My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969

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.

_{Chapter 3: Bienvenue en France}

We had arrived! The hovercraft entered a gap in the wall of sand dunes and reduced speed to a fast walking pace as it approached the car park. The engine note faded to a low drone and our craft gently lowered itself onto the tarmac, the air leaving the supporting skirt in a hiss.

The drivers and their passengers hurried to their vehicles anxious to continue their journeys. I wondered if any of them intended to travel as far as us.

Sadly our first moments in Continental Europe were marred by an undignified brawl. Nobody wanted to have to sit in the middle of the back seat – starved of air and only able to look straight ahead. Our parents separated us and allocated us our positions on the understanding that it would be “all change” when we stopped for fuel.

The row of vehicles on our right disembarked before us. Mr. Volvo driver looked icy daggers at me as he crawled past and the little Volvos pulled faces. Hey, I said I was sorry. So post me the dry cleaning bill! When I am old enough, I’ll get a paper round to pay for it.

Our car soon followed and we joined the procession to the customs barrier. Here a bored customs official and a couple of equally bored Gendarmes gave our documents a cursory inspection before handing them back. Even though our car, being from Britain, was right hand drive, they insisted on standing on the left of the car and dealing with the driver through the passenger window. Just a subtle way of letting us know we were in their world now. The officials took no notice of our heavily laden vehicle and merely waved us on.

Clearly it was inconceivable to them that there might possibly be anything in Britain worth smuggling into France. Like what? Cheese? Wine? Cognac? Mais non mes amis! Any smuggling would only be conceivable if it were going in the opposite direction.

A sign in English reminded us that pretty much the rest of the universe drives on the right hand side of the road, and we were off.

Dad popped some caffeine tablets to keep him alert. All the traffic seemed to be heading out of Calais. We followed and it wasn’t long before we picked up signs for Paris.

I am not sure what I expected, but the towns and villages we passed through all looked so different from home, so French if you like. I can’t actually come up with a better description.

The skies were clear and blue. The ambient temperature already several degrees warmer than when we had left Manchester.

It was strange to see things like advertising billboards, some advertising familiar products, but not being able to make head nor tail of the captions.

Indeed at the time none of us spoke either French or Spanish. However we did have a list of useful phrases for the traveller supplied by the auto club along with the route maps. One of these phrases became the immortal “Trente litres d`essance s`il vous plait.” The list of useful phrases did not supply any variations on this request, so we were obliged to order ‘thirty litres of petrol please’ any time we needed fuel.

The height of the roof rack and heavy load on board made the car slightly less fuel efficient and aerodynamic than The Houses of Parliament. Our fuel consumption was roughly the same as a badly maintained Concorde passenger jet, so we ended up visiting practically every other petrol station between Calais and Barcelona asking for {you guessed it}, thirty litres of petrol please.

This slowed us down a bit but at least it gave us the chance to exchange places in the back at fairly regular intervals.

We tried to fill up on fuel only at Total and Elf service stations because they had free gifts with every fuel purchase. By the time we returned to England we had a complete set of miniature plastic busts of famous French writers, artists and composers, courtesy of Total. Courtesy of Elf, we had enough high ball glass tumblers to kit out one of the Queens garden parties. I am sorry Shell; your freebies were rubbish.

By late morning we had reached the outskirts of Paris. I was disappointed that we would not be able to spend any time here, and hoped at least for a glimpse of the Eiffel tower on the way past. The route map recommended going around Paris on a big ring road known as the Peripherique. It indicated where we would join the Peripherique and the best place to leave it to continue our journey south.

It didn’t indicate that this was the most dangerous place on earth. The road to hell. No diversions. I suggest anybody forced to use this horror of a bypass would be well advised to take a large dose of LSD at the last toll booth before Paris – the nightmare of a bad trip could be no worse than the terrors of driving on this evil stretch of tarmac.

It has been suggested that the chariot race in Ben Hur was based on a movie mogul’s abortive attempt to circumnavigate Paris at rush hour.

