We loaded our heavy rucksacks into the back of the old peugeot pick up truck. The light blue 504 was a classic. The front seat stretched all the way across the cab and the gear stick protruded from the dashboard. The three of us squeezed in. My eldest brother Ewan was twenty six years old. He had hoboed his way through Africa and returned to buy his first house. His ascent of the mountain of success was just beginning. Determined to show initiative I had decided to hitch-hike my way around the continent. I was the enthusiastic sixteen year old madman with my unlikely companion Steve Hacking who was a year older. My first travelling companion had dropped out at the last minute and Steve had said he would like to come. Once we agreed he was totally committed to the cause. Steve was a good guy. He didn't smoke dope like the rest of us. He drank in moderation and respected his parents. I was surprised he wanted to come. His dad was the head of the Preston C.I.D. Possibly he thought that hitch-hiking around Europe with a slightly reckless fellow would be a character building exercise. Ewan drove us to Charnock Richard service station. He advised us to ask at the petrol pumps and only take a lift if it took us as far as the next service station. After enquiring of a few drivers we received a positive response. He would take us as far as M6 junction 29. He assured us this would be a great place to pick up a lift. Young and foolhardy we ignored my brother’s experience and believed the enthusiastic misguidance. We descended at the Warrington roundabout. No chance to chat anyone up here. We stood on the slip road and waited. And waited. The harsh wait of the hitch-hiker, not the intelligent charmer using the hitch-hiking card to ingratiate himself into the vehicle. One hour. Two hours. At last a truck stopped. He could take us to Rugby service station. A whopping 100 miles! We climbed up into the comfortable cab. The driver had genuine sympathy for our disposition. He had not been persuaded to pick us up but had gone out of his way to pull over in his large articulated lorry. A kindred spirit who himself had no doubt at some time travelled on the margins of society. We were happy chappies. We told him of our planned adventure and he listened. At last we reached the service station and descended. Now we stuck to the plan of only accepting a lift to the next service station. Using this directive we made it to London in a few hours. Our last lift dropped us at an underground station and we took the tube to West Hampstead. Ten minutes walk to 33 Broomsleigh Street. We were expected. My brother John prepared some Harvey Wallbangers. Gin, Orange and a drop of Galliano. A delicious way to get pissed. His flatmate prepared a stir fry. Our last safe haven before we really hit the road. I slept under the kitchen table though Steve made it to a more comfortable retreat. We awoke groggy. No-one here had a car to set us off down the road. They nonchalantly suggested that we merely take the underground to Elephant and Castle and head off down the A2 for Dover. Another testing ground for our feeble spirits. This was not the open road but London conurbation! It was not a place to stand by the roadside. Pedestrians came and went. Cars stopped and started turning off in all directions. We decided to walk with our thumbs out. We appeared more like a theatrical performance than a serious proposition. After several hours lugging our heavy loads we began to reach the outskirts of the metropolis. Here the cars were generally propelled a longer distance. Eventually someone stopped. A swish businessman in a fast car going all the way to Dover! He had hitch-hiked as a young man. He felt he was handing down the torch. In the future we would probably pick up hitch-hikers ourselves. All the way to the ferry port we sped! Three o’clock and we were ready to cross the channel. We had heard that it was possible to get a free ride with a lorry driver but we were quite happy to pay our way. We bought our tickets and wandered aboard.
We waved goodbye to the white cliffs of Dover and gazed out to sea. A gentle respite in our challenging voyage. We arrived in France and managed to get a lift by asking the cars as they queued for passport control. We were beginning to get the hang of this! We communicated in our pigeon French. Any road to Paris would suit us. We just wanted to go with the flow. Twenty miles along we were dropped at a lonesome layby. How long would we wait in this foreign terrain? Quietly we meditated, taking turns to stick out our thumbs. The timeless zone. Eventually a kind soul stopped. The charming Frenchman gave off a very relaxed vibe. He was heading 60 kilometers. We were happy to be on the move. We began to improve our O level French though conversation was limited. After 30 kilometers he pulled over for a refreshment. A ramshackle roadside cafe was a pleasant break. We sat at a rustic picnic table while he went to the cabin to order. On our frugal budget we would just bide our time while he imbibed. To our surprise he brought us a large bottle of beer to share. "Jean-Lain" was unlike anything we were used to. A dark sweet beer was nectar to our taste buds. He enjoyed our delight at the receipt of the gift. An unexpected diversion into the tranquil zone.
