WHAT are you doing this Bank Holiday? Off to the seaside again, or the country, perhaps?

Or maybe you’ve decided to stay out of the way of all the hazards of August Bank Holiday? Perhaps the garden will get the going over you promised it weeks ago?

Bank Holidays have not changed all that much over the years — as Granada’s All Our Yesterdays on Monday will show, when Brian Inglis looks back 25 years.

What were they up to — the Bank Holidaymakers of 1937?

Well, there was a heatwave then. That’s worth remembering. And it was King George VI’s Coronation year. That might jog a memory.

But has the passing of 25 years changed the pleasures and pursuits of Bank Holiday all that much?

As you prepare for the weekend, heatwave or no heatwave, you’re probably more concerned about what to put in the sandwiches than about Mr. Macmillan’s reshaped Government, the Common Market, who is orbiting the world, or Berlin.

In the same way that people carried on regardless 25 years ago. when China and Japan were at war, and Neville Chamberlain, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, complained of “that fear of attack which is almost universal, but which may yet rest on nothing more solid than imagination.”

No, it wasn’t all that different, was it?

The newspaper headlines blared: “Most amazing Bank Holiday homecoming on record. Everything on wheels on the road.”

“Blackpool and the sun smash records. Record crowds by rail and road.” “10.8 hours sunshine. 76 in the shade.”

Not so many families had cars in 1937. But it was the same old story …

One newspaper demanded: “What of the roads? They are congested. We haven’t enough long, loud, straight, ugly roads … what’s the good of a motor car if you’ve no road to put it on?”

In fact, in 1937 there were three million vehicles on our roads. East year, there were 10 million. Goodness knows what sort of chaos we shall read about this weekend.

Of course, prices were different. Very different. As you fill up the tank at the weekend, consider that it could be filled up 25 years ago at 1s. 7d. a gallon.

In 1937, holiday-makers spent £1 million on ice cream. This year they are expected to spend £9 million.

A penny cornet bought on the promenade 25 years ago costs 4d. or 6d. now.

First-class hotels in Blackpool then provided fully inclusive accommodation from 12s. 6d. a day.

A good three course lunch, with coffee, cost 2s. A large breakfast cost the same, and a fish and chip supper with bread, butter and tea was 1s.

But what were the other attractions? There was a great thing about keeping fit. Walking holidays were popular with young people.

In London, the advertisements said: “Come to ‘appy ’Ampstead … all the fun of the fair.” The new Marx Brothers film A Day At The Races was showing.

In Blackpool, the stars at the Grand Theatre were Gracie Fields and Frank Randle. George Formby was at the Opera House. Roy Fox and his band topped the bill at the Palace (now demolished). More than 100,000 people visited the Tower to dance, tour the zoo and listen to Reginald Dixon at the organ.

Harry Porter, Blackpool’s publicity director, told me: “Today, you see more and more bikinis, shorter shorts, and the youngsters on scooters and motor bikes are more exuberant. But things haven’t changed much. People still enjoy themselves in the same old way.”

Talking about bikinis, there was a great fuss over the beach fashions in America in 1937. Men’s bathing suits that season were of the topless variety.

And bathers on Long Island beach were asked by officials: “Why isn’t your chest covered, sir?”

In Britain, the youngsters were dancing the Lambeth Walk and a popular dancehall version of Knees Up Mother Brown. Now they have the Twist.

They were listening to “pop” records of a popular crooner called Bing Crosby. Now it is more likely to be Cliff Richard.

For the stay-at-homes, radio was a big thing.

This year you can take your choice of television programmes, which include a huge coverage on ITV of the day’s top sporting events. The Lancashire v. Yorkshire cricket match, for example.

In 1937, visitors to London were able to watch television at a big demonstration at Olympia, which was billed:

“Judge for yourself what television can do.”

Today, of course, we are judging what Telstar can do.

A friend of mine suggested that the habits and manners of holiday-makers have changed drastically in the past 25 years.

“Going to the seaside was a big thing in those days,” he said. “Now it isn’t. People just accept it as they would accept the fact if the Americans landed on the moon tomorrow.”