The Peripherique is many laned. Cars drive flat out at all times. They drive so close to one another that direction indicators are useless. To signal your intentions to other road users the custom is to blare your horn repeatedly then just execute the manoeuvre, change lane or whatever, even if it is against the laws of Physics to be able to get your car into the available space. French drivers don’t have a lot of time for the laws of physics. So far as I can tell French drivers have heard of the Highway Code, but don’t believe it has a significant role to play in the day to day life of La Republique. Basically a nice idea but not very practical if you want to get to work on time.

We were approaching the highway with great trepidation. It did not seem possible for us to slot into the traffic flow, so tightly was it packed. We were lucky, you might say. The coach directly in front of us just threw himself off the slip road on to the main highway, forcing several cars to swerve or brake hard. Amid a cacophony of angry car horns we slid into the gap. Dad swallowed a handful of caffeine tablets, clearly uncomfortable with what was happening around us.

Soon we came upon another approach road. Traffic joining our lane at high speed, uncaring that our family was actually already in the space they wanted to occupy. Dad was forced to swerve into a faster lane accompanied by more blaring car horns.

Mother’s eyes were glued to the map. It was a lot less traumatic than watching the traffic around us. For the first time I wanted to swap places with my brother and sit in the middle.

“How much further to our exit Maria?”

“Not much further. Two more junctions I think”

“What do you mean, you think?” Panic rising. Dad did not want to be here at all.

“Just come off when you see a sign for Orleans.”

Some twenty minutes went by before the sign for the Orleans exit appeared. Dad kept looking over his shoulder, hoping for a gap in traffic so we could pull over into the exit lane.

Suddenly we found ourselves being overtaken on the inside by a monstrous truck – another manoeuvre the Highway Code advises strongly against on safety grounds. The monstrous truck was towing an even more monstrous trailer, both bearing the symbol of a laughing cartoon character cow on the sides. Dad didn’t find it funny. The thing had more wheels than a centipede has feet and it was thundering along just inches to the side of us. I have been on shorter commuter trains than this truck ensemble. Now the driver had slowed so that he was just keeping pace with us, studiously ignoring our flashing indicators.

There was no way past him. The exit for Orleans passed us by.

“Bastard” screamed my father impotently.

The monster truck was enjoying his little game with us. When we slowed down, so did he. He made us miss the next turn off as well.

“Right, that’s it. Now I’ve had enough of you clowns”. Dad’s face now set grim and determined. As we approached the next exit, he hit the brakes hard and executed a move not unlike the one Michael Schumacher made to win the Formula One championship by wiping out his nearest challenger on the first bend of the decisive race. You remember that unfortunate accident? Certainly not deliberate, right? Yes, right.

Dads move worked without a collision and at last we had escaped The Peripherique. Thank God.

We drove a short distance and pulled in at a parking spot. Dad was shaking as the adrenaline slowly ebbed out of his system. He took several moments to regain some composure.

“Okay then. Where are we exactly?”

Mum looked just a touch blank. My little brother came to her rescue “France, daddy”.

“Nobody likes a smart ass, John, so leave the map reading to your mother please”.

He turned back to mother. “Any ideas? Any at all?”

“Not really too sure. Got a little confused when we missed the Orleans turn off. Did we overshoot by two junctions or three? Tell you what, why don’t we get back on the ring road going the other way until we get back to where we should be.”

This suggestion was just enough to send dads new found composure to the back of the draw where you keep odd socks, just in case one day you happen across the missing one.

“Are you mental, woman? I am never, ever, ever going on that road again. Not even if it means we have to go home via Copenhagen to avoid it.”

He had started to shake again at the mere thought of getting on and off the Peripherique again, his left eye developing a nervous twitch. He gripped the steering wheel and began muttering to himself: “Think calm thoughts. Think calm thoughts. Remember there are children in the car. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. In pastures green…”

Half way through reciting the psalm he regained control, took a deep, deep breath and asked to see the map. Mum was happy to hand it over.

Dad has always had a brilliant sense of direction – my Uncle Alan reckoned he was three parts Irish and one part homing pigeon. He studied the map for a few minutes, then went through an elaborate charade with the sole intention of entertaining us kids.

Firstly he leaned out the window and checked the angle of the sun against the time on his wristwatch. Then he wet one finger and held it up to check the wind direction.

