It was usually a cloudy, windy day for our trip from Ton to the seaside in Porthcawl; but it didn't matter, see. In the big tall, red, double-deckers, sitting upstairs at the front, with our mams and dads, we didn't care about the weather, because we were going to the seaside. When you're headed for Porthcawl, and the beach and the fair, once or twice a year, you didn't worry about storms and mackerel skies and rain and puppy dogs tails and all that.
It was the only time we could get to the beach, either paid for by the miners' union, or from a collection at the Chapel down the street. The Calvinistic Mathodist, a one storey nissen-type hut where every Sunday, when Mam and Dad stayed home to rest, we entered the front door and saw, 'God is Love', inside a green painted wreath on the far wall.
As the decker, our bus, headed from Pretoria down High Street to the Square all you worried about was that it wouldn't break down and get stuck. Would the driver turn left at the Square and not try and go straight ahead under the low railway bridge where others had come to grief? If the bus did breakdown it would be like the iceberg-struck Titanic - total disaster, total sorrow! A bus full of crying kids and sympathetic parents.