I wonder how many people reading the wonderful stories here, full of childhood memories, have experienced ‘The Walk’? The Walk, in my case, took place way back in 1971.
We were on the fourth day of a two-week holiday in the English county of Cornwall. Having previously only suffered the odd swipe or slap to the backs of my legs during my nine years, the shock of what was to come this particular day would stay with me forever.
From memory, I don’t believe I committed one single act of naughtiness that finally made my mother snap – it was more a culmination of a couple of days of generally obnoxious behaviour that resulted in The Walk. I have no idea why I had been such a pain in the rear – I was just nine years old and on holiday. Still, it seems I had cast a wet blanket over the first few days of the family break.
I remember the day as being sunny and warm. Myself, my sister and my parents were on the beach. I wore blue trunks, Mum and Dad wore shorts and mum had a T-shirt on, I think.
Looking back, it may be that the events which were about to unfold on that day had been discussed by my parents the previous evening? All I can say is, when my Mum announced: “I’ll take him back to the room”, my father didn’t seem the least bit surprised. I imagine I must have been continuing to be difficult that morning.
On hearing the news, I assumed Mum meant she was taking me back to our guest house to leave me there on my own so I didn’t spoil the rest of the day. At worst, possibly a talk or a sound telling-off. Mum seemed very calm – she obviously knew what she was going to do. I remember she asked Dad where the room key was – funny what you remember!
As Mum slipped her sandals back on to walk back in, she put my plimsoll-style beach shoes in front of me and instructed me to put them on. “I’ll be a while!” she warned my dad. He replied with an ‘OK’ and distracted my sister as Mum grabbed my wrist. And so we began The Walk.
Mum didn’t say a word to me. She walked across to the beach’s access ramp and then, gripping my hand tightly, strode towards our guest house at a rate I found hard to match.
Thinking back to that day, I imagine many adults had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen to the little boy in the blue trunks, as I was hauled off the beach – smacked bottoms for naughty children were an extremely common occurrence back then.
We crossed the road and walked down the busy street where hotels and guest houses lined both sides. When I say we walked, I mean Mum strode with purpose – I struggled to keep up. We walked straight into the guest house and took the stairs to the second floor.
Our room was at the end of a passageway, where we bumped into the landlady. She was a buxom, middle-aged, worldly woman who immediately read the situation confronting her. Mum asked if she could use our room for a while – I should add that in 70s Britain, holidaymakers were expected to be out of the guest house during the day. Anyway, our landlady waved us through with a smile, giving me a knowing look as I passed her.
Once we were back in our room, Mum closed the door and let go of me briefly. I still had no idea what was about to happen – however, by now I had worked out I was in trouble. How much was unclear.
My mother pulled a straight-backed chair out from under the table by the window and placed it carefully in the middle of the room. The window was left open, as were the curtains. The sun poured in.
Mum looked around the room, then walked over to me and took me by my wrist again, which felt tender where she had gripped it during The Walk. Two steps and we were back at the chair. Mum sat, pulled me to her right side and with a quick tug or two, my trunks were disposed of.
Panic was setting in now. The lack of words from Mum, the removal of my trunks and the breeze from the window making itself felt around my nether regions – two and two were suddenly making four! I was in big trouble.
Mum still hadn’t spoken. I was positioned across her knees, at a slight angle, with a tight arm wrapped around my middle. Then, for the first time, my mother spoke – and her words chilled my blood.
As I hung over her knees, staring at the carpet and her sandals, I heard Mum say: “You have completely ruined the past three days of our holiday – I am now going to ruin the next two or three days for you!”
With that, what I can only describe as the mother of all spankings began. It hurt from the outset – hard, fast smacks peppered my bare bottom. The initial shock stunned me – I suppose there was still an element of ‘why?’ I didn’t think I’d done anything that bad, and this was my first official bare-bottomed spanking, and on holiday of all places.
And what a spanking it was! Mum must have been running on pure adrenalin for ten minutes – I was crying long before the halfway point. My mother was relentless, and my bum stung beyond description – a burning, stinging sensation that had me howling and sobbing and begging with no care as to who could hear me.
The pain was off my scale, and my throat was sore and raspy from my screaming for the next few days. I have no real idea how long my ordeal lasted but back then, it seemed to go on forever. At one stage, I kicked and wriggled myself so far forward that Mum had to dragd me back up and reposition me over her knee. She secured me again, before carrying on with the spanking regardless of my protesting and hollering. I would estimate I suffered a minimum of 20 minutes of pure spanking time.
I was exhausted when the final smack landed and I was unceremoniously dumped on the floor in front of my mother, who peremptorily instructed me to put my trunks back on immediately. I couldn’t breathe, see or concentrate on anything but my burning behind. To assist me in getting back into my trunks, Mum put a hand under my arm, lifted me up, and swiped me with three or four almighty swats to the burning fire that used to be my bottom.
I was crying so hard my nose ran, I was gasping for air, gulping and struggling to get into trunks. Pulling the swimwear back up over my burning rear was awful – but worse was to come. Mum turned me over her hip, reached around and slapped the backs of my thighs below the trunks hard and fast, bringing a fresh wave of tears. How I danced!
Satisfied my thighs were red enough for all to see and understand that I had been given a sound spanking, Mum stopped. She then replaced the chair under the table. Mum then spoke for the first time since the start of the spanking – she looked at me and stated the bleeding obvious: “There you go – now you’ve got something to be miserable about!” I rubbed my legs together, squirming and sobbing in my suffering.
Mum took my arm again and we left for the beach again. Our landlady, who now was just a watery blur in my eyes, was conveniently hovering by the front door. She gave me a smug look and watched my red thighs all the way to the gate.
With one hand trying to rub the sting out of my scorched bum, Mum dragged me back to the beach, and we did The Walk all over again. However this time it was far, far worse! This time we walked slowly, and anyone who was interested had time to enjoy my crying, my wet face and sore, red thighs.
The only comfort was they couldn’t see the worst part. Under the seat of my trunks, I was under attack from hundreds of hornets – or that’s what it felt like! My swimming trunks retained the heat in my bottom quite efficiently and rubbed painfully against my burning cheeks. A more miserable boy I could not have been!
When we got back to the beach, it felt as if everyone around us had been waiting to see the sorry state in which my mother would deliver me back – and they were not disappointed.
We rejoined my sister and Dad. Mum finally let go of my arm. Dad shook his head in disappointment. Mum hissed: “Sit!” I had to kneel as being on my bottom was an impossibility at that point. Then, with a firm finger wagging in my face, Mum added: “Move off that spot, and you will be spanked again, right here on the beach in front of the world and his brother!”
I squirmed and grizzled, cried on and off and fought the waves of burning heat and tears. It was the most miserable afternoon on a beach that I have ever endured. In the end, I laid myself face down. It meant that passers-by could see my spanked rear and thighs, which was shameful, but that was still better than plonking my bottom down on the hot sand.
Mum was right – she did indeed spoil the next two days of my holiday. In fact, it was at least a couple of days before I felt anywhere near back to normal in the sitting area – what a roasting she gave me!
That was my only formal spanking. I look at children of that age nowadays, and it seems unthinkable that a mum would administer such a punishment. Yet back in those days, as witnessed by the memories on this excellent website, it clearly happened regularly.
Clearly, it was a different world back then. Funnily enough, I’ve never much liked beaches ever since!