He took us another 30 kilometers and dropped us at a small village along the road. We descended in Bernay-en-Ponthieu. The afternoon darkened to evening. It was too late to continue hitch-hiking. We looked around wondering where we might pitch our sturdy tent. A police car pulled over and two local officers enquired what we were doing. We explained we were hitch-hiking and merely wished to pitch our tent for the night. They thought this was a fair proposition and directed us to a field by the recreation ground where it would be acceptable for us to stay the night as long as we were away in the morning. How reasonable! We erected our Force Ten and sat down to our meagre ration of bread and water. Strangers in a strange land. After a good night’s sleep we packed up and stuck out our thumbs. Now it got even worse. Not one or two hours but three or four we waited for a lift. At last it came. But not far. Maybe this rural road was not the ideal route to take. Maybe sticking to the motorways like we did in old blighty was the best idea. The scenery was beautiful. The meditation of the poor man was circumstantial. Not cloistered in the riches of a monastery. Not admired for his equanimity. Not posing for his audience but genuinely coming to terms with a difficult situation in a composed manner. Thus came a real appreciation of life in contrast to the dog eat dog clamour for elevation through subjugation.
Fifteen kilometers down the road in an old Renault 11. We arrived at another small village. We wandered to the outskirts and shaded ourselves beneath the large avenue of trees. Already another traveller was seated beneath a tree. I walked from our tree to his to say hello. He enjoyed his bottle of wine. He said he may hitch-hike later when the day cooled a little. I wondered why he didn't wish to get on his way. We stood to attention for the passing traffic. Would we ever make it to Paris?
A few days before we had set off on our journey I had bumped into a family friend. Dennis has just finished University and he and his colleague Nev were setting off on a similar adventure to ourselves. We arranged to meet in Paris outside the George Pompidou centre at midday on Saturday. Having left Preston on Wednesday it was now Friday. There were no mobile phones in the olden days! Would we make it? Our present limbo cast a doubt. Eventually a car stopped. Another short journey took us twenty kilometers. Again we waited. At last another businessman took us a tidy one hundred kilometers. We made camp in the bushes on a roundabout and awoke to the sound of the morning traffic. Only sixty kilometers to Paris. The city sucked us in and we were dropped at a metro station. We journeyed to Chatelet-Les-Halles and strolled a kilometer to le centre Georges Pompidou. A large square in front of a colourful work of art. Pipes and plumbing surrounded the building. Tubes expressed themselves in bright primary colours. We had never seen anything like it. At ten oclock in the morning the marginal drinking had begun. Groups gathered. Street performers entertained. We breakfasted on cheese, bread and tomato. We had made it! But would our newly proposed companions. Dennis was an exuberant character. I had a quiet faith. Steve chose to be positive. We seated ourselves not far from the entrance. At 11 oclock they appeared! A joyous reunion! Fantastic! Things were looking up. Nearby was the subterranean Al Campo supermarket. We bought some bottles of beer and celebrated our successful joining. Dennis was a compulsive socialite and began to network. He liaised with a young Frenchman. A leather clad rebel who appeared to know the score. My perception of reality blurred as we made another visit to the supermarket for more beer. "Je ne comprends pas!" was my cry as I practiced my elementary French. I couldn't take my beer! We blended into a crusty bubble with a small crowd of French street people.
