At 16 I decided to hitchhike around France. Friends were inter-railing and I would meet up with them in the South. The previous year I had made the tour with a colleague and then begun to hitch-hike around England alone. I was confident in my abilities. I journeyed to London and stayed with my brother. From there I obtained a cheap train ticket to Paris. From the Gare du Nord I caught the metro to Porte de Orleans. A line of hitchers awaited a lift. I took my place in the middle of the queue. Who might get picked up first was anyone’s guess. Surprisingly it was me. My seemingly good fortune was an ill omen. A red Citroën DS pulled over. Two long-hairs offered me a lift. They were heading south. I jumped in.
The Rolling Stones were playing on the radio. We dug the groove. The driver's eyes reflected in the rear view mirror. He was undecided. How would he proceed with the captured prey? He lacked a coherent plan, an essential ingredient in the art of subterfuge. They spoke an unusual French. I could not follow their conversation. They were heading to Limoges in the centre of France. A renowned holiday destination of which I had never heard. It was on my way, though along the main roads would not be as quick as the motorway. They chatted amongst themselves and I made a little conversation in my pidgin French. My good luck blinded me to the warning signs. They explained they had another passenger to collect on the way. It would be better if I placed my rucksack in the boot. I won't make the same mistake again. At this opportunity I should have taken the rucksack and made my getaway. Did I suspect foul play? We drove on. Now it was too late. The main roads were slow progress and the day began to darken. As the crepuscule crept over us we veered into quiet lanes and eventually down a track into a field. Now I knew something was wrong.
We stopped and the driver's companion left his front seat and entered the back. He sprayed me, point blank, in the face with pepper gas. What did he hope to achieve? The car filled with fumes. It was unbearable. I was finding it difficult to believe what was happening. Everyone had to get out of the car. I ran down the muddy track. It was bordered by scrubby grass. I became superrational. I had 2000 francs in notes in a tobacco tin. I placed it in the herbage and ripped out a tuft to recall the spot. I was not angry. These villains were inept fools. Having secreted my money I decided to return and see if I could negotiate the return of my rucksack. How could I achieve this? I arrived back at the car and stood before the long-hair. He emptied my pockets and jumped into the vehicle. I ran to the front of the car and crouched down to memorise the number plate. They revved the engine. Now I became angry. I jumped onto the front of the car and grabbed the windscreen wipers. I bent them out of shape as I bounced on the bonnet. I would fuck their car up. The windscreen would not break. They began to accelerate as I clung on repeating my destruction. They swerved violently, but I was not finished.
The passenger opened his door and lent out towards me. He wacked me over the head with who knows what. I launched myself onto the door determined to bend it off its hinges. My legs dragged on the ground as he repeated his violent attack. The blood streamed down my face. I realised my life was in danger. Though my energy was not depleted I let go of the door and dropped to the ground. They sped away.
I was a mess. My trousers were ripped and my knees torn. I was covered in blood. I walked along the track in search of my tin. I was unsure how far from the spot we had come. I jogged along a little, but could not see my marker. I uprooted more grass to show the limit of my search. I was confused. They might come back. I decided I better quit the scene. I could see a house in the distance. I set off at a pace towards the lights. I was sure they would welcome me with open arms after my misfortune. I arrived at the door and repeatedly rang the bell. Eventually a man reluctantly edged the door open a little. I explained in my elementary French what happened and how I had thrown my tin of money into the verge. He eyed me with suspicion. This was not the reception I had hoped for. His wife arrived behind him. At last they reticently allowed me into the porchway. Still they looked at me with cautious distrust. As they weighed the situation up the lady declared "Pigs!". I was relieved they finally seemed to be taking my side.They called the police.
Soon they arrived. They quizzed me a little, but quickly became sympathetic. I was taken to hospital. The pepper spray had blistered my face. I needed three or four stitches in my head. They cleaned me up and put me in a hospital bed in a ward all on my own. I protested that I could not stay there the night as there would be bills to pay. They asked where I wanted to stay. I relinquished.
I awoke with the dawn. The Doctor came to check on me. A cheerful greeting eased my torment. As the day brightened I was left alone to my thoughts. What next? I was in dire straits. A nurse came in and to my astonishment presented me with my tobacco tin still full of money. The householders had found it! Now things were looking up. My next visitor was the local chief of police. He explained to me that as I was only sixteen I was in his charge for a day and would have to contact my parents and ask permission to continue my travels. I was keen to hit the road once more but condescended. He had brought a clean set of clothes. A check shirt with a large collar and a pair of flairs. He would pick me up in an hour.
