STRADDLING across what the Australians would call the “scenic rim” of the Avon Valley lies Sandy Balls, a holiday destination for the discerning family.

Overlooking the town of Fordingbridge, it has been developed out of all recognition, since I first set eyes on it over 50 years ago.

So what was it actually like in 1957?

Standing outside Street’s Café in Fordingbridge on a warm summer’s afternoon, were the local Teds, Dave Sainsbury, the Langley boys, myself and half a dozen others of similar persuasion.

Conversation mostly concerned the possible arrival, later in the day, of the Browning gang from Ringwood and more important things like the cost of re-soling our Brothel creepers, over the road at Barrow’s shoe shop.

Sandy Balls as a subject or a destination was not on our agenda, until that is, a smallish lad arrived on his bike, with a message.

He told a tale of young ladies cavorting through the woods, uphill and down dale, wearing very little or even less, as they did so.

Being Teds, we could not be seen immediately dashing along the Southampton road on such flimsy evidence; however tempting it was to witness such activity, especially if true. The next day, a Sunday would have to do.

Having arranged to meet the Godshill contingent at the entrance, we duly arrived at Sandy Balls Camp, as it was then known, to seek out these flitting female forms that had brought us the two miles from our usual stamping grounds.

But alas there were no such young ladies demonstrating their dancing skills, through the surrounding flora and fauna.

Instead there were two girls, fully dressed, apparently awaiting our arrival. So it had all been a ruse, a trick if you will, to entice us from our kingdom below.

Thus began my relationship, not only with one of the girls, a visitor from Southsea, but with Sandy Balls itself, both which would last for nearly three years.

I suppose the lasting impression of the camp on that day was one of sheer tranquillity and simplicity.

The ambience created by Dr Ernest Westlake all those years ago, could still be felt somehow.

From the main entrance, very plain, just a small sign and a stand for milk churn collections.

Then on past a kind of thatched hut, which served as the camp shop, down a winding gravel road to a circle of caravans, about 20 or so in number; sitting around a large grassed open area between the great firs of the surrounding woodland.

Across the road was the Community hall a fairly large wooden structure probably constructed for the “woodgreenies”, as they were known, youths from poor backgrounds that were members of the “Order of Woodcraft Chivalry” – a type of scout movement set up by Dr Westlake after the First World War.

Their actual living quarters were situated down the steep wooded incline, which separated the Holiday Camp from the River Avon – partly derelict and deserted yet still a monument to a good man, who tried to make a difference.

Still everything passes and Sandy Balls as it was has inevitably changed with development.

Today it is a thriving holiday centre, the custodian of 120 acres of woodland and parkland.

Would Dr Westlake approve of his beloved estate as it is now?

Strangely, I think it’s quite possible, that he would.