But I don’t know. Basically. I don’t think Bank Holiday has changed all that much. We’ll still be doing the things this weekend that we did 25 years ago.

And. who knows, we might even be blessed with a heatwave.

The post All Our Yesterdays looks back on Bank Holiday 1937 appeared first on THIS IS GRANADA from Transdiffusion.

JULIE BISHOP, co-host with David Gell in Granada’s Concentration, can certainly claim to be the mostest hostess. This 20-year-old ash blonde — a dancer since she was nine — has been a hostess on and off since January, 1958, in Spot the Tune, Twenty-One and now Concentration.

Between times, she’s fully booked as a model — “It makes a nice change, and I find the work very interesting.”

When she does manage to snatch a breather, she takes to the water — either in it or on it.

“When I was dancing in a summer season show at Coventry, Jon Pertwee, who was one of the stars, taught me to water-ski.”

Julie’s green eyes sparkle as she recalls her days in variety at the London Hippodrome. “I used to dive into a pool on stage. Only one slip in 500 performances…. We had to dip under a bar, and that night I hit my head on it.

“There was real panic for a moment. AH the stage manager could see was my head floating just below the surface, and he yelled, frantically ‘Drop the curtain — she’s drowning.’ But I was only stunned, and my partner pulled me to safety.”

Born with the sound of the sea in her ears — on the island of Sheppey, at the mouth of the Thames — she loves nothing better than “just messing about in boats.” Mostly, it’s been plain sailing. “But one day the engine gave out on us,” she I laughed. “We were drifting helplessly. Then along came a tanker. One of the crew repaired our engine, and the skipper invited us on board for tea. It was a bit of luck they happened to be there.”

Julie’s real name is Jeanette. Julie is a nickname.

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RHYDWEN WILLIAMS is the sort of man who is never stationary for more than two minutes. To hold a conversation with him or longer than that it is necessary to follow him round.

So I did. For a whole day. I followed Rhydwen, producer Granada’s Welsh-language programme Dewch I Mewn and company’s representative in Wales, on one of his whirlwind research trips.

Hs cream saloon car headed out of Manchester towards the hills of North Wales on a fresh journey of discovery. It was the beginning of a new chapter in the story of Rhydwen’s constant seach for talent for his own programme and for the Northern magazine, People And Places.

It was only 8.30 am. But 40-year-old Rhydwen had already had breakfast and done an hour’s writing.

Rhydwen, born a miner’s son in the Rhodda Valley, believes in keeping fit. So he weight-lifts.

“Wherever I happen to be,” he told me. “Even by the roadside, sometimes.”

Rhydwen’s first call on the 233-mile trip was in Mold to see an old friend, Dr Haydn Williams. He is the man who just won his two-year battle to bring National Eisteddfod of 1961 to Rhos, Wrexham, the place they call “the biggest village in Wales.”

After another call in Mold and a hasty lunch in Denbigh he was off again. Into the hills.

The car hummed along A543, which crosses Hiraethog mountain. It halted by county council roadman Bill Roberts.

Bill, 43 and a bachelor, has been keeping tidy his section of A543 since he came out of the Army in 1946. He told Rhydwen: “I can’t imagine being happy in any other sort of life.” A few miles further on Rhydwen stopped again. This time he talked to 12-year-old Gwenda Williams, who sat astride her pony, Goldie. With her on Goldie’s back were her brother, Eryl, four, and schoolfriend Haf Davies.

Farmer’s daughter Gwenda is likely to find herself in the TV studio playing the harp, sending Christmas good wishes to the children of Wales and talking of her life on the farm at Bylchau.

Later, the car left the main road and edged carefully along a rock-strewn path to the farmhouse home of 16-year-old Ann Roberts. The sound of singing came to our ears as we walked to the porch. Ann was at the piano, singing a traditional Welsh air. Rhydwen was impressed.

We visited several more places and saw several more people.

But even after we returned to Manchester it was not the end of Rhydwen’s day. There was more writing to do. Songs, poems, children’s stories. Rhydwen has written about 400 in three years.

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