.
• Like a Statue – ‘My dad joined the Royal Navy in 1937 when he was eighteen, and left in 1958 because they offered him a desk job but you can’t sail a desk.’ – a haunting childhood remembrance of his father’s Navy honour.
• You’ll Write a Poem About That – ‘I’ll make notes and have a run-up and maybe a high jump or two into a couple of lines; the notes will be incoherent and inchoate and anybody stumbling across them, once they’ve wiped the gull poo and the chip grease away, will find something that looks like a half-formed shopping list or a prescription for corn plasters.’ – a gratifying account of the struggle to turn a moment that should be a poem into an actual poem.
Perhaps the summer sun has me in a lovely daze, but I found My Sand Life, My Pebble Life an utter delight. Not every memoir essay struck a chord with me, and the poetry had less impact than the prose, but McMillan's writing style remained very appealing throughout. There is a broad Yorkshire accent in these sentences that I found tremendously comforting and his lyrical description always took me pleasantly by surprise. It occurs to me that McMillan has a similar breathless optimism to Ray Bradbury, but with a touch of Northern realism that keeps metaphors from getting too lofty.
The backstory of this book seems to be that McMillan was intending to write a book while drifting along the coastline, but then the 2020 lockdown happened. Subsequently the poet was forced to re-tread the beaches of his memory. Though it's unfortunate that he couldn't fulfil the book's original spec, I am so glad it led to My Sand Life, My Pebble Life. Going backwards and forwards in time was much more fun for me than a poetic interpretation of UK beaches promised to be. This more insular beach walk is infused with McMillan's uplifting personality and even family history. Your opinion on McMillan and his jolly Yorkshire outlook is essential to how you will receive this book.
I certainly enjoyed riffling these pages, feeling the sand between my fingertips and watching the sun set on the sea through a friendly poet's words. If you should need a book to restore your summer spirit and encourage you back to the shoreline, I highly recommend My Sand Life, My Pebble Life.
Notable Stories
• Jazz and Bells and Early Morning Coffee – ‘Dawn was lighting a one-bar electric fire over the sea.’ – a musical insight into McMillan’s teenage eccentricity.
• Like a Statue – ‘My dad joined the Royal Navy in 1937 when he was eighteen, and left in 1958 because they offered him a desk job but you can’t sail a desk.’ – a haunting childhood remembrance of his father’s Navy honour.
• You’ll Write a Poem About That – ‘I’ll make notes and have a run-up and maybe a high jump or two into a couple of lines; the notes will be incoherent and inchoate and anybody stumbling across them, once they’ve wiped the gull poo and the chip grease away, will find something that looks like a half-formed shopping list or a prescription for corn plasters.’ – a gratifying account of the struggle to turn a moment that should be a poem into an actual poem.
July 15, 2024
Hmm this turned out to be an imperfect fit for me.
Ian McMillan's book reminded me of being cornered in the pub by the old dude who never shuts up and wants to regale you with every "funny story" he's ever known!
I was expecting a a real emphasis on nature and outdoor aspects of the sea- beaches, wildlife, birds, rock pools etc. Instead we get Blackpool, pissing about with mates and lots of eating fish and chips! I don't think I was ready for a childhood of I do like to be beside the seaside! Oh and Covid and lockdown and Covid! No, no more!
Not the direction or focus I was expecting and therefore disappointing.
2 stars and that's being generous.
Ian McMillan's book reminded me of being cornered in the pub by the old dude who never shuts up and wants to regale you with every "funny story" he's ever known!
I was expecting a a real emphasis on nature and outdoor aspects of the sea- beaches, wildlife, birds, rock pools etc. Instead we get Blackpool, pissing about with mates and lots of eating fish and chips! I don't think I was ready for a childhood of I do like to be beside the seaside! Oh and Covid and lockdown and Covid! No, no more!
Not the direction or focus I was expecting and therefore disappointing.
2 stars and that's being generous.
