Читать книгу My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969 - Anna Tomkins - Страница 2

Mother accepted the fait accompli with good grace and gradually warmed to the idea. Over the next couple of months we did a whistle stop tour of every camping and outdoor supplier in the North of England. No longer would we sleep under a pile of blankets on a ground sheet.

Now we all had airbeds to sleep on and thick comfortable sleeping bags to keep us warm and cosy at night. For cooking, mum chose a foldaway gas stove with twin burners and a grill. It folded up to the size of a small briefcase but was ready to use in just 2 minutes. She also picked a set of lightweight aluminium pans that fitted inside each other like a Russian doll. A sturdy 10-gallon water drum with a foot-operated pump would mean we had our own fresh water supply in the tent.

For nighttime, we all had a rubber torch each and a gas storm lamp for trips to the loo at night. Dad came across a set of 12-volt lights that plugged into the cigar lighter socket in the car. These made it possible to read after dark and cook in safety inside the tent. We would certainly be a lot more comfortable and self sufficient than on our first trip.

It would have been easy to get carried away with the range of accessories available: portable toilets; shower tents; gas heaters – the list was endless. Our problem was one of space. There was never going to be enough .Dad would have to find a way to get everything for a family of six for two weeks, including luxury accommodation (ok, a tent) into a family sized saloon car.

Oh yes, and the wife and kids.

To help with this, dad bought a specially designed roof rack. It covered almost the full length of the car roof and could be packed high in a turtle shape, the contents being held in place by a tough waterproof covering and stretch cables. When taken off the car and re-assembled, the roof rack became a kitchen unit with storage shelves, wash basin and work surface.

Even so, it was going to be very cramped inside the car indeed.

We had another couple of weekends away to get the hang of all the equipment. This included a thoroughly miserable trip to a site in Rhyll in North Wales, when it rained cats and dogs from the minute we arrived and is probably still raining to this day. We got soaked putting the tent up, and never got either warm or dry the whole weekend. The site had only the barest of facilities and we had a thoroughly depressing time cooped up in the tent with some colouring books and puzzle books for entertainment. This, reasoned dad, was exactly why we should be going to Spain for our holidays, and some more predictable and reliable summer weather. At least he was right on that score.

By the beginning of August final preparations were in hand for the assault on Southern Europe. Dad got permission from his employers to use the company car for the trip, and they helpfully arranged for a “Green Card” extension to the car insurance cover for driving in Europe.

There was a major difference between our family and the happy travelers. Dad had read about in the newspaper article – they had six weeks to make the trip and we only had two.

So reasoned my father, if we were going to be in Spain long enough to get a suntan, we would have to get there and back as fast as possible. Oh god.

It is a long long way from Manchester to Barcelona. A bloody long way. Dad had it all worked out – He had contacted the automobile club to ask for advice. They provided him with a series of map cards detailing suggested routes, advising on road conditions and expected travel times between major towns. Thoughtfully they also provided a card with useful motoring phrases in French – later to be a source of endless amusement. We could tell somebody in French that we suspected the front wheel bearings needed inspection and possible replacement. We could not however order anything useful, like a cheese sandwich. Or chips.

So, armed with the route cards, a Michelin road guide and a list of recommended campsites in France and Spain, Dad planned the trip in detail. Honest to god, Alexander the Great took less time planning the conquest of Xerxes and the Persian Empire.

Like all great military disasters through the ages, the plan was simple to follow and practically foolproof. Leaving at midnight from Manchester to avoid traffic delays, we would reach Dover and the English coast in around six hours. Allow an hour for any possible delays (yes, you mother) and catch the seven am hovercraft to France, with time for Dad to grab a catnap on the 45 minute crossing. Then drive hell for leather down the fast autoroute to Paris and on to the South, stopping only for fuel. We would have to make our bathroom trips coincide with garage pit stops. A combination of caffeine tablets and witch hazel eye swabs would keep the driver awake and hopefully alert for nearly two days. There would be plenty of time to sleep on the beach when we arrived.

