Secret Confessions?

In the 1960s my friend Charlie and I lived and played near the river waveney.

Down near the Staithe there use to be a ‘cut’ (waterway) from the old mill stream through to the river Waveney, and on the other side of the cut was what we called Apple Island! During the summer holidays the apples were nearly ready for some serious scrumping!

This was an annual event, dependant on convenient access across the cut, i.e. very hastily built and unstable rafts. Each year we would completely forget that most of the apples were ‘cookers’, and usually gave us the cramps.

This particular year an old tree had conveniently (persuaded by a friendly axe) fallen across the cut. It was a lovely warm August evening, and getting dusk, but there were still people about, holiday makers mostly, as in those days people stayed in caravans at the Staithe.

So we needed a reason to get across the fallen tree onto Apple Island . . . a well miss-kicked football flew accurately over the cut and onto the island . . . we had no fear of the water and boldly crossed the fallen tree to the island in search of our football(Apples!).

In the failing light and before reaching the football(Apples!), we managed to stumble into some nettles, or so we thought, actually my shorts were not that short for me to get stung so high on my inside leg, and my back, then my neck! . . . NOT NETTLES . . . WASPS . . . blooming swarms of them!

Frantically we scrambled back over the fallen tree like two wild boys, with gesticulating of arms, legs and screaming lungs! All the time removing our upper clothing, I was covered with wasps, and stung at least forty times. Charlie, who didn’t wash as often as me, only had one enormous sting on his wrist that swole up the size of a golf ball.

So no apples that year, and we never retrieved our football . . . the next year, for some reason or other, they filled in the cut, and venturing onto Apple Island never seem so appealing after that.