May 12, 2022
It was only while reading Ian MacMillan's brilliant memoir that it suddenly struck me. Whenever we went on holiday, my Mum and Dad always chose to take us to the coast - Tenby, Blackpool, Hayling Island and Hayle in Cornwall were just some of those places - and yet, we grew up in Aberystwyth.
The pull of the sea, the sand, the pebbles was obviously too great. Earlier, we had lived in Llanrhystud, where in the long summer holidays nearly the whole village walked in single file down the narrow mile long road to the beach, the shouts of "Car!" the only thing to halt our progress.
I was captivated by Ian's book - I felt as though the sand was between my own toes. I could hear his voice throughout, but just about resisted lapsing into a poor impression while reading the stories aloud to my wife. We laughed a lot.
I also loved the poems, which were the extra flake on top.
The pull of the sea, the sand, the pebbles was obviously too great. Earlier, we had lived in Llanrhystud, where in the long summer holidays nearly the whole village walked in single file down the narrow mile long road to the beach, the shouts of "Car!" the only thing to halt our progress.
I was captivated by Ian's book - I felt as though the sand was between my own toes. I could hear his voice throughout, but just about resisted lapsing into a poor impression while reading the stories aloud to my wife. We laughed a lot.
I also loved the poems, which were the extra flake on top.
June 5, 2022
I really like the front cover , the colours and the beach , the title really drawn me to the book before I read the blurb. My sand life , my pebble is poetry , prose and is told by memoir. Ian McMillan reflects on his childhood experience through the seaside and his and his family love of cleethorpes. I really like some of Ian words for instance “ somehow the tear rolls out of the room snd trickles down the road or across the ship and drips into the water, where it becomes part of the sea. I think that’s so lovely and is my favourite quote. Thank you NetGalley for letting me read this book.
June 29, 2022
A slim and beautiful volume, this book turned out not to be the quick read I had predicted. The original concept was for something of a travelogue but the Covid pandemic meant that the book is mainly constructed of a Barnsley man mining his memory for past experiences of coastal holidays. I'm glad he and the publishers went ahead rather than waiting, I suspect the book is all the richer for the passage of time and poignancy.
The poems, much as I loved the ideas of seasons, and of looking at the points of the compass, proved to be the least resonant element of the book for me. The rest, peerlessly crafted, reeled me in instantly, making me moist eyed (and not solely for reasons of presently heightened Barnsley-related sentimentality) and then laughing out loud. I'm fortunate not to have experienced a level of trauma that would leave me seeing his accounts of family life - his own growing up and with his own children and grandchildren - with envious cynicism. Well, not much. McMillan likes Cleethorpes (which features heavily) better than I do - for me it is somewhere to search desperately for food on the way to wilder and more seal-rich coast further on. He is, of course, bound to Cleethorpes for practical family reasons. He has a whole piece in the book about being described as 'relentlessly jolly' but he is absolutely not one of the toxic positive and you sense that his enjoyment is never more than half due to the entirely reasonable anticipation of being able to turn experiences into writing for money, and mostly much much less. Some experiences have done double duty as there are a few pieces on making segments for the Coast TV programme, and some of his touring with Tony Husband (cartoonist) and Luke Carver Goss (musician), both of which performances I've had the good fortune to see. I would also say that a familiarity with his work and life - the common sadnesses and uncommon tragedies which underpin so much here, only implicitly expressed, adds an extra layer of appreciation, but like his mother-in- law's Christmas cake, it does not need that icing.
The book is like a small suitcase crammed full of richness, little that could be left out. There's such a delicate and implicit description of family relationships which is not that of the weekly family life columnist. There are many references to the transition from child to teenager and onwards and, whilst he doesn't say so explicitly I don't think, I feel he has rightly hit upon the significance of beach town holidays as markers. I'm thinking of the bodily metamorphoses, the changing interests and distractions and the relationships. The format of the book as a series of short pieces emphasises this - in one piece he's away as a child with his brother and parents and then there are several where his seven years older brother doesn't feature. There's been no attempt to arrange the pieces chronologically - if it would have been better that way, I didn't feel aware of it.