At last the day arrived for our great adventure to begin. We all helped to pack the car. Most of the camping accessories, tent and poles went on the roof rack. We joked about it being stacked so high we would have to be careful going under low bridges – you know that line about many a true word said in jest? The car boot was full of clothes for six people for two weeks, pots and pans and the rest of the camping gear that we couldn’t put on the roof rack for fear of causing a hazard to low flying aircraft or upsetting the flight path of migrating geese.

Mother was packed into the front passenger seat; sardine like, her legs hemmed in by tins of baked beans, packets of breakfast cereal and other essential items of food that we wrongly assumed might be unavailable in Spain. On her lap were perched the map and route cards. Before we left, I turned the map the right way up for her so at least she might get off to a good start.

If mum had it bad sat in the front of the car, life in the back of the car was no picnic either. The foot wells were filled in with the inflatable airbeds, the rear seat covered in a thick layer of six sleeping bags. When the four children were shoehorned in for take off, we found ourselves packed in so tightly that we were sat with our knees up around our ears and next to no clearance between our heads and the car roof. In days to come it would be a constant battle between us to be last into the car and get a coveted window seat. For the two kids in the middle it was like the nightmare of being trapped in the rubble of an apartment block after a 7.5 Richter earthquake. No fresh air and no possible way out without outside intervention. It would have had Harry Houdini howling from claustrophobia. Animal rights campaigners insist on more space for battery hens. Still only for two days…

So we were ready. At exactly midnight (we actually had to synchronize our watches would you believe), the family saloon started up and we set off on our great adventure. The poor car was so heavily laden it had the ground clearance of a lazy crocodile.

It was just as well it was dark when we left – if the neighbours had been witnesses to conditions in the back of the vehicle they might have alerted the authorities. My father would have faced charges of causing unnecessary suffering to minors and we would probably have spent our summer holiday in council care. To keep us amused on the long trip, mother had thoughtfully bought us a magnetic travel chess and draughts set. Unfortunately it is well nigh impossible to play if your arms are pinned to your sides by the immediate proximity of your siblings.

No matter! We were on our way to high adventure and nothing could dampen our spirits. With Radio Luxembourg blasting out the latest hits in the background we trucked south, the family singing along with all the musical harmony of a rusty nail trapped under a revolving door.

We made good time all the way to London. Now the easy thing would be to go around London on the ring road. Yep.That would have been the easy thing to do, right enough.

To save time dad decided he would drive straight through central London. He had lived and worked in the capital when he had first come to England in the 1950`s, and he was sure he could take us right through without a hitch. Mum abdicated all responsibility saying that the route cards recommended going around not through – if dad wanted to choose his own route, it was down to him.

It did not prove to be a wise decision. As we got closer to the center, we became hopelessly lost in a maze of one way streets, all of which seemed to lead us round in circles. In the twenty years since dad had lived here the place had changed beyond recognition.

Then a stroke of luck. We spotted a French refrigerated truck heading in what we took to be a southerly direction. We assumed that having delivered his load he was now heading back to France via the channel ports. It seemed a reasonable bet at least. So we followed him, glued to his taillights. At one point we even jumped a set of red traffic lights so as not to lose him. It was ok. It was 4.30 in the morning and there wasn’t another soul around.

The French truckie certainly knew his way around London, throwing the big truck around the narrow city streets as if he did this trip every day. Then without warning he stopped. We waited some moments for him to start off again. Instead the truckie came to the back of his truck and began to gesture angrily at us to back up. We slowly obliged. Then the angry Frenchman opened the doors on the back of his truck and made preparations to offload his cargo.

It was at this point that there were lots of men around dressed in white coats and hats, wheeling around stacks of boxes. There was also an all-pervading smell of fish.

My father rolled down his window and hailed a white coated young man pushing a trolley loaded with boxes of what looked a lot like fresh haddock.

“Excuse me mate, where are we exactly?” asked my father meekly.

“Billingsgate fish market” answered the chirpy cockney as he sped past with his load.

