Travel Biography - Week 3.

Up to and throughout the 1960s, it would have been normal to take a summer holiday at a British seaside resort. Here, I envisage the overcast sky with a breeze driving light rain along the shiny wet promenade, people strolling along under their umbrellas casually, as if familiar with the weather. The battleship-grey sea crashed its white, foamy waves onto the nearly-deserted shingle beach, with perhaps one, maybe two, hardy swimmers some thirty metres out at sea. Along the resort's main seafront, fish & chip bars are making a roaring trade, customers leaving the takeaways with their snacks wrapped in white sheets of thick insulating paper. Within the amusement arcades, lights flash, bells ring, and music plays whilst the many gaming machines gorge on our cash like hungry monsters under the guise of entertainment.

Typical British Summer...

Therefore, with dismal summers year in, year out, it was no surprise that sooner or later, some clever individual or group of people thought up the idea of cheap travel overseas to bathe under warm Mediterranean sunshine. As such, I was around to watch Court Line launch its two daughter holiday companies - Clarksons and Horizon, along with other independent companies taking their place in this new market, including Cosmos Holidays. Unfortunately, Court Line ceased trading in 1974 after failing to make a profit and its need to go bankrupt.

In 1972, after our booking at Butlins was rejected due to us being an unmarried couple, my girlfriend Sandra and I settled for an 11-day Spanish holiday with Cosmos, after our booking was accepted by them. Not that she was that keen on Spain, but was still happy to go along with it. The resort was a little coastal town of Tossa-de-Mar, on the Costa Brava. The port of Barcelona was the next major city further down the coast.

However, as the holiday began to draw nearer, our relationship deteriorated, and after several disagreements, she decided to call it a day. Left by myself with a foreign holiday booking, the getaway was saved when I asked my best mate from college, Andrew Stevenson if he would like to take Sandra's place. He was willing, and Cosmos accepted the amendment on the condition that Andrew paid his full airfare.

A Recap.

As narrated in my last blog, I wasn't unfamiliar with foreign holidays. To recap, in 1966, Dad attempted to drive his family to Turin to spend three weeks with my maternal grandparents. Unfortunately, his car broke down in France and Dad and I had to finish the journey by train whilst the rest of the family had to travel in Grandad's car after we all met in Paris. However, in 1969, we completed the journey by car successfully, and that was repeated for the last time in 1971, the year I was with Sandra. At least in 1971, rather than go to the play park outside, I took the tram several times to check out the city centre on my own, including the banks of the River Po, and the ascent up Mole Antonelliana, giving a splendid view of the city from approx 90 metres, hence just over halfway up the full height of the tower which is 167.5 metres high.

Spain, 1972.

August 1972, at age 19, I boarded the train at Bracknell for London Waterloo. And from Waterloo, I had to take the Underground to arrive at Victoria Station, as our train never stopped at Clapham Junction in those days, a convenient station for changing trains without using the Underground. Furthermore, roughly halfway, the train came to a halt at a red signal and stayed put for around twenty minutes, although it seemed forever. I began to feel panicky. Would I miss the flight?

Eventually, I met Andrew at Victoria, and together we boarded a train to Gatwick airport. We arrived in time for checking in, with me feeling excited yet nervous. This would be the first time I had ever boarded an airline. My father, who loved motoring, was averse to flying, hence to this day I have never flown with my parents or family members. This flight to Spain's Gerona Airport was to be my first ever flight - and that with one other person, a college mate. I sat by the window and I was able to see the dawn over the horizon, even if it was still dark overhead. It was an astonishing phenomenon and added a new dimension to the world of travel.

After landing at Gerona Airport and passing through passport control, we were bussed to our hotel at Tossa-de-Mar. Hotel California looked smart and had all the necessary facilities, but I wouldn't have rated it as luxury. It was suitable for budget holidaymakers such as Andrew and me, and we were assigned a room on the second floor, complete with a balcony overlooking the street. The hotel boasted a waiter-served restaurant, with two meals a day - breakfast and evening meal. We shared our assigned table with a courting couple, thus making a foursome. However, the couple respected my college mate but found me to be too overwhelming and intense. After two or three days, we found ourselves dining on our own. Either the couple skipped their meals (at their own loss) or had chosen a different time. Or perhaps even moved to a different table.