I awoke from a doze. Steve was seated against a wall calmly sipping his beer nearby. Dennis waltzed around the plaza ingratiating with the populace and Nev held the perimeter. The afternoon sailed by and we grounded ourselves with more food as we continued to drink. Dennis was small with white blonde hair. A bouncy little fella. He dressed in a summery cut away T-shirt and shorts. His new associate was also blonde, but of a different manner. Whereas Dennis sported a short fluffy swept back coiffure Lauren’s hair was long and greasy. A heavy mop along with his heavy leather jacket and bullet belt. Though the summer was here the jacket stayed on. Dennis astutely surmised that this pseudo rebel was a man we needed to know. Like Dennis Lauren had three associates in tow. A small bearded gentleman, a twitchy character and a large quiet type. As the day rolled on Dennis informed us that Lauren knew where we could sleep the night. Not long after dark we retreated to the car park. One corner was decorated with paintings of brightly coloured flowers. Pieces of cardboard defined an area. We rolled out our mats and sleeping bags. I squeezed into my elephant's foot and quickly fell asleep. I awoke in the night to intense illumination. Bright fluorescent strip lights stayed alight. I considered my situation. In the crowd life was good. I went back to sleep.
Early we arose in a workmanlike fashion. Each sorted their belongings. Mute morning greetings acknowledged our sober beginnings. Dennis chirped us together and we descended the levels of car park to the subterranean Al Campo. Croissants, jam and take out coffee for breakfast. We mosied over to the Pompidou. The usual suspects conglomerated. Soon our car park companions arrived. Had they breakfasted? Dennis conferred with Lauren. If I, Nev and Denis each contributed 50 francs we could score some weed. Steve would not smoke. We coughed up and Denis headed off on the mission.
Soon he returned with the weed, tobacco and rizla papers. With a smile on his face he sat down to craft a doobie. We formed a circle with our car park companions and passed the joint around. The tobacco made my head spin and I leaned against the wall till it passed and slowly the cannabinoid intoxication crept up on me. Life was beautiful. I watched street performers enact a slow motion fight. The gentle breeze rippled their loose clothes to accentuate their movements. After an indeterminate length of time we decided to shop for lunch. But first another spliff. The foreign brands took on a magical appeal and we perused at leisure. Dennis was amused by some breakfast cereal called " Smack". We settled for cheese, baguettes, red peppers and a block of beers with an appealing name.
We munched away and slurped down a few beers. This was the life! Steve continued not to smoke. In his composure he assessed that it was good value for money as he enjoyed our jocularity though he did not have to pay for it! As a cosmopolitan crowd of English, French and Italian our Caucasian culture seemed to set us apart from the groups of North Africans, mainly Algerians with curly glossy hair. Lauren objected to their ebullient, fiery temperaments. As one energetically gesticulated his way through a story he accidentally staggered our way and bumped into Lauren. The blonde Frenchman felt his dignity encroached. He jumped at the opportunity to assert his manhood. When his aggressive castigation was not met with cowering humility but merely a blasé shrug of the shoulders he was ready for war. He quickly released his bullet belt and swung for the Algerian. His clumsy affront was easily avoided and still the Algerians could only see the funny side. The Algerians moved away to avoid trouble and Lauren gestured towards them. He seemed pleased with himself. I could only think he was a fool. Still we allowed him to lead our pack.
Not too late into the evening we returned to our car park. The flowers bloomed and the lights shone. We made ourselves comfortable in our home from home. In the morning Dennis decided we would make a tour to Notre Dame. We left our baggage in the car park corner and wandered out. From a ragged street map Denis deduced it was only a short walk over the river to the cathedral. We stocked up with supplies from the super. On our way we made a detour to pass by a fountain where we could wash. Tourists took photos of our ethnic pursuit. Refreshed, we arrived at the world heritage site. On the steps of the historic monument we popped open our midday beers and lunched on bread and cheese. Time for another of Dennis's skillful creations. Such a sense of freedom I had never known before.