I could see my mother’s smug expression clearly reflected in the rear view mirror. Up yours Mister-know-it-all, it said.

Time was now not on our side if we were to make our ferry booking at Dover. Then my father had an idea. “I have an idea,” he said. Told you he did.

He jumped out of the car and ran across the road to talk to the driver of a black taxicab. In fact he was the only person in our vehicle physically capable of jumping out of the car without help. The rest of us would need the assistance of specialist rescue teams equipped with those cutting machines that firefighters use in the aftermath of a major rail disaster. Then the car could be searched by highly trained sniffer dogs and infra red cameras to make sure they hadn’t missed anybody. It really was that cramped in there.

Anyway, dad spoke to the taxi driver for a minute or two, and then handed over a note of the realm. The children all looked at each other, mindful of the fact that we had not as yet been given any holiday pocket money. Dad jumped back into the drivers seat and announced simply “That’s that sorted”. The taxi pulled away from the curb and we followed in hot pursuit. He led us out of town onto the main road south. In front of a sign indicating the way to Dover and the Channel ports, he pulled over, pointed at the sign and gave us a cheery wave and toot on the car horn.

“Good luck” he shouted as we sped on by. I appreciated the sentiment.

We reached the ferry port with twenty minutes to spare. The speed cops thankfully must have been taking well-earned forty winks. Tickets checked at the kiosk, we were directed to a line of vehicles waiting to board. Ahead we could see our hovercraft racing majestically towards us. Our spirits soared at the prospect of being on board such a magnificent craft.

I had been lucky to travel this first leg of the journey with a window view. Now I had an opportunity to glance out the window and observe some of our fellow travelers.

On our right were lined up all the cars with trailers or caravans, a minibus and a transit van. Directly adjacent to us was a large red Volvo estate towing the biggest luxury caravan I had ever seen.

Now I am not a fan of Volvos, especially the estate models. I find them about as ascetically pleasing to the eye as a house brick with headlights. Who actually cares if it’s the safest car on the road to drive? Do you really want to drive around town in the Scandinavian equivalent of Hitler’s Berlin bunker on wheels? Thanks but no thanks.

However that was not what was occupying my mind at this precise moment. Instead I was staring enviously at the cavernous space behind the drivers seat.

Two young children about my age lounged in this vast indoor arena. They had enough room in there to play table tennis. From my cramped quarters I could only imagine what it must be like to travel in such pomp and splendour.

I caught the younger child, a boy, staring back at me. A puzzled expression on his face. The boy craned his neck as though trying to work something out in his mind. Then he nudged his sister and she joined him at the window. A short conversation ensued, and then both children poked their mother in the back. She also turned and stared. The father leaned across his wife to look at us.

“Good lord, there are six of them in there”, he mouthed.

Luckily our lane started to move. Slowly we climbed the ramp into the belly of the hovercraft. A man in orange overalls and wearing ear protectors guided us into position on the car deck. He was waving a set of luminous red ping pong bats around like he was positioning fighter aircraft on the deck of an aircraft carrier, no doubt with the theme music to “The Dambusters “ playing through his ear defenders. He banged on the bonnet of the car to indicate he was satisfied we could go no further toward the vehicle in front without actually shunting him out the front of the hovercraft and back onto the car park.

“Handbrake on and out of the vehicle, please sir”.

Somewhat stiffly dad got out of the car. Nobody else moved. Nobody else could move!

Mum’s left leg had gone to sleep where it was jammed between some tins of baked beans and the passenger door. My father went round to her side of the car and helped her get gingerly to her feet.

It took considerably longer to get us out of the back seat. After some seven hours or so cramped in the foetal position, our limbs were in a very uncooperative mood, so we were pretty much dragged out and onto the vehicle deck. Unable to stand up straight we hobbled along after my limping mother towards the passenger deck.

Behind us the Volvo family looked on with undisguised amusement. “Good lord, if it isn’t the Quasimodo family”, hooted Daddy Volvo.

“Har, har, har”, laughed the other Little Volvos.

