Flood in Mablethorpe

BBC Lincolnshire Host on behalf of Dave Lascelles's memory of 31st January 1953

These are the immediate thoughts which I remember of 'The Flood' - there are others which sometimes spring to mind, but these are the most vivid.

The Lyric Cinema on George Street, Mablethorpe, couldn't have picked a more appropriate film to show on that Saturday (31st January 1953); although I did hear afterwards that the Savoy at Sutton was showing 'The Cruel Sea'! But, we settled for the evening performance of 'Hurricane Island', even though we had already seen it at the matinee that afternoon; I suppose that it was a concession to keep young school boys occupied under the circumstances - the weather had been vile all day, much too rough to be out playing. It was an all-too-familiar tale of broken tree branches, flying slates and roof tiles, dustbins and other debris racing along streets, and sheds and fences swaying, sometimes collapsing in gusts of 100 miles an hour and more.

In the comparative comfort of the Lyric it was still obvious that the gale raging outside was showing no signs of abating; the fire/exit doors along the passage side of the building were rattling and bumping, and there was a constant buffeting and howling from the roof and all around. One of our schoolmates came in and joined us, greeting us with the news that Parrot's Café on the beach side of the main Pullover was taking a battering from the sea (this café was raised up above the beach level on stout timber legs; consequently, this was the first indication that there was something unusual happening on the seafront).

We were way into the main feature film when I was beckoned out of my seat by an usherette and shepherded out into the foyer, wondering what it was that I was supposed to have done wrong! There, my eldest sister met me and said, "Come on, we've got to get home quick!" My response: "Why, what's wrong?" certainly something was out of the ordinary. "The sea is over", she replied. I caught the urgency in the tone of her voice, and so we set off down George Street, reeling from the terrific force of the gale. I recall at the time things seemed 'in order' at the top end of the street - the pavements were dry and the street lights and red neon of the cinema were lit.

Every year there were a few occasions when the sea 'came over' and we often went up to see it, the occasional wave-top spilling across the promenade and foaming down the little tarmac pullover, which was a short distance from where the present Queen's Park Pullover is today. But only rarely did the water cross Gibraltar Road and reach the cinder path which led to Victoria Road. Sometimes it managed to wet the edge of the little putting green at the foot of the sandhills, but never more than that (anyway, that always happened in March or September).


By the time we arrived at the junction with Knowle Street there was a lot of water in the gutters, in fact halfway up the road camber. Do I take off my shoes? Certainly, I could not have jumped to the dry bit. But no, we waded into it, and found how very cold it was, too. I think it was about then that I realised the street lighting was out, and except for the occasional glimpse of candles in some upper floor windows we were in darkness. Now the water had become a steady flow across the pavement, pouring over gardens and between the houses on our left, and increasing in depth and speed. Soon it was above our knees and soaking the bottom of my overcoat - and we were only halfway home. The houses and allotment behind the former police station were eventually reached, the water by now waist deep and carrying a lot of material - boxes, bins, a table, a black dog, great clumps of vegetation (probably from the former sandhills?) all being pushed swirling inland across the road and fields which we knew were there but could not see. Though it was, of course, the sea there wasn't at that time breaking waves; more like standing in a fast river, heavy with debris and now getting noticeably deeper as we stood at the corner of what is today Parry Road. I must say that, being only eleven years old, there was no way I would have made it across that lane on my own - the water was up to my chest and it was hard to stand up in it.