“Hmm, Chartres dead ahead. We can pick up signs for Orleans there,” he announced. A couple of minutes drive later the sign for Chartres appeared.

“ Awesome Dad. Way to go Tonto!”

“All in a days work for an ex cowboy like me,” he said modestly. This statement was only partly accurate. As a boy back in Ireland he used to spend his summer holidays on a farm helping out. Sometimes he would look after cows. Cow boy sounds just like cowboy if you say it quick. And he could ride a horse.

On the way into Chartres we picked up the signs for ‘Centre Ville’ or town centre if you like. Once in the town centre another sign, ‘Toutes Directions’ led us back out again. A turn off the main road indicated ‘Orleans’. We were back on track, but on a minor road not a main route.

This was a single lane in each direction. The road had a pronounced camber with drainage ditches running along each side. Tall poplar trees flanked the route, providing a welcome shade from the afternoon sun.

It was easy to imagine it packed with refugees fleeing ahead of the advancing German troops just thirty years before. Now the road was quiet. The only people blitzkrieging their way along it were us. Dad was trying to make up lost time. We were going through sleepy villages and hamlets so fast, that it is a wonder they didn’t scramble the French airforce to intercept. For the rest of the holiday, my little sister was convinced that all the sheep and cows were about thirty feet long and blurred in shape.

It was late afternoon when we reached Orleans and found the “Toutes Directions” signs. All the car windows were open but it was still stifling hot inside, as we crawled along the busy rush hour streets of the city. At one point the road ran alongside a broad river spanned by several bridges. We stopped at a set of red traffic lights. On our left stood a charming pavement café, where a family of four were enjoying delicious looking ice cream sundaes. At another table an elderly chap in a grey flannel suit was reading a newspaper, sipping alternately between his coffee and a large brandy.

“Lord I would murder for one of those ice creams,” Mum voiced aloud what the rest of us were also thinking.

“Know what you mean love” agreed Dad. “Never mind. With a bit of luck this time tomorrow we will be on a beach in Spain sipping pina colada.”

I had no idea what a pina colada was, but I was very much looking forward to finding out.

The lights changed to green and our car followed the general flow of traffic onto a bridge and across the river. Progress out of Orleans was proving to be very slow going. It’s a big place and everybody around was heading home at the same time. After about forty-five minutes we were again running parallel with the river and stopped at another set of traffic lights. They certainly went in for charming riverside pavement cafes in this place.

Wait a minute – isn’t that the same elderly chap in the flannel suit? So it was. The family had gone. By now the man had finished his newspaper and was reclining in his chair, head back and eyes closed. A fresh brandy in his hand, he was enjoying the last of the afternoon sun on his face.

Judging from the steam coming out of our driver’s ears and the groan of dismay from the front passenger seat, I was not the only one to have noticed.

“I think we should carry straight on past the lights and keep the river on our left,” suggested mother with little conviction. “What a great idea,” said the driver sarcastically.

“Eventually the river will reach the Atlantic. Then we can hug the coastline down past Portugal, round the Straits of Gibraltar, up the Mediterranean and approach the campsite from the south. Hey! That saves us getting lost in Barcelona! Brilliant”

He was losing his sense of humour, I could tell. I was already dreading the rest of the trip.

“What do you think kids? Anybody in the back know the Portuguese for thirty liters of petrol please?”

He ate some more caffeine tablets, wiped his tired eyes with a wet wipe and sullenly drove on, keeping the river on our left.

More by good luck than good judgement we found the way out of Orleans and rediscovered the auto route south.

Once again we were low on petrol, but we insisted dad keep driving until we reached a Total filling station so we could add to our collection of miniature plastic busts of famous French people that we had never heard of. The lady who took our money handed me a small plastic Voltaire. I showed her our expanding haul of plastic busts to indicate that we already had a Voltaire. She kindly exchanged it for a Debussy and threw in a Jules Verne for good measure. The day wasn’t going so badly after all.

Evening turned to night. In the back of the car we dozed fitfully as dad drove on, ever closer to the Spanish border. By now dad had been driving for over twenty-four hours, much of it on the opposite side of the road to what he was used to. It was a stressful journey, particularly for dad.

Despite having consumed the caffeine equivalent to a couple of Starbucks Coffee Houses, his head was starting to nod and he was struggling to maintain concentration.