“Sod off and die dogbreath”, I thought to myself, but being only ten years old decided it prudent to keep my thoughts quiet.

Our family went to the very front of the passenger deck where the seats gave the best view. Dad appeared from the direction of the buffet with a can of cola and a chocolate bar for each of us, which we soon polished off.

When the last of the passengers and vehicles were safely on board, the captain started the engines. The biggest of the engines quickly filled the skirt with air and the body of the hovercraft gently rose up off the ground. Four smaller propeller engines mounted at each corner on the roof of the hovercraft provided the forward thrust and steering.

The hovercraft picked up speed as it turned out of the car park, crossed the shingle beach and slipped smoothly on to the surface of the sea.

Travelling by hovercraft is a most unusual and unique sensation. The craft skims over the surface of the sea making the most minimal of contact, held aloft on a cushion of air, so it travels much faster than a conventional ferry.

Soon we were racing over the Goodwin Sands – a natural sand barrier that lies just below the water but becomes visible in paces at low tide. For centuries it has been a hazard to unwary ships. We could see the skeletal remains of some of its unlucky victims stuck fast in the treacherous sands, rotting masts pointing at the clouds.

Sand barriers, sea, beaches, car parks – it was all the same to our hovercraft. We didn’t even have to slow down.

My father had just closed his eyes to get half-hours sleep when there was a tap on his shoulder. Daddy Volvo was about to engage him in conversation.

“I say old chap, couldn’t help noticing you people s we were getting on the ferry. Not going far are you? You seem awfully overloaded, if you don’t mind me saying so”.

“Barcelona”, replied dad curtly hoping the smarmy sod would go and bug somebody else. Not an earthly.

“That roof rack of yours looks rather unsteady and it is awfully high you know. You may find that the Gendarmes will have something to say about it when we land in Calais, old chum.”

We find it much more convenient to travel with the caravan. A regular home from home you might say. Of course we are old hands when it comes to tripping around France. Been coming here for years…”

Daddy Volvo had a really plumy upper class accent coupled with an extremely arrogant attitude. The overall effect of listening to him being somewhat less attractive than the sound of fingernails being dragged across a blackboard. I found myself wondering if you could hit him really hard on the head with a spade, could you make it adopt the same shape, like happens in Tom & Jerry cartoons.

He droned on and on, neither listening to nor interested in anything anybody else had to say. Dad gave up any hope of getting his catnap and tried manfully to get a word in edgeways.

But I had my own problems to contend with. Once over the Goodwin Sands, the sea had become very choppy. The hovercraft was no longer gliding smoothly along but bouncing from the top of one wave to the next one. Or worse, bouncing off the top of one wave and dropping heavily into the trough before the next big wave hit.

Now, I love roller coaster rides. I can spend a fortune in an amusement park. This trip was fast becoming the roller coaster ride from hell. What I like about roller coaster rides is that you have that adrenaline fuelled two or three minutes, then it stops and you return to terra firma. Nobody sensible uses all his or her ride tickets up one after the other without pause for breath. Not me anyway.

Initially we four children were having a lot of fun. We invented a game of seeing which one of us could stand in front of our seat the longest before the erratic motion of the hovercraft would steal our balance, forcing us to fall back into our seat.

My spine was slowly straightening out, the stiffness leaving my limbs. I was returning to my normal shape and height. Internally things were not going nearly so well.

If you are prone to seasickness then do not, if you can possibly avoid it, cross the seas by hovercraft. Just trust me on this one.

Many years of foreign travel have taught me that I hate being on the sea and the sea hates me. Being possibly the world’s worst sailor is a serious drawback when you are born to an “island nation” like Britain. To get off the place and visit anywhere else on the planet, you have to somehow cross the sea. I can actually get a queasy stomach watching a documentary on migrating whales, or even worse, Jacques Cousteau re-runs. If I had been Christopher Columbus the world would be a much different place today. Aztecs would possibly still rule South America and the plains of North America would still be teeming with herds of migrating buffalo. Why? Simple. I would have sailed once round Cadiz harbour, thrown up that morning’s chorizo sausage and called the whole thing off.