I'm guessing one might wonder if a diagnostic label could be applied to his inability to drive or ride a bike (he fares little better in a rowing boat in the book) but there are some attitudinal quirks which perhaps grate a little - his perspectives on dogs and running. But it's not the beach if you don't get a bit of grit in your sandwiches.
The poems, much as I loved the ideas of seasons, and of looking at the points of the compass, proved to be the least resonant element of the book for me. The rest, peerlessly crafted, reeled me in instantly, making me moist eyed (and not solely for reasons of presently heightened Barnsley-related sentimentality) and then laughing out loud. I'm fortunate not to have experienced a level of trauma that would leave me seeing his accounts of family life - his own growing up and with his own children and grandchildren - with envious cynicism. Well, not much. McMillan likes Cleethorpes (which features heavily) better than I do - for me it is somewhere to search desperately for food on the way to wilder and more seal-rich coast further on. He is, of course, bound to Cleethorpes for practical family reasons. He has a whole piece in the book about being described as 'relentlessly jolly' but he is absolutely not one of the toxic positive and you sense that his enjoyment is never more than half due to the entirely reasonable anticipation of being able to turn experiences into writing for money, and mostly much much less. Some experiences have done double duty as there are a few pieces on making segments for the Coast TV programme, and some of his touring with Tony Husband (cartoonist) and Luke Carver Goss (musician), both of which performances I've had the good fortune to see. I would also say that a familiarity with his work and life - the common sadnesses and uncommon tragedies which underpin so much here, only implicitly expressed, adds an extra layer of appreciation, but like his mother-in- law's Christmas cake, it does not need that icing.
The book is like a small suitcase crammed full of richness, little that could be left out. There's such a delicate and implicit description of family relationships which is not that of the weekly family life columnist. There are many references to the transition from child to teenager and onwards and, whilst he doesn't say so explicitly I don't think, I feel he has rightly hit upon the significance of beach town holidays as markers. I'm thinking of the bodily metamorphoses, the changing interests and distractions and the relationships. The format of the book as a series of short pieces emphasises this - in one piece he's away as a child with his brother and parents and then there are several where his seven years older brother doesn't feature. There's been no attempt to arrange the pieces chronologically - if it would have been better that way, I didn't feel aware of it.
I'm guessing one might wonder if a diagnostic label could be applied to his inability to drive or ride a bike (he fares little better in a rowing boat in the book) but there are some attitudinal quirks which perhaps grate a little - his perspectives on dogs and running. But it's not the beach if you don't get a bit of grit in your sandwiches.
June 4, 2022
It was a fascinating, nostalgic, poignant and often funny book that made me smile and think about my holidays when i was a child.
Different places but something in common and the author did an excellent job is telling about time pasts, emotions, and experiences.
As he's an excellent storytelling this read was a treat.
Highly recommended.
Many thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for this ARC, all opinions are mine
Different places but something in common and the author did an excellent job is telling about time pasts, emotions, and experiences.
As he's an excellent storytelling this read was a treat.
Highly recommended.
Many thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for this ARC, all opinions are mine
July 9, 2023
I read my signed copy by the sea in Scarborough, and it made me happy! I love the sea, and this book was the perfect complement to deckchair fish and chips with seagulls.
July 5, 2022
What a wonderful read. So evocative of British seaside holidays with their inevitable weather-caused ups and downs.
June 15, 2022
Everyone knows that the only proper sort of holiday is a seaside one. Short city breaks and isolated country retreats ("There were only cows for miles!") can be very pleasant, but they don't pass muster as actual fun vacations, as any child could testify; what, there are just fields? An' trees?? Nobody ever built a successful grasscastle, or dug channels in the woods to watch the leaves flow. Sure a field of wheat waving in a strong breeze looks and sounds reassuringly like the sea, but you can't accidentally drench your shoes in it.
