Today I’m in Lowestoft, the place of my birth. I’ve come here to visit an event about the “Grit”, the lost village on the beach. When I was growing up this area was at the end of it’s life, it was a great playground though for us kids. The Grit or Beach village as it’s also known was the centre of the fishing industry, a real hub. It was swept away in the “improvements” of the area in the 1960s and the the whole area is now one vast ugly industrial estate. When I was born we lived in a house in the Grit called Bath House. I’m hoping to find out more about this building today and perhaps give some memories back. It seems only now when it’s too late that the significance of this area has been recognised so if I can do anything however small to keep the memory of this place alive, I’m going to try.
Unsurprisingly, this place is full of memories for me but it has changed so much it nearly brings me to tears. What was once grand Victorian buildings is now barren soulless open space. I met an old friend last night and we reminisced about his old house (Bow House) which was the go to place for us kids on rainy days. In its place is a dreadful car park that looks like every expense was spared in its construction. Just across the road from this point there stood the RSPCA centre, nothing more than a hut in fact and behind that an alleyway that ran through the to High street. This was never salubrious even back then but it’s still there and walking through there from my car to the High Street I was transported back in time. I took my time, taking in the surroundings that I had so often taken for granted, I wanted to see every inch, breathe in every smell and hear every sound. I paused for a minute and this 60 year old was 10 again, Saturday morning and off to the ABC to watch the films and cartoons.