THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAG, Pommy version Leasowe sandhills.

WELL, NO, THERE’S NO POMMY SWAG as far as I know, but I’ve just finished reading Henry Lawson’s description and explanation of the Australian swag, its development and refinement for the Outback, and its mode of carry.

His fine story-telling is interrupted for this most factual and informative account, The Romance Of The Swag, which explains in perfect detail the make-up and contents of the Aussie swag as it existed over 100 years ago.

I mention this because as a child in bleakest Merseyside in the ever-bleak North of England, my playground was the Wirral Peninsula, where a sometime-sun shone if there was a break in the Atlantic gloom. I was aware of Waltzing Matilda, and a Swagman, and had a vague idea of the purpose of a swag, and perhaps this subconscious image led me to one of my happiest pastimes.

There was then, in my home landscape, a coastal strip of market-gardens called Leasowe, meaning exactly that. The gardens were sheltered from the North Sea and the Westerlies by a range of sand-hills, and stretched from Wallasey Village to the old lighthouse ruin, a ruin now marvellously restored.

The Leasowe sandhills (never called dunes) were the site of wartime rifle-ranges; the reason we children were attracted to the area, because to this day the sand is littered with spent ammunition of every calibre and type. The brass existed still in those days, but now there’s mostly only lead, which survives the salt air, as do the vegetables in the gardens which are improved thereby. Even today one can quickly fill pockets with old bullets.

The tops of the Leasowe sandhills usually had depressions where the star-grass didn’t grow; perfect shelters from the wind and the sand, with delightful views over the sea to the west and the Wirral inland. The miles of beach from the now-erased but once stylish Derby Pool at Harrison Drive, to the old Leasowe lighthouse, were seldom populated; only the occasional walkers with dogs, and no-one swam there in those days. The water was feared on that stretch.

One fine day I decided to camp on one of the dunes. Summer holidays. I was fifteen, and remember no opposition from the parents. Perhaps Waltzing Matilda was embedded. I made, and there’s no other word for it, a swag. But my version.

My swag was based on a long, wide rectangle of tarpaulin, and a sleeping-bag. Everything I needed was rolled in the folded tarp. Absolutely a swag, bound with an old belt. But with one necessary addition: a handle-less umbrella.

I set out from home on foot, without the encumbrance of a bicycle. My swag had an approximation of the food, drink, clothing and reading needed for a few days, plus torch, matches, etc.. Just camping without a tent.

I chose a sand-hill with the best view and the most sheltered hollow on top. Formed the sand into a raised bed-place and head-rest, and rolled my swag out onto it. The tarp worked well; belongings at the bottom, a double fold over the sleeping-bag, under at the bottom, over at the pillow-end, a lap under my chin, and the umbrella stuck into the sand by by head in case of rain. Which it did briefly the first night. Not a drip or a leak; perfect comfort.

That first time I stayed just two nights and three days in a luxury of self-sufficiency; sun-bathing, swimming, lazing, reading. My water-bottle re-filled at the market-gardens.

Returning to civilisation even after that baby experience was delightful. I tingled with sun and sea-spray and confidence. My swag had worked. Tents were a definite encumbrance. I was, though I didn’t know it, ready for Australia. And 50 years later to read Henry Lawson, and the real swag.

Footnote; Leasowe is , or was, a narrow strip of sand market gardens, sheltered by the wind-driven ‘dunes’ from the beach and the North Sea, on the Wirral Peninsula, Cheshire, England. The area stretches between Wallasey Village to the North, and the old Lighthouse to the South, and what used to be Bidston Marsh to the east. Much has changed, but the sandhills are still there, and the old Leasowe lighthouse has been restored marvellously. That small stretch of coast still has a touch of wild mystery about it, and beach-combing there is rewarding, though the Twenty Row Inn has gone, sadly: no beers after the walk …….on to Wallasey Village then.