We meandered back to the Pompidou and converged with the car park crew. Dennis and Lauren consulted. Our days had gone well. The afternoon mellowed and we warmed our spots on the edge of the square. A spliff, a beer, society - what more could a man ask for? The next day we entered the Georges Pompidou centre. Riding the external escalators up to the third floor we arrived at an exhibition of the colourful Kandinsky. The elegant white gallery with gentle lighting allowed appreciation in a composed environment. What wouldn't appear beautiful? It seemed the art was merely a pretext to pay homage to the status quo. Only metres away was the decadence of the destitute, but here the equanimity of the higher orders. We descended to our usual level and partook in the common man's pleasures and later back to our cosy car park corner to bask in ultraviolet light amongst the colourful flowers.
Was it morning I asked myself? Everyone was still asleep. Nobody stirred. I lay back down and contemplated. Gently I drifted back into a dream. A distant girlfriend caressed my hair. Rustlings awoke me. It seemed it was time to get up. We traipsed down to the supermarket. Dennis fancied some " smack" for breakfast. We purchased the cereal and a large plastic bottle of UHT milk. What a peculiar taste ! We each filled a large paper cup with cereal and milk. Rather sweet! A minute or two for digestion and it was time for the morning smoke.
We took it easy for the day as tomorrow we would voyage on. Dennis knew a French girl from college who lived in Tours and we were invited to visit. In the morning we made our way to Porte de Orleans where we would hitchhike out of Paris. A long line of hitchhikers stretched out along the hard shoulder. Where could we place ourselves? The etiquette was not clear. Where might the cars stop? At the end or the beginning of the line? Dennis and Nev opted for the beginning and Steve and I moved down to the end. It wasn’t long before Dennis’s cheery smile and shock of blonde hair had won them a lift. It seemed they had chosen the right spot! Ten o’clock and they were on their way ! We waited. Until twelve was our limbo. Would we make it to the central station for 5 o’clock? No. At 7 we arrived. Dennis and Nev waited patiently. We made our way to the house of Anne-Marie. A spacious fourth four flat with sparse furnishing expressed a foreign culture. We parked our luggage in the spare room. Two beds and ample floor space would be adequate for us. We followed Anne-Marie’s gentle demeanour to the local bar. Such a gentle soul was contrasted by her raucous crowd of companions. A leather-clad Mohican invited us to sit at their table. Beers were provided for us all. Dennis amused Anne-Marie with his zany humour. His theme was his elementary understanding of the French language. I found conversation with a patient young man. We were all accommodated by the hospitable crew. A joke sent the table flying. Not a drink was left standing. The happy Mohican ordered the round again. It seemed money was not a problem. We drank the night away with our sympathetic hosts.
I awoke with the dawn in the minimalist living room. I had been allowed to languish on the sofa. The others were presumably in the bedroom. The quiet light cast gentle shadows across the room. I could not remember the walk from the bar to the flat. I savoured the calm composure though suffered the same hangover as I did in the car park. As the shadows slowly moved I carefully arose. The open plan led me to the kitchen. An empty table invited me to sit. I observed the functional fittings unlike an ornamented English kitchen where the cupboards would be paneled and the handles decorative here all was simple. I heard movement. The clock showed 7. Anne - Marie wished me a good morning and placed a bowl on the table. I returned the greeting and looked at the empty bowl. She prepared a jug of hot chocolate and filled my bowl and placed a croissant by its side. In keeping with the simple decor no more was required. I dipped the croissant and took a bite. Just what I needed! Sweet alimentation. Anne Marie departed for work and I drifted back into meditation occasionally consulting my bowl of chocolate.
At last my companions arose. Chirpy Dennis wished me good morning and went to the cupboard for breakfast. He returned with a box of "Smack" and filled his bowl and added milk. Steve and Nev followed suit. Happy with their servings they tucked in, unaware of the speciality my marginal position had afforded me. We would spend the day in Tours. We had changed our clothes and made use of Anne Marie's washing machine. Feeling repatriated into civilised society we wandered into the Ville. Finding a pleasant park we rolled up and smoked it. Beauty returned. The sun shone. Dennis cracked a few jokes and pulled a silly face and we were happy. He decided we should treat ourselves to a coffee in the cafe. Unencumbered by baggage we felt like naturalised tourists. The coffee was excellent.