If it's going to be a proper holiday, there has to be a beach. And it has to be a proper sand beach too, because pebble beaches don't count (nobody ever built a decent pebblecastle either). There must also be: an ice cream van; fish and chips; shops selling absolute tat; accommodation of long and uncertain provenance. Ian McMillan knows all this, because he has set it all down beautifully in this slim volume of collected reminiscences and tall tales that shuck off the murky patina of cliched nostalgia.
When I was a child, seaside holidays meant, first and foremost, Bournemouth, to which we returned year after year in the way that dedicated seasiding families often do. We stayed in spacious flats that were part of large Victorian villas set discreetly back from the road among the Chines, and we walked down seemingly endless (to an impatient, beach-thirsting child) quiet, pine-shaded lanes towards the sea. But one year, it meant St Ives in Cornwall, which was probably the Best Holiday Ever, although we never went again because it was such a long drive from Warrington. We stayed on the ground floor of one of those huge old houses that line Carbis Bay, which put one in mind of The Camomile Lawn and which are probably now so exclusive you can't even glance at them unless you're a millionaire, and every night a tame seagull we nicknamed "Fred" would tap on the rear window expecting to be fed pieces of almond slice by whoever was staying that week.
Then again, in '88 we went to Saundersfoot, which was the Worst Seaside Holiday Ever. It was grey and intermittently rainy all week, and our accommodation was cold and sepulchral inside. "Springfields" was full of heavy, dark, musty old furniture and decor, reeking of the chapel, Methodism and temperance. Dad developed persistent sinus pain, and spent most of the week nursing his head indoors in the gloom, not wanting to make his usual sortées around the environs, so I was reduced to taking solitary walks down to the harbour and along the coast several times a day to relieve the boredom, where I signally failed to amuse myself or get into any teenage scrapes as an irresponsible 18 year old should. I've nursed a grudge against Saundersfoot ever since, and resolutely failed to view it in any good light whatsoever. That was the only year we came home early. (The chapter entitled "The Snake In The Bed" opens with, "My mother and my dad and I had put our suitcases down in the family room in the guest house in the small coastal town. The furniture was chocolate brown and heavy. The wardrobe gave me nightmares that week ... There was a fold-up bed for me in the corner near a vast chest of drawers; I opened one of the drawers and there was a sock in it, and a set of playing cards." So Ian McMillan obviously stayed there too!)
But somehow Saundersfoot is geographically proximate to magical Tenby, where I took my own family in 2009 and we had our own Best Holiday Ever. The kids had just turned old enough to revel in the simple joys of playing on the sands. The sun shone every day as we walked over the hill into town, to frolic on the beach all day long, and I lost about a stone in weight just from all this invigoration. It was so good, we went back the following year, but now the kids had become blasé to it all and they acted up, and we didn't really play with them much on the beach this time because it was hard work this time, and anyway the weather wasn't good enough to go every day. You can't simply rewind and press play on holidays. But at least we'll always have that first, glorious time (and all the photos from it, so many photos, so many infant smiles).
McMillan captures all this, the comforting aspects of every jolly, marvellous, un/predictable, miserable or ruined but utterly typical British seaside holiday you've ever known, in language that is by turns amusing, enchanting, sobering, refreshing or surreal but never tired or over-familiar. In a series of disconnected vignettes, he relates his own history along the coast through memories that range from early childhood to last year's tentative post-lockdown returns, in a way that will have you recalling days out from your own memories and eagerly planning new ones. As a poet, he has a knack for the turn of phrase or simile that's entirely novel and yet makes you think, "Yes, just so." As a northerner, he knows the life-giving value of good pie.
Perhaps many of us are forever vainly hankering to return to those salad days on the sands; this book may be the best time machine you can hop in right now to get you back there.