I owe it to my sister that I am alive to be able to recount it today. There were great sections of floating wood which could have been fencing or sides of sheds being swept powerfully by, and trees or large bushes from the sandhills, rolling over and over in the flow and vanishing into the blackness across the street. Above the roar of the wind and the shrieking in the wires and aerials and various crashing sounds, we became aware of another sound, like a deep thunderous roar from the seafront.
Crossing Parry Road was a nightmare, and a gamble, because owing to the speed of the flowing water and short distance which it was possible to see, we ran a very real risk of being hit by large pieces of flotsam which would suddenly loom out of the dark, and be whisked away just as quickly. Finally, we started out, my sister holding tightly onto me; I don't know how long it took, perhaps only twenty seconds or so. It's impossible to wade fast with water chest-deep, fast flowing water, trying to knock you sideways and sweep you away - I don't mind admitting that I was terrified. However, we made it, and reached our front gate, the top of which was just visible, then into the house. Due to the quickly rising tide I realise now that ten minutes or so later we wouldn't have got across that lane end (subsequently, we realised that the section of the seafront directly opposite our house was the part which collapsed and let the sea through!).
There was a fire grate in our front bedroom, and the family had managed to get a fire going, having rescued a bucket of coal and burning things such as wooden coat hangars and bits of 'less important' furniture. I was towelled down and dressed in dry things and given a hot drink of cocoa (or something). Thinking about it now, it was a blessing that we had dry clothing and blankets, small fire and the means to make a drink. Nevertheless, I don't think that anyone got any sleep that night - there was the continuous sounds which one might expect accompany such situations - howling, blustery wind, bangs, crashes, awful gurgling, swishing…and it just went on and on. I remember going into the back bedroom at one stage during the night, and peering out through the window…and wished that I hadn't.

Pictures on my mind that we had been seeing on the news, programmes of the disaster at Lynmouth the previous year were still vivid. We didn't know what to expect from this night, all that was visible were the dim shapes of the nearest buildings and dark, heaving water. Occasionally a big swell would smack into the wall of the house and smother the bedroom window in a sheet of spray…so, I didn't stay in there very long! I was looking out of the front window, over George Street when our garage doors burst open, flinging outwards as the lock and bolts were smashed. The sea had broken in the small door at the back, and the weight of the water did the rest; we'd no car, but the contents of the garage, boxes, cans of paint, garden tools, washing machine, dolly tub (remember those?!), sacks of potatoes, bicycles - everything gushed and slithered out across the street and vanished. About the same time there was a splintering, smashing sound as our greenhouse was carried on a big swell and burst into fragments against the front fence posts, the wooden parts being quickly carried off. The chicken hut was next, a quite large heavy one, about 8 x 6 feet, with two dozen chickens, bashed into trees across the road and wedged in the lower boughs. But, we were safe. Frightening though it all was it could have been worse. A classmate of mine lived about 150 yards away from us in a bungalow near to the scout hut. It was fortunate that his father and mother managed to haul the family up into the false roof, (only) just out of reach of the sea, which suddenly burst into the room where they were sitting (can you really imagine what that was like? We have all seen similar effects in the modern disaster movies, but to be part of it as it really happens)! My pal told me that it would have probably been possible to have reached down from the false roof and touch the sea; right or wrong he didn't try to, but the water seemed that close.
When daybreak came the next morning the scene was unbelievable. I can't recall how bad the wind was; what I do remember was the devastation seen in all directions - most fences had gone, there was debris in the trees, stuff blown into phone lines, houses were like ships anchored in the sea, there were great sandbanks in the street, all manner of material floating about; things from outhouses and sheds and dwellings, oildrums, timber, straw, household debris, bedding, dead animals, deckchairs and evidence of great destruction in the direction of the seafront. I think that we had about five, perhaps six feet, of seawater in the house at the peak of the stormsurge; when it subsided between the tides it was possible to go down to investigate (before, that is, the sea returned and came flowing unhindered under the doors and through the letterbox).
There was a great variety of items stuck to the wall apart from scum, weed, muddy deposits, newspapers, labels, packets of things such as custard powder, coaldust, feathers…anything in fact that could float about.
That afternoon (1st February 1953) we were evacuated - taken out on an open lorry as far as the Cross Inn, put into other transport and taken to Alford Corn Exchange, which had been set up as emergency accommodation (perhaps there are still people around who can remember searching for 'Teddy Tortoise', which went A.W.O.L from my pocket while I was asleep - eventually he was found!)
Now, here is a thought-inspiring item worthy of mention. I still have an exercise book from my Mablethorpe County School days, dating from 1952, and it includes an entry dated 13th January 1953 - an essay entitled 'The Storm'. In this little story I was a policeman who was involved in a terrible sea-flooding disaster at Mablethorpe (written about 2 and a half weeks before the real thing)! This is what I wrote:



