Category: Travel Writing

Our destination was Greece. White sand, blue sea, sun, whitewashed buildings with blue roofs. It’s what everyone thought Greece was like. So the plan was to get there as quickly as possible. Days were spent perusing maps of Europe to work out the best route. Hitch to Dover, ferry over to Oostende then the autobahn down the west of Germany, through Austria, Yugoslavia (as it was then) and into Greece.

We set off on a Thursday – no particular reason why we chose that day, and it was raining. August in England and raining! We almost changed our minds then, but eventually a beak in the weather came and we walked the couple of miles to the nearest M1 junction and the journey began.

All went well, we got lifts down to London, stopping at several of the service stations along the motorway where we could find a lift with a lorry driver and arrived, wet and cold, at Dover around 4 am in time for the 6:30 am ferry over to Oostende. Exhausted we settled down in the waiting room for a catnap.

At 10:15 am we were once again on dry land. Continental land. At first sight Oostende didn’t look much different to England, but at least it wasn’t raining. We quickly found the Tourist Information Office (the first building we sought out everywhere we went – second was a bank to change up our traveller’s cheques) and got directions to a nearby campsite where we would stay for a couple of nights. Catching the bus to the campsite we were fairly giddy with excitement.

Putting up the tent proved more difficult than we imagined (we had trialled it in England, using it at the Reading Festival a few weeks earlier) due to a blustery wind that had arisen from nowhere. As luck would have it a couple of English lads noticed our predicament and came to help. On condition we went for a drink with them afterwards. Cathy and I exchanged glances, it was going to be like that was it.

Tent up, we crawled into our sleeping bags and slept for a few hours, before joining the lads in the campsite bar for pints of Belgium beer. It turned out they were northerners too – Graham from Edale near Sheffield and Darren from Manchester. They were on their way home after a couple of weeks in the Netherlands. The campsite was close to the beach and later we watched as fireworks lit the sky. I was quite relieved that the boys were leaving the next day.

I was bored with life at home. Bored with my job as a junior clerk in a very well-known building society which basically meant filing; sorting the mail; lugging the heavy franking machine to the post office; making coffee for the boss; buying cakes when it was someone’s birthday. I could have done the job half asleep. And despite the fact that I was very good with numbers, because of my age I wasn’t allowed to be on the front desk dealing with customers.

Having to work Saturday mornings interfered with going to gigs on a Friday night, though there was one occasion where I actually slept in the railway station waiting room in Huddersfield after missing the last train home and having to go straight to work. Bored with the same old pubs each weekend. The same boring blokes.

I dreamed of white sand and aqua water, sunshine and olives, even though I had never eaten an olive. My best friend was also bored with her office job and with a little persuasion she agreed to come with me and explore Europe.

There was the sticky issue of getting a passport. I wasn’t quite eighteen so had to get my parent’s permission. Mum was dead against it, but catching dad back from the pub one evening it was easy to get him to sign the form. He had no idea what he was signing, but I am sure once mum found out he would never hear the end of it.

We didn’t have much money. Originally we had reckoned on saving up for a couple of years before embarking on our trip. In fact I had saved around eighty quid, but Cathy only had forty. But we reckoned that would get us to Greece, as long as we hitchhiked as much as possible, and camped.

My mother was very angry when I told her I had handed in my notice. She thought we were a pair of day-dreaming idiots. At the time it hadn’t crossed my mind that she might just have been worried.

A few weeks later, resignation letters handed in, backpacks chosen, a two-man tent purchased along with tent pegs, a wooden mallet* , camping stove and gas cylinders, pans and tin mugs and plates, assorted dried food and coffee and we were ready for the off.

Oostende here we come.

*(important)

What is it that makes one person keen to explore the world and another content to stay in the same place they were born? Is in in the genes? Is it curiosity? Comfort? Fear? Boredom?

As a child growing up in the UK my wanderings began before I had any say in them as my parents moved several times before I was a teenager, purely for dad’s employment. Being introduced as the new kid in school was embarrassing and cringe-making. I hated it, but it was what it was. Fortunately from the age of 10 we stayed put in Wakefield, West Yorkshire. Or at least they did. For a while.

Dad did ponder on taking us to Australia on the £10 scheme, but chickened out at the last minute which made me sad because I was so looking forward to seeing kangaroos and koalas and living by the sea. It did however spark a keen interest in all things Australian and what else was out there in the world and needless to say my favourite subject was geography.

Fast forward to 1970 when I was due to finish my O levels. I had enjoyed my grammar school education in the main, being part of the (rather successful) hockey team left me with good memories and great pals, I contributed to the school magazine, loved the English and Geography trips (mainly to parts of the  Yorkshire moors and dales) and enjoyed the languages I studied (French, German and Latin if you are remotely interested). My mother was keen for me to continue to study my A levels and go on to university. I, however had other plans. I decided I would train in hotel management, the idea being that it would be a route into working overseas. So off I went to Huddersfield Polytechnic.

I didn’t last long. The fact that I had to board during the week in a very inhospitable house which smelled of boiled cabbage (the sort you boil all day) combined with a very harsh typing teacher who hit the backs of your hands with a ruler if you dared to look at the keys whilst typing, severely tested my enthusiasm. When told I would be working in Harrogate over the Christmas break (the work experience part) away from friends and family, I quit. In retrospect that wasn’t the cleverest move on my part. But you can’t undo the past.

Six months later, standing in the kitchen drying the dishes from the usual Sunday lunch, with my mother washing up, my then boyfriend, dad and brother sitting in the lounge watching the football I had a lightbulb moment. My future life lay before me.

And so I cooked up a plan…