Colin Ward recalls an early 1960s tour of Europe in a battered minibus named Esmerelda
When I tell you that the guiding light for our tour was a book titled Europe on $5 a Day you will appreciate that I speak of times that are long, long ago and in an economy far, far away.
We clattered round the continent in a beaten-up Bedford Dormobile that slept four, if nobody stretched their legs.
It was a great little bus. We just had to keep a careful eye on the brake fluid if we wanted to avoid disaster.We were all going somewhere after the trip. Rubin was off to Ireland in search of a medical degree, Dave was heading for a love affair in Canada and I was going to study drama in London.
Sadly, I don’t remember much about the fourth member of our gang, except that his name was Brian and he wore glasses.
No, I lie. There was something else about Brian.
We were in the Ratskeller in Hamburg. How they even let us into the place, I can’t imagine. It was packed with impeccable German suits, well-filled and gloriously pressed.
While my friends studied the 2 kilo menu, I went to the toilet and even this was an experience to be treasured. It was the sort of place where an attendant brushes your coat while you are busy at the urinal. A bit of a shock if you’re not expecting it.
He really had to work at my coat though, because it had been on my back more or less continuously since leaving London and had accumulated a fair amount of road dust.
It was obvious that a vast gratuity of Deutchmarks was expected in return, but I managed to sneak out quietly while he was showing one of the suits the large range of men’s toiletries he had on display.
The prices on the menu were shocking, too. Three of us settled for something that sounded like hamburgers, but Brian ordered the cheapest thing he could find.He gloated about it a bit because we hadn’t spotted the cheaper item. But when the food arrived, his turned out to be merely a thin, watery soup – with a raw egg floating in the centre of it. That’s all I remember about Brian.France, on the other hand, is etched in my mind forever. In two words. Expensive and rude. We lived on coffee and bread. And every baker in France pronounced the word for bread differently.
In case you don’t know, it’s pain. And that’s exactly what it was. You’d get it right with one baker, and the man three streets away would look at you as if you had just landed from Mars and then come out with a totally different pronunciation.
I’m sure they did it on purpose.
There was one night in Paris, though, when we had a wonderful meal, tasty and reasonable, in a restaurant with stunning hookers patrolling the street outside.
We were served with consideration and care, and seated at a table with an excellent view of the action on the pavement.
This, we felt, was the France we had expected. It almost made up for all those nasty bakers.
Belgium was a joy
Belgium was, however, a joy. We could afford to eat again. Every day. Sometimes twice! We toured the country in a state of carbohydrate-induced bliss.
We loved everything and everybody, but I remember nothing of Belgium except full plates and a rosy glow.Most people think of Holland as windmills and tulips. Our memories are of beer. We arrived in the border town of Breda while a beer festival was in full swing. A new brand was being launched and lots of the beer was free!
We hooked up with some mad Irishmen and I remember drinking and girls, and dancing to an Indonesian rock group. There was also an oompah band and a near fight with the Irish which ended with us all swearing eternal friendship and drinking each others’ health in yet another free stein of beer.
You haven’t lived until you’ve heard an Irishman try to say dronk verdriet.
The next thing I recall clearly was arriving in Amsterdam with a raging thirst and getting to the Amstel brewery just in time for the tour with its lifesaving free beer at the end of it.
Treasured memories of 'cultural' Europe
Ah, the treasured memories of cultural Europe.
And so we wandered through Denmark (pretty girls and Hans Christian Andersen) and made our way to Sweden.
We arrived in Stockholm at rush hour. And we got a flat tyre. In one of the main streets. With a traffic island down the centre and only two lanes of traffic each side. Which our immobilised Bedford had now reduced to one on our side.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen 500 Volvos, each with a very cross driver. If not, use your imagination. Lots of hooting. Overheating engines. Snarling. Shaking fists. Veins pulsing at temples. And some of those Swedish okes are big, hey? Viking material.
We were working like dogs to change the tyre in record time before one of those heavyweights decided to tackle us. But it was too late. Someone already had.
It was a little old man, leaning heavily on a stick and pointing to the side of our van where someone had written ‘South Africa” in the dust.
He didn’t like us. (These were the bad old days, remember, and we weren’t popular in several quarters.) He didn’t like us at all. And he told us so. Loudly, and in pretty good English, considering his rage. He went on. And on. And on.
Now, these days we know that he was in the right. And even in those days we might have conceded him some political points in a less tense atmosphere. But it was a bad time to pick on us. We weren’t in debating mode. All we wanted was to get the spare wheel on before Sven Forkbeard showed up with a lot of hairy men in horned helmets.
I don’t remember who it was who came out with it: Rubin, Dave, me or even the shadowy Brian.
But what is absolutely certain, is that one of us got up from his knees and with some firmness said: “Tell you what. Why don’t YOU change the wheel and we’ll all stand around and shout at you.”