Perhaps Dennis's latent Christianity, hidden deeply beneath his rebellious front, led us to the impressive Cathedral of Saint Gatian of Tours. An awesomely gothic temple loomed above us. We wandered in and gazed at the icons. An air of serenity pervaded. Would we ever be forgiven? Maybe Dennis. I had little hope. We wandered back to our host where a supper of salad and chicken was provided. The evening took us back to the bar where the usual crowd made merry. We were made welcome once again and provided with all we wished to consume. Tomorrow back on the road.
Down the Autoroute was the best option. Not the most direct, but the fastest road and now we had figured out we could hop from the peage, where people payed to enter the motorway, to the next peage. We roamed the queuing cars smiling through the windows hoping they would be polite enough to open up to us. Some completely ignored us through their strengthened glass. But it was not long before we persuaded a driver to take us along. A smooth Englishman condescended to take us. He was going to La Rochelle but he would only take us part of the way as he preferred to travel alone. It seemed as if feeling imposed upon by our presence, he had decided to turn his kind act into an insult. We demurely conformed to his show of power and thanked him kindly when he dropped us off a few peages along the route. More amenable lifts carried us along to our destination.
We made it into town and searched out the youth hostel where we hoped to stay. Here we would meet up with Dennis and Nev. The youth hostel was full! What now? How would we reform our brick? No time had been specified. We decided to head for the municipal campsite. We pitched our force ten for a good price and bedded down comfortably. Steve awoke early and decided to take advantage of the facilities. Who should he encounter on the way to the shower block? Nev! Our counterparts had followed the same thought process and were camped not far away. What good fortune! Dennis expounded with smiles and exaltations. The campsite with open space, hot showers and a shop offered a utilitarian freedom that our previous accommodation lacked! After washing and croissants and coffee we were in fine fettle for a trip to the beach.
Carrying just our beach bags we strolled down the road. Dennis could not resist stretching out his thumb and lo and behold a jeep stopped and loaded us all in. With only a lady driver there was plenty of room. Once again we joined Dennis in laughter at our joyful journey.
Dissimulating into average tourists on the beach we rolled one up and inhaled the gentle rhythm of the sea. After five minutes of contemplation we approached the waves. The Atlantic was cold as we launched ourselves in. Soon we became accustomed to the temperature and frolicked in the breakwater with bright sunshine to illuminate the idyllic scene. Refreshed, we lazed in the sun as a gentle breeze wafted over us. Waking from our reverie Dennis announced we were out of weed. We wandered up to the beach bar to have a beer. Dennis casually entered into conversation with a cool character hanging out at the bar. The dude sported the appearance of an updated version of a 1950’s rebel without a cause. Here was our score. Fabrice was camped on the site next to the beach. Nev and Steve were happy to chill in the bar while Dennis and I took a walk to his tent. With profits from his business he was able to afford this more amenable accommodation. Dennis wished to visit the toilet and undoubtedly check out the standard of this private resort. Fabrice conversed in good English as we sat in the foyer of his tent. From his leather hold all he pulled out a sizable bar of hashish. He heated a knife and sliced a piece off the soft block. He rolled it into a coil and passed it to me. I admired the quality merchandise as he gave me papers and tobacco to make a joint. I was a capable young man and completed the task efficiently. I offered it to Fabrice, but instead he offered me the lighter. I sparked it up. We had smoked our last light reefer in the morning and now, after a swim, sunbathe and a beer a few tokes knocked me sideways. I once again wondered at my renewed surroundings. Dennis returned and received the doobie with his characteristically quizzical look. This was good dope and we were very stoned. We bought a lump and returned to the bar. Nev smiled at our pleasant disposition. Back down to the beach where Nev could roll another. Nev enjoyed the reefer as Dennis and I wanted little more and Steve continued to abstain and bought himself another beer.
