I grew up in the 1950s, when Britain’s canal network was still a place of work rather than a holiday destination. A canal ran close to the back of my home and I would often play next to ‘the cut’, watching the barges go past with loads of coal, ceramics and steel. To make things more interesting, there were a couple of locks close by, where the water level rose by around 20ft in all.

My parents were very much working class, but still considered themselves above the bargees and their families, who were very much looked down upon in society as the ‘roughest of the rough’. That being the case, I wasn’t really allowed to say hello to them or play with their children, and the bargees themselves generally preferred it that way too, as I guess they were used to the prejudice they might otherwise encounter.

One day, I was walking around the bend towards the bottom of the flight of locks when I came across a large coal barge, moored up on the towpath. The front of the boat was facing towards me, and the well deck on the bow was occupied by a woman and a boy who I judged to be just a little younger than me.

What caught my attention was that the woman, presumably the boy’s mother, had him across her knee and was vigorously smacking his bottom. The boy was crying and kicking as his mother gave it to him hot and strong. As I passed, I couldn’t help looking at this scene – my mother smacked me at home so I was no stranger to this position.

The boy’s mother was relentless. Her hand came down with a force that echoed through the air, each smack landing with a sharp crack. The boy’s cries grew louder with each strike, his small body writhing in pain and desperation. His mother’s face was a mask of stern determination, her eyes fixed on the task at hand. She was clearly intent on teaching him a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

The boy’s legs kicked out wildly, his hands flailing in an attempt to shield his bottom from the onslaught. But his mother’s grip was unyielding, her arm a vice around his waist, holding him firmly in place. Each smack seemed to grow harder, the sound of flesh meeting flesh reverberating off the nearby canal walls. The boy’s sobs turned to wails, his voice hoarse from crying.

As I watched, I felt a mix of fear and fascination. I knew the sting of a spanking, but this was something else entirely. The boy’s mother was methodical, her hand rising and falling with a steady rhythm, each smack punctuated by a brief pause as if to let the pain fully register before the next blow. The boy’s bottom was a bright, angry red, the skin mottled with the imprint of his mother’s hand.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the spanking stopped. The boy was left sobbing and gasping for breath, his body limp over his mother’s knee. She lifted him up and set him on his feet, her expression softening slightly as she looked at his tear-streaked face. “Now, maybe you’ll think twice before you disobey me again,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind.

The boy nodded, his eyes downcast, still sniffling. His mother gave him a quick hug, a gesture of reassurance after the harsh punishment. “Go on, get inside,” she said, giving him a gentle push towards the cabin of the barge. The boy stumbled away, rubbing his sore bottom, his cries gradually subsiding into quiet whimpers.

At this moment, the woman looked up from her labours and gazed at me distastefully. “What yer gawping at?” she asked sharply. “Clear off before I gives yer a skelping an’ all!” I felt myself blush and strode off towards the lock and out of her sight – the sound of smacking and the boy’s cries continued in my ears as I fled.

The locks were a constant fascination to me. You needed a key to operate them properly but that didn’t stop a small boy from mucking around with the machinery, and I loved to push the gates open and closed if the water was equalised either side.

I was doing just that when I heard a loud ‘oi!’ – and saw to my dismay that I had been joined at the lock by the same woman who’d told me to clear off a few minutes ago. I was very surprised to see her. Because of the way the boat had been pointing, I had assumed they had already passed through the lock.

“Your mother don’t skelp you often enough, I can see that,” she said. And without further ado, she grabbed me by the ear and marched me over to the top lock gate. The woman was immensely strong and before I knew it, I was over her knee.

She began to smack me systematically and thoroughly. I howled as I had never done before – the smacking was much more severe than anything my own mother had ever given me at my naughtiest. My spanker didn’t say much as she administered the punishment, apart from the odd ‘bad boy’ or ‘naughty boy’ to drive her point home.

Her hand came down with a force that took my breath away. Each smack was deliberate and powerful, landing squarely on my bottom with a loud crack. The sting was immediate and intense, spreading across my skin like wildfire. I kicked and squirmed, but her grip was unyielding, holding me firmly in place.

The smacks continued, each one feeling harder than the last. My cries grew louder, but they seemed to have no effect on her. She was determined to teach me a lesson, and she was doing it with a relentless rhythm. The pain was overwhelming, and I could feel my resolve crumbling with each strike.

Finally, I was let up and for a moment I just stood before her, crying and holding my newly-smacked bottom. Eventually the woman said: “scarper before I goes and gets the belt from the boat.” That explained the bruises on her son’s bottom and I felt sure now it was his mother, not his dad, who dished it out. I did as I was told and fled.

Just before bedtime, I went to the toilet and took the opportunity to examine my buttocks – they were still really quite dark pink, with a couple of very visible handprints. Although I was quite a big boy, my mother still bathed me every night and I was desperate to avoid her finding out what had happened earlier on.

With that in mind, at bath time I kept my underpants on until the last possible moment and tried to scuttle around sideways to get in the tub, hoping to hide my bum from the maternal gaze. But my mother had sharp eyes and I had barely plopped my bottom down into the foaming water when she lifted me up again and whisked me around.

“Has somebody smacked your bottom?” I tried silence, but it only resulted in a fresh smack to those still-tender – and now wet – buttocks. “Tell me what happened,” she commanded. Bit by excruciating bit, she got the story out of me.

Mother was really angry. “I’ve told you not to muck around by the canal, or get involved with those bargees.” The latter charge seemed rather unfair to me, as my only ‘involvement’ had been as the recipient of a well-smacked bottom. “Wait there!” Mother commanded.

I heard her moving around in my parents’ bedroom on the other end of the landing, and she eventually came back with one of her old slippers. It was a well-worn, rubber-soled slipper, the kind that had seen many years of use. “Let’s see if we can smack you into obedience, between us,” she said. She sat down on the high stool which lived in the bathroom and I was quickly placed back in the punishment position, over her knee, with a towel placed on her lap for protection.

It was my first time with a slipper and it hurt terribly, even more than the woman’s spanking earlier. The fact that I had a wet bottom probably made it even more painful. My mother raised the slipper high and brought it down with a loud smack, each stroke landing with precision and force. She didn’t rush; each smack was deliberate, allowing the sting to fully register before the next one landed. I squirmed and cried, but she held me firmly in place, ensuring I couldn’t escape the punishment.

“You will learn to listen,” she lectured between smacks. “I’ve told you time and again to stay away from that canal. Do you understand me?” Each question was punctuated with another sharp smack from the slipper. “Yes, Mum!” I sobbed, desperate for the ordeal to end. But she continued, making sure her point was thoroughly driven home.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally stopped. My bottom was on fire, throbbing with pain. She stood me up and looked me in the eye. “If I ever catch you near that canal again, you’ll get twice as much. Do you hear me?” I nodded vigorously, tears streaming down my face. “Good. Now get yourself cleaned up and into bed.”

Then she came back in, put me back in the water and gave me a very rough and ready bath. After she had dried me, I was ordered to clean my teeth and was then put down to sleep without my usual bedtime story.

I’d like to say the two punishments taught me never to play by the canal again but I’m afraid they didn’t. I continued to hang around that fascinating place – but I was a lot more careful in future!