I reluctantly dressed in the outdated fashion and waited. Where would the policeman take me? He was a kind soul and we retreated to his comfortable house in the countryside. I relaxed in the sunny garden till lunchtime. He gave me a glass of wine to wet my appetite. We sat down to eat and my glass was refilled. Fine French cuisine of tender meat with succulent vegetables was served. Another glass of wine washed it down. Cheeses to finish were complemented with a glass of brandy. We talked a little as we digested. It was time to phone home.
I spoke to my dad. I played down the robbery and explained I was fine. I had my money and would get the train to meet my friends in the South. My father admired my pioneering spirit and agreed I could carry on with my vacation. I handed the phone back to the policeman and he managed to conjure up enough English to confirm my parent's acceptance of my decision. He gave me another glass of Cognac and l snoozed in the garden.The afternoon drifted away. Another fine meal was served for supper and I enjoyed a good sleep in the comfortable spare room.
In the early morning the kindly policeman gave me a lift to the train station and wished me luck. I was due to meet my companions in Toulouse at the Youth Hostel. I arrived at midday. My companions were preparing for a day out. Wilky looked over as I entered the dorm. With a slightly dismayed expression he turned away. Who was this strange fella with his bright red blistered face and a questionable style? "Wilky!'' I called. He looked again and refocused his eyes. At last he recognised me. "What happened to you?" Circumstances left me alienated from the conviviality I desired. Instead of a happy reunion I had to explain myself. The victims are left to blame for their bad luck. Once we leave the path there is no return. Like the wandering Jew I shall forever tell my tale. Henry and Oda were more conciliatory. We wandered into town and smoked and drank in the park. With my strange appearance the uneasy atmosphere lingered. The next day my friends lent me some clothes and I dissimulated. We would travel across Spain to see my brother in Santiago de Compostela. I had no interrail ticket. Henry generously offered me the use of his and he would travel on a later train with the receipt for his ticket and claim he had lost it. It worked! Wilky, Oda and I travelled comfortably in the old fashioned train and Henry enjoyed the subterfuge of independent travel.
We arrived in the beautiful town of Santiago and hunted down my brother. Out of the medieval town through the red light zone to the modern suburb. He welcomed us into his modern flat. We relaxed a little. He was leaving the next day for the San Sebastian jazz festival, all the way across Spain where we had just come from! We decided we would do the same. Unladen of our baggage we ventured out into the Gormenghast town. At 9 o'clock we sat down for our evening meal. The restaurant had bare wooden tables scrubbed clean into the relief of their grain. Thick red wine was served in a small white jug for each of us. Wilky gave his characteristically puzzled look. No glasses were brought. We followed my brother's example and drank from the spout. He took a crust of bread from the basket on the table and dipped it in his wine. We did the same. Bowls of cabbage soup arrived. Fine fayre for hungry travellers. More bread, more wine and a main course of chick peas and tripe was brought to the table. We tucked in. It was a good night. We called in at a small bar as we wandered back to the flat. Generous glasses of brandy set us up for a sound sleep on the living room floor.
We awoke with hairy mouths, packed up and went out for a breakfast of coffee and cakes. We sat and enjoyed table service for less than a takeout in our own land. Then it was back to the station and onto the train for a comfortable carriage and sneaky reefer. Henry travelled after and John and his colleagues were motoring across the country. We reunited in San Sebastian in the Basque country, the most contentious region of Spain. Here the battle for independence was ferocious. John had friends we could stay with. The urban living room floor was comfortable.
Out into the bustling street and along to the festival. Arriving late we rushed in to see Miles Davis. An esoteric trumpeter was alone on the stage squeezing out the strangest of sounds. A primitively bare performance. I loved it. Laying down his trumpet he picked up a berimbau and twanged in an obscure fashion. With an abrupt manner he left the stage to a smattering of applause. The stage lit up to reveal an impressive set and on came a different character in a gold lamé jacket with his back to the audience. An elegant bassline began and muted sounds of a soulful trumpet. This was Miles Davis. I was disappointed. The crude precursor of Don Cherry was more to my liking. Slowly I acquiesced. As he turned around the blue lights changed to red and a weather worn jazz man in mirror shades modulated into a transcendent solo. The extenuated melody stretched my imagination. The fluidity of his subversion convinced me. Not iconoclastic chaos but a triumphant rise of subculture into the mainstream. Like the extemporised tune, jazz had changed society.