If it's going to be a proper holiday, there has to be a beach. And it has to be a proper sand beach too, because pebble beaches don't count (nobody ever built a decent pebblecastle either). There must also be: an ice cream van; fish and chips; shops selling absolute tat; accommodation of long and uncertain provenance. Ian McMillan knows all this, because he has set it all down beautifully in this slim volume of collected reminiscences and tall tales that shuck off the murky patina of cliched nostalgia.
When I was a child, seaside holidays meant, first and foremost, Bournemouth, to which we returned year after year in the way that dedicated seasiding families often do. We stayed in spacious flats that were part of large Victorian villas set discreetly back from the road among the Chines, and we walked down seemingly endless (to an impatient, beach-thirsting child) quiet, pine-shaded lanes towards the sea. But one year, it meant St Ives in Cornwall, which was probably the Best Holiday Ever, although we never went again because it was such a long drive from Warrington. We stayed on the ground floor of one of those huge old houses that line Carbis Bay, which put one in mind of The Camomile Lawn and which are probably now so exclusive you can't even glance at them unless you're a millionaire, and every night a tame seagull we nicknamed "Fred" would tap on the rear window expecting to be fed pieces of almond slice by whoever was staying that week.
Then again, in '88 we went to Saundersfoot, which was the Worst Seaside Holiday Ever. It was grey and intermittently rainy all week, and our accommodation was cold and sepulchral inside. "Springfields" was full of heavy, dark, musty old furniture and decor, reeking of the chapel, Methodism and temperance. Dad developed persistent sinus pain, and spent most of the week nursing his head indoors in the gloom, not wanting to make his usual sortées around the environs, so I was reduced to taking solitary walks down to the harbour and along the coast several times a day to relieve the boredom, where I signally failed to amuse myself or get into any teenage scrapes as an irresponsible 18 year old should. I've nursed a grudge against Saundersfoot ever since, and resolutely failed to view it in any good light whatsoever. That was the only year we came home early. (The chapter entitled "The Snake In The Bed" opens with, "My mother and my dad and I had put our suitcases down in the family room in the guest house in the small coastal town. The furniture was chocolate brown and heavy. The wardrobe gave me nightmares that week ... There was a fold-up bed for me in the corner near a vast chest of drawers; I opened one of the drawers and there was a sock in it, and a set of playing cards." So Ian McMillan obviously stayed there too!)
But somehow Saundersfoot is geographically proximate to magical Tenby, where I took my own family in 2009 and we had our own Best Holiday Ever. The kids had just turned old enough to revel in the simple joys of playing on the sands. The sun shone every day as we walked over the hill into town, to frolic on the beach all day long, and I lost about a stone in weight just from all this invigoration. It was so good, we went back the following year, but now the kids had become blasé to it all and they acted up, and we didn't really play with them much on the beach this time because it was hard work this time, and anyway the weather wasn't good enough to go every day. You can't simply rewind and press play on holidays. But at least we'll always have that first, glorious time (and all the photos from it, so many photos, so many infant smiles).
McMillan captures all this, the comforting aspects of every jolly, marvellous, un/predictable, miserable or ruined but utterly typical British seaside holiday you've ever known, in language that is by turns amusing, enchanting, sobering, refreshing or surreal but never tired or over-familiar. In a series of disconnected vignettes, he relates his own history along the coast through memories that range from early childhood to last year's tentative post-lockdown returns, in a way that will have you recalling days out from your own memories and eagerly planning new ones. As a poet, he has a knack for the turn of phrase or simile that's entirely novel and yet makes you think, "Yes, just so." As a northerner, he knows the life-giving value of good pie.
Perhaps many of us are forever vainly hankering to return to those salad days on the sands; this book may be the best time machine you can hop in right now to get you back there.