How pleasant to while away the hours until the day began to cool. The poetic sun sank below the horizon and we strolled back to our municipal campsite. The concept of a leisure amenity governed by the local council gave a feeling of social responsibility. After our anarchic time in Paris we were happy in the safe enclosure. Another day at the beach would be our last as Steve and I needed to return to our homeland. We would make good progress with our introduction to hitchhiking complete! Dennis and Nev had only begun their journey and would soon head down to Spain. We savoured our final day and bade fond farewell to our faithful travelling companions. We managed to stay on course for our return and by the evening were already close to Calais. We pitched our tent in a field and were woken by cows beginning to nuzzle their way in. We quickly packed up and ventured back onto the road. A trucker picked us up and took us through the tunnel as passengers in his vehicle. No charge to pay! By the afternoon we were back at Broomsleigh Street. My brother Ewan had returned from his visit up North and he and John were organising a night out to see the legendary jazz singer Slim Gaillard.
Friends arrived and aperitifs were served. John had a small 2CV painted with an Italian flag on one side, a French one on the other, a Union Jack on the bonnet and a German flag on the boot! The car had originally been brought back from France by Ewan and then sold to some Italians who did the paint job. They sold it back to John when they returned to Italy. After over a year in the country it still remained on French number plates. This had served Ewan well as he had managed to bamboozle the Police with his act as a Frenchman, avoiding required legalities. John hoped to follow a similar course of action. We loaded ourselves into the car for our night out. We were six passengers and a driver. Ewan drove and John navigated. Crowded into the back were Steve and I and Hamish and Ian. Hamish rolled his last doobie for the ride. Ewan grumbled about the stink. He had tried cannabis on his journey through Africa and didn't like it. Steve remained silent. The rest of us toked without reservation.
We wound our way to the Seven Dials. The Donmar Warehouse was a hip joint with an affordable entrance fee. Other like-minded associates were there to watch the legendary scatman. Had he invented rap? Possibly! His hit and miss showbiz life had begun in the 1930s with "Cement Mixer (Put-Ti-Put-Ti)" and appearances with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and Dodo Marmarosa had followed. On Dizzy's advice he had taken to touring Europe and now resided in London.
He started his set with "Flat Foot Floogie (with a Floy Floy)"- his first hit recorded by "Slim and Slam" in 1938. From a sea of memories the classic resurfaced. Slim was the man. A nonchalant arrival on the stage understated the star he really was. Spontaneous applause launched us into a past era of jazz in the speakeasy. He picked up his guitar as though it was an object he was unfamiliar with and attempted to play. Slowly his apparent ineptitude drifted into an eloquent rendition. A similar approach was made to the piano. After an obscure solo on the bongo drum he launched into "Cement Mixer (Put-Ti-Put-Ti)". A song inspired by the sound of a cement mixer outside during a recording session! We loved him!
He declared an intermission and strolled down from the stage to the bar. The crowd turned to look as he became a simple punter. Slowly the fans congregated around. He chose to converse with an attractive young lady who seemed not averse to this elderly gent's charms. He enquired which snacks were worthy of his delectation. The scampi fries were recommended. Made from only the finest ingredients the crunchy bites were to Slim's liking. Swilled down with a glass of lager he ordered the same again. We were thrilled to be part of the congregation. Even Ewan smiled his seal of approval. Once again he took to the stage. As he began a story in his own constructed language of "Vout-o-Reenee" we conferred. We wondered if the legendary improviser may invent a song for us. My brother John, himself a theatrical performer, called out for a scampi fry boogie. Slim made a quizzical pause and the recognizable words "scampi fries" entered into his scatalogical monologue in vout-o-reenee. He picked up his guitar and strummed a sequence of chords. With a fluid mix of vout and English he began a whimsical song about the sweet scampi fries. We shared John's elation as Slim did not disappoint. The applause resounded as the crowd dug it. Slim wowed us with a few more groovy numbers and after much appreciation we allowed him to retire.
