So then, I was rather tickled, while driving along the seafront the other morning (on the nearby road not the actual seafront of course) to spot a couple of examples of the specialist field I, along with my brothers and some chums, became very adept at.
Hut building.
Minimum tools required, if any at all.
And gratis building materials...dried shreds of seaweed, sticks and logs, are readily available.
No plans needed, nor does one have to line up and apply for a building consent or health and safety accreditation and that sort of stuff.
And no sign-off for occupancy from the authorities.
Because hey, if the roof fell in no one got flattened.
But the huts we built never fell into disrepair.
In the years of the early to mid-60s we simply got good at it.
Very good at it.
So are the hut constructors of this age of 2019 judging by what I spotted the other day.
They got their heights right (you kneel in these abodes rather than stand of course) and the sea debris walls featured a couple of small windows.
One even appeared to have been framed with sticks broken to fitting size and there were even a couple of teepee-inspired jobs.
Fine work, and brought back memories of the days we would watch the wild seas send huge piles of building resources onto the shore, which in two or three months time, after they expelled their moisture, would be more than suitable for our next seashore villa.
There was never really a shortage of material, except around Guy Fawkes time when such great strips and piles of sea litter would be drawn into heaps for bonfires.
But from November 6 onwards she was all on for we in the specialist building trade where rules and regulations were effectively banned.
Holes would be dug at points around a circle for the modest logs to be erected in.
They would be intertwined with smaller sticks to support the seaweed materials, and often a tall and strong central stick of light log would be set up to be the centre point of the roof.
Sometimes we used rope to span out to the edges where the circle of sticks stood, and they would be laced with lighter sticks and then the seaweed woven in.
One year we exceeded all expectations and made the lads down the road a tad bitter and envious...for we built a small spare room off the main room.
It was the toilet.
Terrific work, although we had to tell dad we had no idea where the little green garden bucket had gone.
There were days our beach baches would become fortresses, as war games emerged from time to time.
Occasional battles where the artillery was tennis racquets and stones.
For trying to throw stones 80 or so metres toward the other lads' fortress was impossible so the racquets came out.
Now at this point I have to say do not do this, kids.
It is harmful.
You can too easily break the strings on them.
On one occasion we actually painted one of our huts.
Dad had buckets of spare light blue paint (oddly enough the same colour as they'd painted parts of the old fert' works where he worked) so we utilised one.
It matched the pleasantly pale seas on kindly weather occasions and looked a treat.
As did the cotton flag we had flying.
It bore a fine emblem...some flour packing company I think it was.
Lazy days on the shingle floor beneath seaweed ceilings.
Reading our comics and occasionally wandering down to throw a hand line and hook into the briny in search of little yellow-eyed mullet.
Ahh, the only way a skinned builder should relax.
