There was a time, children, when a British holiday did not involve airports, security trays, or arguing over whether the seat reclined far enough. No. We went to Butlin’s.

For those unfamiliar with this particular corner of British heritage, Butlin’s was not merely a holiday resort. It was a social experiment. A place where optimism went on holiday and personal dignity stayed at home.

From the 1950s through to the 1970s, Butlin’s was the beating heart of British seaside joy. Rows upon rows of chalets stood proudly against the elements, each one bravely pretending that thin walls, mystery smells, and a kettle last tested in 1959 were all part of the adventure.

And yes, I know this because I worked there. One season in the 1970s. Cleaning chalets.

An eye opener does not quite cover it.

Cleaning a Butlin’s chalet was like archaeology, but with less dignity. You never knew what you were going to find. Towels in places towels should never be. Sand in quantities that suggested the guests had personally imported half of Weston-super-Mare. And crumbs. Always crumbs. No one has ever explained how so many crumbs could exist without a visible source of bread.

Yet somehow, none of it mattered.

Because this was Butlin’s. You were supposed to be cheerful. Redcoats bounced about like caffeinated Labradors. Everyone was your “mate”. Rain was ignored with heroic denial. If it poured down, that was simply “British weather adding character”.

Days began with organised fun whether you liked it or not. Knobbly knees were stretched in morning exercises. Dads who never danced at home suddenly found themselves doing the Twist in public. Children were released into the wild, returning at mealtimes damp, sandy, and grinning like lunatics.

Evenings brought entertainment of breathtaking ambition. Comics, singers, magicians, and the occasional act that appeared to have wandered in from another century entirely. You applauded anyway. It was the law.

And despite the thin mattresses, the shared bathrooms, and the constant suspicion that your chalet door could be opened with a strong stare, there was something rather wonderful about it all.

For one week, you belonged somewhere.

You ate at the same tables as strangers who became acquaintances. You nodded to people you had met once at the bar as if you’d known them for years. You laughed more than usual, complained less than usual, and returned home sunburnt, knackered, and oddly content.

Butlin’s was not glamorous. It did not promise luxury. It promised togetherness. And in its own noisy, slightly chaotic way, it delivered.

So if you’re feeling a bit fed up with the modern world, remember this. Once upon a time, happiness involved a plastic tray, overcooked sausages, a communal sing-along, and a chalet that smelt faintly of disinfectant and hope.

And somehow, we were perfectly happy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a lie down and possibly a Redcoat to tell me to smile.

Copyright © Tom Kane 2026