That day, we headed for the beach. Nearby was a promontory with a ruined castle on its headland, thus giving the impression that we're really in a foreign land. After a dip in the sea, we went to explore the historic feature. Not only was a stunning panorama of the Spanish coastline but also a shell of a ruined church or abbey still standing within the castle's grounds.

One day, I took a coach excursion to Barcelona to watch a Spanish bullfight. Andrew wasn't interested, so he stayed at the hotel. At Barcelona, we were first treated to a harbour cruise before being bussed to the city arena. Once settled, I saw that the arena was similar to a football stadium, however, instead of the pitch, I was looking into a large circular space where bulls were to be tortured by a well-dressed skilled matador - all for entertainment. Indeed, maybe because I was, and am a Briton, I felt ill at ease watching how these beasts suffered a prolonged, agonising death as part of a cheering Spanish tradition.

But it was during the evenings that the worst came out of me. It was as though the Spanish were encouraging us to buy and drink cheap wine which was my undoing. Whilst Andrew had the sense to remain at the hotel and tended to avoid nightlife in general, I went out to "live it up". As my college mate knew how to keep his emotions under control, mine were all over the place. The loss of a girlfriend, and the new-found freedom from my parent's restrictions and their unintelligible natter in a domestic setting, only intensified to seeking this new liberty by downing large quantities of cheap Spanish wine.

Some people, when stoned out of their wits, claim that "they can't remember a thing" when drunk. But I do remember, at least some of it, no matter how intoxicated I was. One late evening, after downing a whole bottle of wine, I found myself staggering along the street. A group of men were enjoying themselves, and just as an ego booster, I floored one of them with a single punch, staggered back to the hotel and crept into the bathtub, spending the rest of the night there. Andrew woke me up after daybreak, and I couldn't even remember how I ended up in the bathtub, my shirt soaked in stinking vomit and in a bad state. I had to have a thorough clean-up before going downstairs for breakfast.

Ruined abbey or church, Tossa de Mar, Spain.

After that, I had to watch for any possible reprisals from the locals as I lay sunbathing on the beach. Fortunately, none occurred. Also, I became the talk of the hotel staff, with rumours that the cleaners are refusing to clean and tidy our room. However, despite my appalling state, I was fortunate enough not to see the inside of a police cell. Indeed, it must have been some relief to them when we were, at last, all bussed back to the airport. 

Soon after the Spanish holiday, I joined the Reading Life Saving Club, held at Arthur Hill Pool at Cemetery Junction, Reading. Perhaps it was a way to reform my life, lift my self-esteem, and contribute something back to society. Each week, I practised towing a distressed person in deep water back to safety whilst fully clothed, practising resuscitation and also learning about human anatomy. By December of 1972, I had succeeded in collecting the Bronze Medalion qualification award and therefore afterwards I was suited for a job as a lifeguard.

At about the same time as qualifying as a lifesaver, I was also converted to Jesus Christ as my Saviour whilst reading a Bible in a London pub. My conversion to having faith in Christ had dynamically changed my travel plans as if beyond recognition! No longer was I a Sunseeker - although no insult to those who wish for balmier climates or beach relaxation, but rather, my conversion means the end of such drunken orgies whilst abroad.

Italy, 1973 - a Gateway to Backpacking.

And the difference couldn't have been more manifest than my first solo trip to Italy by train, a year later in 1973. It was still the days when the words, Gateway to the Continent were painted on a large board fixed outside London Victoria Station. And so it was. On the Kent side of Victoria Station, the special platform was sealed off, with the need to pass through passport control before boarding the train. Once on board, the train ran non-stop to Folkstone Harbour, where I boarded the ferry to sail to Boulogne-sur-Mer. At the French harbour railway terminus, I boarded the Ferrovie Dello Stato train which runs continuously from Boulogne to Roma Termini, stopping at Amiens, Paris Gare du Nord, Paris Gare de Lyon, Dijon, Chambery, Modane, Bardonecchia, Torino Porta Nuova terminus.

