Me and my dad’s legs; Rothesay Bay, Scotland, probably summer 1963.
Catch me if you can Dad
Sometime before my brother was born in 1964, my mum, dad and I went on holiday to Rothesay, on the island of Bute. I’m guessing it was in summer, probably August, and almost certainly 1963 – which means I was almost two years old.
I think I have memories of that holiday – although it may be that what I “remember” is what my parents have told me. The memories are hazy – being on a boat (the ferry from Wemyss Bay?), eating breakfast in a huge (to me) dining room with lots of other people around, and this jaunt down the pier. What I think I remember is a sense of freedom – no-one holding on to my hand or restraining me. What my dad remembers is a sense of panic – I was apparently heading for the harbour.
I’ve been conscious of this photo for most of my life, but it’s only when I scanned it yesterday that I noticed a name and address on the back in handwriting that belongs to neither of my parents. And that makes sense. My dad (or at least lower half) is in the photo; my mum wasn’t the family photographer – and would hardly have been idly snapping pictures while her only child toddled towards the water. Someone must have taken the picture and somehow sent it to my parents. The name and address on the back is Mrs C. Galbraith, 22 Hillside Avenue, Kilmacolm.
Kilmacolm is a village in Renfrewshire, about 15 miles from Wemyss Bay, from where the Rothesay ferry departed. I don’t know if Mrs Galbraith was a professional street photographer, or someone staying at the same hotel as us who had got to know my parents.
Guess I’ll be asking next time I talk to Mum or Dad.
This post was written both for Six Word Saturday and as part of the Word a Week Photographic Challenge: Run at A Word in Your Ear.
Here are some other “Run” posts I’ve enjoyed: