The Early Years On The Block - That 1970s Community Spirit!

So much is spoken about the lack of community spirit in 2021 and as someone born in the 1970s, I can't disagree. My experiences, growing up in the small market town of Fareham, are very different to that of children in the 2020s. For the most part, I had an idyllic childhood, despite wrestling with my sexuality. My earliest memories are overflowing with recollections of fun filled days, surrounded by friends and family, in an environment I can only dream of today.

I grew up at number 6 Nashe House, in a small suburb of Fareham, called Hill Park. My family all lived within spitting distance, just five or ten minutes away, and we were the first tenants of a new modest two-bedroom flat, one of sixteen, on a small social housing estate on the outskirts of town. Whenever I look back to my childhood, this was the period that resonates with me most. This was a happy, nurturing and cultivating time, the age before life suddenly got hard and the anxiety and stress I still suffer with set in. If the last fifty years of my life was to have a backbone, my early upbringing in Hill Park would be it. This was the best start any young boy could have in life!

As a child I knew all my neighbours, always in and out of each other's houses.  Dancing around Mia's lounge, at five years old, to the sound of classical music, in the flat above; play fighting with Lee in the front garden next door or hiding in the bushes of Mrs Pinks flat on the corner of the block. These were carefree, robust, strength building years, encompassing friends I still speak to today. I never had much as a child; hand me down clothes from extended family and presents bought from a catalogue at Christmas and paid off throughout the year. Occasionally I would get fifty pence pocket money at the end of the week and sweets from Nan on a Saturday afternoon. I did however have a wholesome, healthy, well conditioned upbringing in the safety of a community that always did their best to help!

Looking from my bedroom window, over the communal washing area and resident outbuildings, you could see the local infants school, where I started in the mid 70s. The distant murmur of children skylarking in the extensive green playing fields at lunchtime, especially during that hot summer of 1976, was a familiar sound; almost comforting in nature. Knowing that school was just around the corner, put parents minds at rest, allowing us to walk home for lunch, or freshly made sandwiches to be passed over the fence at midday. Mothers often gossiped together as they walked their brood to school, passing the time of day. Sat in their front gardens with a cup of tea in hand, while hanging out the washing or mowing the lawn, conversing with neighbours was part of the course. Fathers playing a game of football where 'No Ball Games' were allowed; familiar cries of 'dinner's ready, come inside' and all the time, doors unlocked, open to all. Inviting and welcoming, it was all part of the small neighbourhood  in which we lived, an unforgettable period of growth and curiosity.

Walking home with friends and neighbours, or waiting for Mum as she did her hours cleaning at the school, was a reminder of how lucky I was. I wasn't a 'latch key kid,' or left to fend for myself; importantly, Mother was always there. When she was at home, I could see her in the kitchen as I skipped up the meandering path towards number six, waving vigorously, beaming smile on her face. Steam would drift out of the opening at the top of the window, as Mum drained the vegetables for dinner. Once again, always ajar, I would gently push the door, running inside. Dropping my coat and bag in the hallway, darting immediately left, home cooked meals would always be on the table; piping hot, aromatic, hearty and nutritious, they always smelt great and tasted even better.

After dinner, I was allowed to play outside, just for an hour or two. Most of the children who lived in the block were of the same age and attended school together, so playing in the early evening was just part of our day. From the front garden, I would ride my bicycle up and down the pavement outside the flat, around the washing lines and down to the boundary of the school. Feeling venturous, I would often navigate the short distance to the open fields or along the side of the flats, picking blackberries from the bushes. When the street lights began to dim, you could hear Mothers and Fathers calling from the steps of their front door, all of us duly running home.

My childhood, at Nashe House, was not unlike any other of the 70s. Life was far more relaxed back then, there was less traffic on the roads and the streets felt safer. Neighbours were friendlier and happy to communicate. We were well looked after by parents, but also by the community in which we lived. I often reminisce about my early years spent in Fareham, a place I no longer know. As I get older I reflect on the most contented and optimistic days, spent with those closest at a time of innocence and simplicity. I am indeed a product of the 70s, but I am also a small town boy from Fareham, my childhood home, born at a time of upheaval, hope for the future, with my whole life ahead. Things never turned out the way I would have wished, but I have never forgotten my roots and will always be thankful for the auspicious start I had in life!

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