Coincidences with the ” Summer of ( not) Love”,1967…plus misadventure(s).

I had been at St Mary’s College of Education,Strawberry Hill, for one year, by the summer of 1967. A part of which is the most celebrated house, built by Horace Walpole; most of which was then, a Catholic teacher training college.

During an eventful and hugely enjoyable, first year, I had formed a relationship with ” Ariadne” and we had decided to spend part of the summer, hitch- hiking in Europe, together with her best friend “A” and her boy friend “D”, who was also, a close friend of mine. 

This was to be after both D and I had earned some money, working 14 days back to back, during the summer shutdown, at the Lucas battery factory, in Sparkhill, Birmingham. We were employed as part of the maintenance team, sub-contracted to Whittalls, a building company. Great money for 1967, but seriously dirty work, including the drilling up and replacing of the acid soaked floors of the ” battery shop”, as it was called.  I shall always remember the cry of the foreman, Mick, at the end of breaks:-

” Come On Me Lucky Lads!”

Moving on to our meeting place, Victoria Station, for the train to Dover and subsequent ferry to Ostend. D and I arrived rather early in London and spent the time in a pub, followed by a Chinese meal. This did nothing to calm the trepidations I had about this reunion, as I had felt my relationship with Ariadne,was heading for the rocks….Still, keeping up appearances, we boarded the ferry and set out on very rough crosssing. After agreeing our European destination would be Trieste, I made for the decks, as I felt nauseous. You can imagine what an impression that made. Having disembarked, we made our way to a junction, on foot, from where we hoped to get a lift, Eastwards. After what seemed a short time, a white van stopped and we were welcomed in to the cab. I positioned myself by the passenger window and not long after moving on,I wound down the window to expedite what was left of Chinescrackers and six pints of Watney’s Red Barrel. ( never touched it again ! ) This was much to the bemusement of the driver and embarrassment of Ariadne.

We had no camera, so there are no authentic snaps of this summer of not love, road trip. We must have hitched through Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, where we had to run out of a car, after the obviously drunk driver, had stopped for a pee, in a layby. 

Our relationship was unravelling and, feeling peeved, to say the least, I used to sing snatches of Bob Dylan songs,whilst waiting for a lift, at the roadside . My favourite song ( still is ) was, ” It’s Alright Ma ( I’m Only Bleeding ). A topical snippet, below :-

So don’t fear if you hear

A foreign sound to your ear

It’s alright ma, I’m only sighing” 

Then via Austria, into Italy. I do have vivid memories of the last lift because the driver , who described himself as an architect, had taken a shine to Ariadne. He went to extraordinary lengths to somehow get next to her. He took us for a meal ,in what seemed like a farmyard, even pointing out the chicken he wanted for dinner. Then into a bar, where he plied me with Stock Brandy….now this was a boy who could drink six pints of Watneys…so Brandy, my first, was not going to work! Finallly, he insisted we we went to a cinema,I placed myself between him and Ariadne, much to his chagrin. There were rows of benches in front, upon which the Italian audience roared with laughter at Laurel and Hardy. Exasperated, but still accommodating, our frustrated driver eventuallly dropped us off at the gates of the Campsite, in Trieste. Bats were swarming about the Campsite,in the twilight and Ariadne was most fearful of them.

The next day, it was decided to go by coach, down the Jadranska Magistrala, the Adriatic highway, to Dubrovnik. We bought the tickets, a day in advance to travel the length of Tito’s Yugoslavia.

We boarded the coach , in the evening, it was to be an overnight journey, so missed out on the amazing scenery, but I have driven it since. There were a number of tourists standing in the aisle, mostly Germans,I recall and so we were pleased with ourselves for having boarded the coach, early. That superior feeling was not to last, however. At some point, an official began shouldering his way down the coach, checking tickets. A was in charge of the tickets…..but, as she looked in her handbag, her searching became frenetic, as she couldn’t find them! Two things happened at the same time.The Germans began remonstrating with us for wrongfullly taking seats, when we didn’t even have tickets and I had to restrain D from trying to take them out. Simultaneously, the guard took out a revolver and insisted we handed over our passports. An early and contemporary Bee Gees sing, comes to mind.

“Oh you’re a holiday, such a holiday
 

Oh you’re a holiday, such a holiday

It’s something I thinks worthwhil e
If the puppet makes you smile 
If not then you’re throwing stones,
Throwing stones, throwing stones

Ooh it’s a funny game,
Don’t believe that it’s all the same
,Can’t think what I’ve just said 
,Put the soft pillow on my head

Millions of eyes can see,
Yet why am I so blind
,When the someone else is me
,It’s unkind, it’s unkind

Yet millions of eyes can see
Yet why am I so blind
When the someone else is me
It’s unkind, it’s unkind. ”

Arriving in Split, as dawn rose over the Roman remains, we were ejected from the coach and shown to a cafe, where we were to wait, until an interpreter could be found and hopefully prevent us from being locked up in some Communist Gulag. In the meantime, “A” emptied the considerable contents of her bag on to the table….there were the tickets, after all ! Don’t ask me…

We were soon put aboard another, ironically more luxurious, coach to Dubrovnik and arrived there in a tumultuous,thunder storm. This did nothing to mollify a collective mood of disenchantment with all things Yuogoslavian and so, tickets were immediately obtained, not by “A”, for a ferry back across the Adriatic, to Bari.

Things took a turn for the worse, in Bari, as I suffered the most awful sunburn to my legs, after lounging on some rocks in the bay, for far,too long and Ariadne discovered that someone had stolen her sundress from  the  communal washing line.

I only got some relief to my legs, when a friendly Campsite worker, having espied my plight, arrived with a tin of some soothing potion, which he gently applied to my legs. Elsewise, Bari was enjoyable enough despite the worsening relationship. 
I recall two incidents on the way back. Walking around Florence, with skeins of dead skin decorating my legs ; ghastly. And a really good lift from a Parisien, who took us from the Italian/French border to the Gare du Nord, from where we had just enough funds to buy a ticket to Ostend, for a calmer crosssing to Dover.

I had a return  ticket to Birmingham, which was just as well, as I was flat out of money, by this time. As for Ariadne,  Farewells ? None. Best captured in this Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris duet ” I Can’t Remember if We Said Goodbye”

I have bumped into Ariadne since then and things are cordial, but best summed up by Dylan, again:-

“So long honey babe

Where I’m bound, I cannot tell

But goodbye’s too good a word, gal

So I’ll just kinda say ‘Fare thee well’

Now I’m not saying that you treated me unkind

You could have done a lot better but I don’t mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don’t think twice, it’s all right” .

Coincidences?

Well, next week, fifty years on from the Summer of NOT Love, we travel much of the same route, in the motorhome, not toTrieste, but to Bari, to take a ferry to Igoumenitsa and a tour mainly around the Peloppones.

Furthermore, D and A, celebrate fifty years of marriage, later this year !

I wish everyone a happy summmer, if not of love, then pure and simple enjoyment.

Fifty years on and our relationship with Europe under a  titanic threat, I am ore than ever a Europhile.