Our crowd had grown to nine and we all shuffled out to the 2CV. The world record for people fitting into a telephone box is nine so it wasn't too difficult for us all to jumble into the car! We headed to the late night offy for supplies. At one o'clock it was a busy spot. John and I tumbled out of the car and went in. A few beers and a couple of wine and we quickly payed and headed back to the car.
Ewan enthusiastically zoomed us down the road. Reluctantly he stopped at a red traffic light as a lonesome policeman patrolled his late night beat. He approached the car and shone his torch inside. We tried not to move. He made his way to the driver's door and Ewan opened his window. He smiled a cordial smile.
-Good evening sir.-
-Good evening officer.-
-Could you put your lights on please sir?-
-Certainly officer, thankyou for your help.-
-Have a good evening sir.-
Our luck was holding out! We sailed home with a joyous wind. We sprang out of the car and coiled into the house. Beers were popped open and we anticipated smoking some nice squidgy black that was purchased on our excursion. John delved into his pockets but there was nothing there. With a puzzled expression he checked and checked again. He racked his brain and realised it must have escaped when he pulled out his cash to purchase the beers in the late night shop.I volunteered to accompany him back to the off-licence to see if we may be lucky enough to pick it up from the floor where he dropped it. To make a prompt re-entry to the shop we simply parked the car on the large pavement on the corner. In we skipped and there before the counter lay the innocuous packet, unclaimed. John scooped it up and we exited, pronto. Back to the car we strolled. Unfortunately our luck was about to change. A policeman circled the suspicious vehicle. I advised John to secrete the hashish in his underpants, but he didn't think it would be necessary. He had a plan. He would follow Ewan's shining example and dissimulate as a Frenchman. I kept quiet as he struggled to speak a pigeon English and slipped back into his apparently native French. Unlike Ewan, John in fact had an excellent command of the foreign language. The policeman chose not to wave us along as a novel curiosity and drilled further. He wished to see some I.D. John shrugged his shoulders now headlong into his performance. With little warning the policeman decided to search him. He found an address book in his jacket but continued into the trouser pockets and out came the weed. John's enigmatic performance now entered a confused state. Having pulled out the plum the good boy of the law savoured his morsel. John was shuffled into a van and I was left to wander the streets. The 2CV remained in its elegant posture and I found my way home, a messenger of ill tidings.
The faces were glum until someone admitted they had a small blim in reserve. In a subdued mood we partook of the smoke and wondered what had become of brother John. A knock at the door awoke us from our dream. The fuzz wanted to speak to John Eastham. They had a Frenchman in custody who claimed to be his guest. They presented him before us. We nodded in complicity. He approached my rucksack leant against the wall and began to look for his I.D. We watched in fascination at John's continuing performance. A few of us retreated to the back room and conferred with Ewan. After momentarily considering the situation he took swift action. He entered the front room and pronounced to the police that this was in fact his brother John Eastham. The old bill looked from one to another. They were not to be fooled. This was a genuine Frenchman. John sighed with an air of resignation and gave up the ghost. With a painful look he admitted in clear English that he was in fact John Eastham. Now they were even more determined to see I.D. John fetched his passport and with looks of disbelief they matched him to his photograph. The police began to see the funny side. John had been a co-operative though deceptive perpetrator. They took his details, charged him with possession of cannabis and left him at home. Ewan berated his foolishness and left us to our smoke.
What an evening! We decided that the situation had resolved reasonably well though John had to bear the brunt of the legislature against him. After everyone had finally retreated to their beds Steve and I rolled out our mats and climbed into our bags. In the morning we took the tube to Edgware for the last leg of our journey. After a wait at the junction we stuck to the service stations and in a few hours were back in Preston. Our last lift was with a Prestonian and after hearing of our adventure decided he would drop us off at our home addresses! Steve descended outside his house in Penwortham. I wished him farewell and continued to Barton where the amenable driver dropped me at the end of our bumpy drive. I kicked a stone down the little lane and reached our house where my mother greeted me with a smile of relief.