Admittedly I did kiss a boy from the fair when I was 15…. he was cowboy-cute, long floppy hair with blonde high-lights, perfect snow-wash jeans and pristine white tee-shirts. If you are less than 37 you may think that isn’t the height of fashion, but for me, he was the business.
But that is not it, that was a crush and I loved the fair for many, many years.
When I moved back to Ilfracombe (6 years ago) I was thrilled to go again with my children, however, I needed friends or my Mum to come with us so I could go on all the rides. When I say all, I mean two of them. It is a very small fair-affair in Ilfracombe, little offshoots go to all the outlying towns and villages in the area (does this happen in your area?) for a week and then they all meet in the big town Barnstaple for a proper fair for a week afterwards.
Last year was a sad occasion for me, I waltzed my last, I thought I might hurl (ahem, excuse me) during and after
This picture is why.
This year I had to ask Lauren if she would give up an hour going crazy and learning the romance of the fair for herself and take Alex onto the waltzers for me.
No more crazy fair rides for me.
I soaked up the ambience instead, enjoyed watching Ali and Lauren enjoy themselves. Scary moment of aging; watching Lauren excitedly running around with her friend Jasmine, the daughter of my friend Jenny that I used to run around excitedly with
They were on this, that might be her legs.
Alex was on this. Spot the Alex.
Spot the difference.
A wistful look back, a bag of plastic-crap toysTM courtesy of the Hook-a-Duck and some chips.
Lauren still swinging a million miles above Ilf. Probably.
Farewell fair and my strong-fairground-riding-tummy.
Tradition, generations, scents, tastes and those lights, oh those lights. I am pretty sure that is what makes the fairground such a romantic memory.