Those of us of a certain age often remark how summers were sunnier and warmer when we were young. Well, I certainly don’t ever remember owning a summer coat as a child - we’d just put on a cardigan or jumper. There was a sense of freedom about going out without a coat, and the weather generally allowed it.I couldn’t wait for the six-week school holiday, particularly during long hot summers. The children of the neighbourhood played on the park, or we’d go for adventure walks, sometimes taking a simple picnic, and play out stories from Enid Blyton’s “The Famous Five”. We’d join in street games - but any chalking of paths had to be removed, out of respect for our  neighbours. One heatwave summer, we had great fun running around barefoot on the ‘liquorice’ road. Nearby roads and pavements had been given a new coating of tarmac, which melted in the heat. We were all in trouble on returning home with tar on our feet – not the easiest to remove!

Living close to a railway line, I would wake to the sound of shunting in the goods yard. During the school holidays, the highlight was the 11.30am ‘big train’ – the ‘double header’ - a long train pulled by two steam locomotives on its journey to Newcastle. We would rush to the wall and wave to the drivers and passengers. The annual Sunday School trip took us from Headingley Station to Burley-in-Wharfedale, joining children from their Methodist Chapel, for games and a picnic on the riverbank. As our parents collected us from the station later, our eyes would be smarting and stinging from leaning out of the train windows and being met with smoke and soot from the engine!
 
In the 1950s, my family were lucky to have a car. It took us from A to B – on most occasions. Many a time the car wouldn’t start, or it would stall. Dad would have to crank it with the starting handle. On a visit to Saltburn, the hot day erupted into a terrific thunderstorm; torrential rain poured through the roof of our little car. We had to catch the rainwater in cups, throwing it out of the windows. Another vehicle was a Jowett Bradford van, with a bus seat in the back. Dad would lift out the seat onto the grass for picnics by the river at Bolton Abbey or Burnsall.

A seaside excursion could take around three hours each way, with the inevitable traffic jam through Malton -
or queueing for the Selby toll bridge on the way to Bridlington. On a hot day the car would be stifling, so we’d wind the windows down. This often attracted wasps, so we couldn’t win! Fearful of us breaking down, Dad would try to avoid long hills going to the coast, but coming home he would switch off the engine – saving petrol, which was still rationed – and freewheel down Garrowby Hill!

When visiting Morecambe or St Annes (“more select than Blackpool” Mum would say) we always stopped at the market gardeners en route to buy those wonderful Blackpool tomatoes. In 1953, we had our first caravan holiday at Filey’s Primrose Valley. The smell of Calor gas clung to your clothes, even after returning home. The caravan being next to the perimeter fence of ‘Butlins’, we heard all the Tannoy announcements: from “Morning Campers!” to the day’s imminent activities. I loved our holiday in a converted railway carriage at Reighton Gap - but Mum hated it, with its damp horsehair beds! The saving grace was the weather: glorious sunshine every day. My young eyes couldn’t believe it when my skin peeled with sunburn. In those days, we didn’t use sunscreen. Children played out the in hot sun and no-one thought anything of it.

1957 saw us in North Wales. Mum always wanted to stay in a quaint Welsh cottage and her dream – or nightmare – was to come true. The whitewashed cottage had ivy growing up the gable end, but unfortunately some grew inside too! Stone floors, frugal cooking facilities and a ladder to reach the bedrooms. Again, the beautiful weather saved the holiday. In Snowdonia, we were surprised to see colourful Chinese pagodas amongst the trees. It transpired that “The Inn Of The Sixth Happiness” (a film starring Ingrid Bergman) was being made there!
 
With hot summers and little rainfall, we lived with the threat of drought and standpipes, relying on the heavy snows of winter to supply the reservoirs. I recall visiting the Yorkshire Dales in 1990 to view the parched Thruscross reservoir, revealing the ruins of West End village. Will we have a long hot summer this year? Who knows? But one thing’s for sure – we won’t need standpipes!