July 12, 2022
3.5 Ian McMillan is good at getting me to chuckle and also provides a lump in my throat now and again. I find though that there is a little too much filling with repetition and flights of silly fancy at times in this book. The poems disappointed me for some reason. However I think I am as sentimental as he is and there he struck a chord.The souvenir pencil, his doughty mother-in-law and the novelty cruet sets stand out for me. Especially the cruet sets. We as a family had a rare holiday to Cayton Bay (between Scarborough and Filey) and as kids our eyes popped as we found a lady with no clothes on and salt and pepper pots as a certain part of her anatomy in the shop full of slightly dodgy postcards and glorious tat just before you decended a steep hill to the beach. My Dad who I don't really remember interacting with us much (we couldn't compete with the lure of the betting shop or pub) made us laugh by shouting salt and pepper each step we took down the hill all the way down to the sea and in fact the rest of the holiday much to our delight. In fact it became a very similar family legend much like some of Ian's in this book.
July 29, 2022
Nostalgia in waves, brought in on a fresh breeze redolent with the tang of salt and vinegar and sizzling with memories like freshly cooked fish n chips.
I am someone who grew up with many a summer holiday wrapped against the British weather on a chilly beach, taking home pebbles souvenirs and ice cream stained t-shirts. I am now firmly ensconced in the coast-less West Midlands. This book was a joy. Ian McMillan beautifully casts the sea, the coastline and his memories to a nostalgic narrative.
A plethora of evocative short chapters, full of meanderings and roamings, poetic musings and well described events, taking us on an all coastlines beach express reminiscence of holidays gone by in wonderful Britain-by-the-Sea. From Cleethorpes to Alnmouth, Llandudno to Skye and beach destinations beyond.
I'm packing my suitcase now. And a large knitted cardigan, woolly hat, flask of tea and my shorts and sun cream. Just in case.
Wonderful.
I am someone who grew up with many a summer holiday wrapped against the British weather on a chilly beach, taking home pebbles souvenirs and ice cream stained t-shirts. I am now firmly ensconced in the coast-less West Midlands. This book was a joy. Ian McMillan beautifully casts the sea, the coastline and his memories to a nostalgic narrative.
A plethora of evocative short chapters, full of meanderings and roamings, poetic musings and well described events, taking us on an all coastlines beach express reminiscence of holidays gone by in wonderful Britain-by-the-Sea. From Cleethorpes to Alnmouth, Llandudno to Skye and beach destinations beyond.
I'm packing my suitcase now. And a large knitted cardigan, woolly hat, flask of tea and my shorts and sun cream. Just in case.
Wonderful.
September 6, 2022
This book was supposed to be written while touring the coastline, but then covid happened. Instead it became a book of seaside, mostly family, memories. There was the excitement of taking his 92 year old MIL back to her caravan after so many covid lockdowns, and everyone having pie and tea like they used to.
It was a bit repetitive but seemed to fit my interest in aquatic/nature writing. I've never had a family seaside vacation so this was of interest.
"I remember now: memory is like an eroding coastline."
"Someone caught in the light, held in someone else's narrative."
3.5
Cambridgeshire library
It was a bit repetitive but seemed to fit my interest in aquatic/nature writing. I've never had a family seaside vacation so this was of interest.
"I remember now: memory is like an eroding coastline."
"Someone caught in the light, held in someone else's narrative."
3.5
Cambridgeshire library
July 9, 2022
This book brought back fond memories of my own childhood growing up by the sea and was the perfect book to read during the summer. McMillan's writing is beautiful and lyrical, and really immersive.
Thank you to the publisher, author and NetGalley for sending me this arc.
Thank you to the publisher, author and NetGalley for sending me this arc.
July 29, 2022
50 or so vignettes which are full of absurdity, quirkiness and warmth.
March 5, 2023
A collection of short essays and poems recalling memories of the coast. I like Ian McMillan's style of writing. Some of the later ones had me laughing out loud
March 26, 2024
Really relaxing read to dip in and out of. I'm not a huge poetry fan so it was nice to have something longer by the Bard of Barnsley.
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