Then back out for Asti, Genova, Pisa, La Spezia, Livorno, and Roma Termini. It took about 24 hours from boarding the train at London Victoria to alighting in Rome, with the dusk somewhere between Paris and Dijon, and the dawn at the time we emerged out of the 8.5-mile Mt. Cenis Tunnel to stop at the Italian station of Bardonecchia. The rest of the journey was in daylight. After this, I caught another train to Napoli Centro terminus. After arriving, I walked across the open square and found a hotel. I walked up to the reception and asked if there was a room. 

At the age of 20 years, my career as a backpacker has just begun. In the days to come and from this hotel, I was able to find the Circumvesuviana Line and on this route, I travelled to Pompeii Scavi dei Misteri to visit the excavations.

I sense the feeling of sadness as I walked the ancient streets of the city that was destroyed in 79 AD by the eruption of the nearby Mt Vesuvio, or Monte Somma, as the Romans called it. At il scavi, I visited several houses with their columned gardens, the two theatres, a small, covered theatre known as the Odeum, and the large main theatre, where I sat comfortably as if waiting for the show to begin. I also walked into the amphitheatre, an oval structure not unlike the bullfight arena in Barcelona, except that in this arena, gladiators fought each other to the death in front of cheering crowds.

Next to the amphitheatre was the palaestra, or exercise yard. It featured the natatio, or swimming pool, in the middle. I also visited the ancient bakery, which included a carbonised loaf of bread, freshly baked on the day of the eruption. I also walked through the Forum and peered inside some of the pagan temples still standing. There was even a bar, so well preserved that it could have been trading only the day before. But most striking of all, and arranged in a neat row, were the plaster casts of those who died during the eruption. Their deaths by asphyxiation were so sudden, that some were even crawling along when their bodies were suddenly covered by hot ash. After decay, a hollow was left behind, taking the exact shape of the body that once occupied it. When the archaeologist filled the cavity with plaster, the exact form of the body was revealed.

The whole trip was not only more enjoyable than the previous year's sunshine holiday, but it was more adventurous and at the same time, educational.

The next day, I decided to climb, or rather, hike up to the crater of Mt. Vesuvio. So I took a train from Naples city centre to alight at Ercolano, or Herculaneum, to begin the hike to the crater. Eventually, I was not very far from the summit when, all of a sudden, the heavens opened.

This was no drizzle but raindrops almost as big as a toy marble fell on the mountain and quickly drenched me. Fortunately, there was a natural alcove or cave in the cliff facing the road, and I dashed into that. As I waited for the rain to ease, a car heading downhill screeched to a halt in front of me. A young Italian at the wheel beckoned me over.

Dove stai andando? He asked.

Il cratare. I answered.

No, Oggi non posso.

He then beckoned me to get into their car and offered me a free ride back to the city. Later, at the hotel, I felt impressed by the Italian's generosity and their duty to save someone in distress.

The next day and encouraged by the hazy clear sky and warm sunshine, I made another attempt to reach the crater. I took the same route as the previous day. But this time, as I was hiking up towards the summit, the sky suddenly turned a sharper blue. I had left the haze which covered the city behind and had entered the clear zone of the atmosphere above it.

Eventually, I reached the rim of the crater and peered into it. Although dormant, I still found it to be nerve-inducing. So, this was the tool God used to bring judgement on Pompeii. A tour guide was nearby, leading a group of people. From where he was standing, steam was rising from the rocks. He was literally splashing water on the hot ash, causing the steam to rise spectacularly.

Plaster casts of Pompeii victims.

The tool used in God's judgement on two wicked cities - Pompeii and Herculaneum. A repeat of Sodom and Gomorrah all over again? I stood in awe at this vast yet dormant hole in the ground, at the summit of a 1,281-metre high mountain near the sea in southern Italy.

Travel and the Christian faith. I have now turned a corner, and the twain will be as one. No more drunken orgies!

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NEXT WEEK. An Ancient City with a 2,700-year-old water tunnel and a sheep skinned alive.