13 January 1953
The Storm

On duty I was walking down the promenade a terrible storm sprang up. I ran for the shelter on the front when the fierce wind blew my hat off and into the sea. Just ahead of me four beach huts collapsed with a crash. Then a huge mountain like wave came splashing over the whole steps and washed half of them away. I just managed to leap on the sandhills to avoid being swept away and drowned. I got as far as the police station and the sergeant told me to go off duty. Next morning I read in the paper that the dunes were in danger of collapsing and Mablethorpe being washed away. Most of the people had already gone to safer districts to escape the flooding. The came wave upon wave of water pouring over the dunes, houses fell down with crashes and many people were drowned. Others took refuge on roofs and in trees. When two weeks passed the water went down to show heaps of bricks and rubble. Bulldozers and excavators, tractors and lorries came to the disaster. They made sandbanks and began to build new buildings for many people were homeless. Ambulances came to take the dead and injured away. So I leave the people busy building a new Mablethorpe.

By the time we returned from exile, the gaps on the sea defences had been plugged by sandbags, and a new seawall was being constructed. Steam-driven pile drivers were hammering and banging night and day, there were lorries loaded with slag, bulldozers, armies of navvies, heavy earth moving machines and excavators from firms like Wimpey and McAlpines - constant activity and noise, floodlit at night. For a long time we had to rely on members of the police, Army or RAF to kick open our front door each morning, as it had swelled with the effects of the seawater, and we had to force it shut each night. The RAF brought in some giant driers to help eliminate the damp, after any water was pumped out from under the floors.
At the start there was no electricity, no fences, no earthworms (I dug one up some weeks later, and it was reported in the local press!), no school (my first entry in the book was dated 5th March). It was strange to walk 'on the beach' around the houses, and you had to be so careful when crossing some of the dykes (many of which held trapped water, others were level with sand). It has been estimated that over 850,000 tons of sand had been shoved into the town from off the beach. Certainly, it made beachcombing exciting and easy. Where the 'dozers and other vehicles had left tracks in the clay down on the beach there was 'treasure galore' trapped in the ridges - the legacy of former generations of holiday makers. The gold items were unspoiled; some of the silver blackened and discoloured from oxidization, and the coins were terrible; we spent many hours each evening around a Tilley lamp, cleaning them up to make them 'spendable'.

The sturdy fence around the railway tracks, just east of the Strand, was substantial enough to act as a barrier for just about everything which the sea carried to it that night. Exploring, as school boys do, revealed all manner of material - broken fences, rabbit hutches, furniture, bedding, trees and bushes, trunks, boxes, dustbins, dog kennels, ladders, carpets, papers, pushchairs…the list was endless. The whole lot, which stretched from the High Street to nearly Seaholme Road, smelled of decaying seaweed, rotten fruit, dead animals and sea stench…consequently, we didn't spend a lot of time exploring there!
There were sections of aluminium chalets which had been thrown up onto the top of the sand dunes; some of them literally rocked like a great sea-saw when climbed upon; wisely, the local Bobbies shooed us away from them!

Directly seawards from Fairhaven Guest House on Victoria Road, the scene had altered forever. The area where the sea had burst through has since been developed into what we now know as Queen's Park. Where there was once a large field stretching from the Council Yard to Green's Café (now The Clock) there is now a car park and boating lake. The former Farm House at Bank House Farm is now a café. What used to be a farm yard (yes, with stacks) and the section of Gibraltar Road which linked the High Street main pullover to the Convalescent Home (now flats) is now tennis courts and activity area. The children's paddling pool and putting green/mini railway lies over where the (longer) putting green and sandhills were. The Boulevard, now extended to Victoria Road, replaces the rough land and cinder path that we knew.

It's a long time ago, but it was yesterday.

This memory was submitted to Memoryshare by the BBC Lincolnshire Memoryshare team on behalf of Dave Lascelles and has been added to the site with the author’s permission.

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This memory was added 18th March 2008

Keywords: Lincolnshire Lincoln Floods BBC Memoryshare Lincs 1953 1953 floods mablethorpe

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