We left satisfied and returned to the crowded flat. After a floorful of sleep we awoke to sunshine through the windows. A trip to the beach was the plan. Many had the same idea and we found our spot amongst the crowd. Into the sea and out to the diving platforms we ventured. Henry had provisioned himself with a waterproof container carrying a joint and fire. With the platform to ourselves we enjoyed the luxury. Diving into the blue was an explosive sensation with our imaginations ignited. We climbed back on and chilled in the sun. From our island in the deep we looked back at the crowded beach. Suddenly from the busy streets a swarm of people surged onto the beach. We looked to my brother John for an explanation. "Ah, fiesta!" was his reply. But his companions who were more familiar with the territory disputed his notion. More people pushed into the crowd. A riot had begun in town and the demonstrators now fled from the police. We pondered what we should do. We waited to see if there was a retreat but more spilled onto the sands. As we swam back to shore more piled onto the beach. We collected our belongings and flowed to the other end of the beach. Here we found an exit to the street but by now the disturbance had spread. Cars were being bounced out into the road to form barricades. The brown shirt police brandished chunky rifles which fired rubber balls at the protesters who were dismantling the pavement to create projectiles. The spontaneous aggression became a pitched battle. As we circumnavigated balls rolled along our path. I picked one up as a souvenir. Past the epicentre still cars littered the road as a calculated obstruction. We made it back to the flat and from our fifth floor window watched the forays back and forth. We found out that a brown shirt motorcyclist had been lured into the countryside and killed. The police had come out with a show of force and the resistance had begun. By late afternoon things began to settle down and we prepared ourselves for the festival.
We carefully made our way to the venue where George Benson would perform. I was informed that though famous for the pop song "Gimme the night" he was in fact an exceptional jazz guitarist. My perceptions were altered. His fluid improvisations once again gently coaxed us into a dissonant zone. My love of music was reaffirmed. My ambition to play this mellifluous magic had begun. We left the imposing venue and retreated to a humble bar for a generous glass of brandy. A man thumped out a rhythm on the bar as he sang a traditional song in Euskadi. The spirit of rebellion was alive. We enjoyed our last night in the fervent town.
John and his colleagues returned to Santiago. Wilky and Oda travelled back to England and Henry and I had time to burn. When I was younger I had holidayed in France with my parents and brother. We had visited Souillac, a beautiful town by the river Dordogne and stayed at a campsite nearby. I figured that we could probably find a nice spot to bed down by the river. I travelled ahead with the receipt of the interrail ticket and Henry on the next train. My recollections served me well and after wandering a little way from the pretty little market town we found an ideal spot to camp. Not too visible from the road and not far away was a large out of town hypermarket. With dwindling funds this proved to be our saviour. At night we would scale the fence and retrieve empty returnable bottles and return them once again the following day. This provided us with a few francs for daily sustenance.
One day as we bought our groceries and beer Henry spied a purse being handed in as lost. The French often carried such simple coin purses with only cash in them. As he was sure this was such an item Henry took his chance to claim it and once again the circle of life provided. In the evening we took a pleasant excursion into Souillac and drank a beer on an elegant terrace. On the way home we collected bottles for the next day's provisions.
Sleep was pleasant by the babbling water. A week drifted by with this comfortable life and we were ready for our return to Blighty. We decided to take a scenic route through Brittany and cross from St Malo to Portsmouth. Our tried and tested system of travel carried us safely to the port in time for lunch. We decided to get an overnight crossing. We had the afternoon to explore the town. Beautifully picturesque streets accommodated a one man band and interestingly independent shops. A psychedelic clothes shop caught our eyes. Velveteen dressing gowns with elaborate patterns hung on an outside rail. We admired the colourful paisley patterns and the stylish shopkeeper stepped out to greet us. He sparked up a joint as we perused. We cherished the smell of the exhalations. With a smile he offered me a toke. Now we all smiled and I passed it on to Henry. We tried on a dressing gown each and decided they suited us. We decided to purchase and inquired if we might also buy some of the pleasant smoke. He would have to make a short journey. We paid up and he jumped on his scooter. Soon he returned and attired in our fine apparel we headed up onto the city walls to roll up another with the squidgy black. It was good shit. We danced along the parapets and looked out on the rolling sea that would take us back home. A few bottles of beer eased us through the afternoon. We packed away our new dressing gowns and boarded the ferry.
The eight hour journey was a bumpy ride as the waves buffeted the boat. We rolled out our mats and climbed into our bags and tried to sleep. Before dawn we were up and gazing out to sea for the welcoming coast of England. From the beautiful St Malo we arrived at the industrial Portsmouth. A long walk through town brought us to the road North. We stuck out our thumbs and waited. After an hour a friendly fellow picked us up. I left my trepidation in France and chatted about our travels. He was glad the adventurer's spirit was alive. His destination was the city. He had hitchhiked when he was young. He felt he was handing along the baton and we too would pick up hitchhikers in the future. He dropped us off at the M25 and we hitched around to the M1. Here we got a ride with a trucker. He didn't say much but took us all the way to Charnock Richard service station. From here we took a lift to Junction 32 - the Broughton roundabout. Henry lived just around the corner. I wished him farewell and walked through the fields to our country house. My mum and dad welcomed me home.