“Its no use love,” he admitted to mum. “I’m going to have to pull over and rest for half an hour.”

Ever since his time in the army he has been able to catnap for half an hour, then wake up refreshed and ready to go. A very useful knack if you have it.

At the next services we picked up some more fuel, thirty liters to be exact, and a plastic Chopin. To one side of the service area was a large car park with a picnic area. We parked up in a quiet corner. Mum woke us all and pulled us from the car so dad could recline his seat and stretch out a little.

We were somewhere in the Massif Central. The elevation made the night air cold, so we pulled on our coats. Tired and irritable, the Quasimodo children followed their mother to a nearby wooden picnic table, where she distributed soft drinks and the last of the sandwiches she had prepared before we left Manchester.

All four of us were fussy eaters. Mother always indulged us by making a pile of sandwiches to cater to our individual tastes. She need not have bothered this time. By now the sandwiches were so stale that they were not so much food, but more like a new form of composite building material. After a few half-hearted bites I left mine on a wall for the birds. Really it was not an act of kindness. Any poor bird that managed to eat some of my leftovers would probably find itself too heavy to take off for a week. We spent a very boring hour sat around the picnic table, before dad at last emerged from his chrysalis like state in the car. Fresh as a daisy, just as predicted.

“Let’s go guys. With a bit of luck we could be on the beach by tea time,” he assured us.

By the time dawn had risen we were within an hour of the Spanish border. Time for another fuel stop. No Total station around this time, so we had to make do with patronising an Elf station and collecting some glassware instead.

We had reached a large service area with an out of town shopping mall. Mother had noted our lack of enthusiasm for last night’s sandwiches and suggested we visit the hypermarket for some fresh supplies.

I love shopping in hypermarkets abroad. Okay, it may take two hours to walk round the place, and sometimes even longer to negotiate the check out queue. And the owners should face criminal prosecution for the tacky background music [Beatles cover versions played on a Hammond organ – you know the stuff I mean]. At least you can just pick up the products you want without having to overcome a language barrier or tote around an English to whatever-language dictionary. Having to deal with completely disinterested shop assistants in your own language is bad enough, but abroad? You’ll see what I am getting at later.

So, thirty litres of petrol heavier, we turned out of the fuel area and towards the central car park serving the mall. Trucks and buses to the left, cars to the right.

“ Bill STOP! Screamed mum. Just for a change he didn’t ask why, he stood on the brakes. The car came to an abrupt halt mere inches away from an overhead barrier with a sign on it indicating <maximum vehicle height 2 metres>.

Why do they do that? I mean what bloody difference does it make how tall your car is. All you want is a convenient place to park so you don’t have to carry your shopping half way round the continent. It’s not like you’re at the front of a drive in movie theatre and nobody behind can see the screen. It’s just a sodding car park.

Even the local fast food burger place has an overhead barrier on the car park. Why for God’s sake? Is it to keep out those riffraff truck drivers? Hardly. Those riffraff truck drivers have got more sense.

When truck drivers are hungry they stop at places that sell real food cooked by people that actually know how to cook, and not a slice of gherkin in sight.

They stop at places where you are not still hungry after spending ten pounds on processed junk food, served by a bored adolescent with acne so bad even his own mother wont kiss him goodnight.

Truckers stop at places where they can get a decent mug of tea or coffee and not be offered a choice of: regular; medium or large and the ubiquitous “do you want fries with that?” Incidentally, it is not ‘regular’. It is small. S.M.A.L.L. So let’s stop kidding ourselves shall we? Since when did the catering community officially list the word ‘small’ as a dirty word?

Sorry, I lost the plot there for a minute. Just don’t get me started on ‘theme pubs’, all right?

Now where were we…oh yes. South of France, stopped inches away from a big steel warning notice that our car was too tall to pass beneath.

“Phew, that was a close call,” said dad.

“Yes, we just about got away with that one,” agreed mum. Just about, but not quite.

It all happened in a split second, but looking back I remember it in slow motion. The six of us leaning forward, peering up at the sign. The sudden jolt forward as the car behind hit us, not having any reason to expect us to stop so suddenly.