As far as I am concerned mankind’s greatest technological achievement is not the internal combustion engine, satellite communications or the computer chip. Without a doubt it is the Channel Tunnel. Now, not only do you no longer have to risk the open waters, you don’t even have to look at them. An outstanding contribution to civilisation in my book. All those whom contributed to its construction should be awarded knighthoods and offered early retirement. Back on the hovercraft, I was about to have my first experience of that ghastly sensation known to fellow sufferers as “just kill me now please and end this misery” that is severe seasickness.

I was no longer in competition with my siblings to see how long I could stay on my feet. Rather I was sat on the edge of my seat, stomach clutched tightly and head between my knees. It wasn’t going to help. Having never been seasick before, I had no idea why I was feeling so bad, what to do about it or what might happen next. Like children usually do, I decided to consult with the fountain of all knowledge. Dad.

I turned to the side, “Dad?”

“Just a minute son, I’m talking”. He wasn’t actually. He was being talked at.

“Dad I feel really ill. Dad, honestly, I think I might be …Dad?

“In a minute, son”, he totally missed the tone of growing desperation in my voice.

“Please Dad, I’m definitely going to be…Dad .Daaad…Urrgh…Raalfffff.”

Conversation across the aisle ceased in mid sentence. Dad stared dumbly at the equally speechless Mr. Volvo Driver.

Mr. Volvo Driver was staring in disbelief at his legs. From the knees down they were coated in a body temperature cocktail of chocolate and coke. The event had been so sudden and volcanic that I half expected to recognise some of my internal organs flopping around on the deck. It was not a pretty sight.

I just about had time to mumble “Uh, sorry”, before Mother grabbed me by the arm and half dragged me outside onto a narrow promenade deck for some fresh air.

A kindly stewardess, carrying a box of tissues to help clean me up accompanied us. Her assistance would have been a lot more appreciated by Mr. Volvo Driver, for sure. I had escaped relatively unharmed. After all I had done my best to get the goo as far away from me as possible. The stewardess agreed.

“That was amazing,”she confided to my mother. “I never would have believed someone so small could throw something so far without using their hands. I`ve been doing this crossing three times a day for the last five years and that is the most awesome example of projectile vomiting I have ever witnessed.”

I can’t say I felt particularly proud.

Dad joined us on the promenade deck. I was holding on to the handrail like a drowning man gripping a rescue rope. Mum went off to check on the others.

“How are you feeling, son?”

“Absolutely crap,” I answered convinced I could not get myself into any more trouble. I waited for the clout on the back of the head, the obligatory reward for an outburst of uncouth language. It didn’t come.

I turned to look up at my father. His face was split by a huge grin and he was struggling not to laugh out loud. He slipped some silver coins into my pocket.

“Here take this, but don’t tell the others, or they will all want to throw up over annoying assholes.” He winked at me, conspiratorially.

“Just one thing, don’t spend it on coke or chocolate on the way back. You’re too bloody dangerous on that stuff.”

No problem, I thought. If it means another trip on this bouncing torture chamber, I’m not bloody coming back. Dad distracted me.

“Look son, Europe!” he pointed ahead.

Fast approaching were the sand dunes of the French coast. My ordeal was almost over.

Funny how things happen in life sometimes isn’t it? The opening of the Channel Tunnel marked the end of the hovercraft ferry service between Ramsgate and Calais. The hovercrafts were too expensive to run. I remember seeing the last service on the evening news several years ago and felt a touch of nostalgia – I had many happy crossings on the hovercraft once I stayed off the coke and chocolate and discovered the benefits of travel sickness pills.

I have been living and working in West Africa for a while now. Usually if I have to fly to Freetown in Sierra Leone, I take the short helicopter shuttle from the airport at Lungi, across the river to the city. Now there is an alternative service, introduced just this year. They have bought the very hovercraft that I first traveled on all those years ago. The trip takes longer, but it’s worth it to say hello to an old friend.