Section 8. A travelin’ man
Other than the family’s annual summer vacation to southern California, our family never travelled much. But as noted in the bicycling section (Chapter 3, section 7), I became susceptible to the (at least local) call of the road in high school. But boy, when I did take my first trip, it was a big one. I knew a number of people who had gone to Europe during their summer college breaks (including my brother, who went there with Allen Rudolph in 1971). That really intrigued me, and I wanted to (ideally) share such a trip with a girlfriend. But I was no closer to having a girlfriend in college than I had been in high school, so that was a forlorn hope, and besides, I was working summers to pay for the other nine months at school. But still, the idea of going to Europe before settling into a career was a big draw – my friend Kathleen Taft (see Chapter 7, section 9) was quite adamant about taking trips whenever possible. This was in 1974 when one of the popular books was Europe on 5 Dollars a Day. Well, I figured I had enough dough saved up to swing something like that, and besides one airline had a great deal – one way from Oakland to Paris for less than three hundred bucks. I kept a journal during my entire trip, but regrettably I lost it when I took it from my folk’s house in Los Gatos to bring it up to my place in Berkeley. So the following is based strictly on memory, plus what I can glean from the photos I took.
So, regretfully eschewing the thought of any sort of travelling companion, I withdrew from the University for the fall quarter of 1974, and prepared for my journey. That summer I biked from Los Gatos to get a passport photo at a place on San Carlos Street in San Jose. I already had a sleeping bag, as well as a backpack I had used only once previously hiking in the Stanislaus National Forest (Chapter 3, section 1), and a cheap Kodak camera. Then I collected a bunch of recommendations from friends on where to visit, got $750 worth of American Express travelers checks (this was long before I owned a credit card), as well as an American Youth Hostel membership (Fig. 7.8.1), which got me cheap lodgings all over the place. There were a few places on the Continent I planned to take in, even though my foreign language skills were virtually nil – I did OK in reading (but not conversing in) Spanish, but I wasn’t going anywhere near Spain, so that was of no help whatsoever, while my knowledge of German consisted solely of being able to count to ten and asking “Where is the train station?”1. But as a confirmed Anglophile, I knew I would be spending most of my time in the British Isles and so I also bought a BritRail card, which allowed for unlimited travel within a certain space of time. Then I trusted to luck and in September flew off on my big adventure.
After spending my first night at a youth hostel in Paris, I visited the only place of interest to me in the city – the site of the Bastille2, and then hopped a train to take me through Luxemburg and Germany to Berne, Switzerland. Thence I hitchhiked to Zermatt, where I got a great view of the Matterhorn after a moderate hike (one evening at a stop in the Alps, I was befriended by a bus load of tourists from the Netherlands who took pity a lone traveler – I found as a rule the Dutch were the kindest people on the continent). And it was in this country I discovered “Swiss rolls” – a delicious snack that provided me with the starch and sugar I so craved.
I have never been interested in alcoholic beverages, but seeing as how I just turned 21, and was in an area famed for beer making, I thought I’d take this opportunity to sample the local wares. During my entire trip, I probably tried only four or five beers: the first one was in Switzerland, and I was not impressed. I had one or two others on the continent, and when I was in England I tried pale ale, which I thought was absolutely revolting. But when in Dublin, I tried a Guinness, and although I am still not a beer drinker, I must say that pint was not bad – it had a nice flavor.
From Switzerland I went to Austria, where my target was to visit the “Archduke’s gardens” of Salzburg. Man! What a beautiful city – I knew nothing about it before my trip, but the place was simply glorious – especially the Schloss (Fig. 7.8.2), which overlooks the city and a large portion of the area around it. There I approached two fellows of my age to ask them to take my picture with my trusty Kodak camera, asking, “Pardon me, but do you speak English?” Whereas one of them turned to the other, saying (in a British accent), “I don’t know Les, do we speak English?” “Oh, well enough, I guess.” So for the rest of the afternoon, I palled around with Les and Mark who were visiting from the south of England3.
After Austria, my next destination was the low countries, meaning I had to cross a big chunk of Germany, a place that I had no interest in exploring whatsoever. I was in southern German city of Munich, thumbin’ out to hitchhike, when a bus pulled over and the driver opened the door in front of me and beckoned me in. I was a bit confused, thinking maybe I was standing in a bus pickup zone by mistake (my knowledge of German being virtually nil, except for the thing about the bahnhof, and eins, zwei, drei), and told the driver I didn’t want to pay. However, he insisted, and so I climbed on board. Turns out it was a tour bus filled with Dutch vacationers, and the driver (Johann, Fig. 7.8.3) just wanted to have me sit on the floor next to him and chat. So I got a free ride as far as Augsburg. That evening, with the passengers all discharged, Johann invited me to join his friends at a pub, and then even put me up for the evening at his place. First thing the next day I was out hitching again, when one of Johann’s friends drove by. He recognized me from the night before, and gave me a lift even further up the road. So, yes, I found the Dutch to be the friendliest folk in Europe, but Johann and his friend made a good argument for the Germans as well.
In the Netherlands, I met up with the Fleurens (Fig. 7.8.4), friends of John Hunter (my friend from college), and then made my way west, intending to visit the Waterloo battlefield, which fight has always been of the keenest interest to me. I arrived at Nivelles, where I was surprised by the sight of dozens of men dressed in the garb of Napoleon’s army. Turns out, I had accidentally stumbled upon the “Grognards of Jumet” (Fig. 7.8.5), a group who celebrate the heritage of Napoleon’s top military unit (the Grenadier Imperial Guards) in period uniforms, marching in column, forming square, and firing their muskets. I took a helluva lot of pictures that afternoon, which set my timetable back a bit, but that evening I stayed at an inn where the road running from Nivelles to Namur intersected Rue Dernier Patard, now considered part of the town of Thyle. But in 1815, that place was a hamlet called Le Quatres Bras (the four arms), and was a crossroads that played a crucial role in Napoleon’s march north in “The Hundred Days” campaign (aka War of the Seventh Coalition). On June 16, the Duke of Wellington held off the left wing of Napoleon’s army at that spot, while two days late the two great generals faced off just a few miles north near a farmhouse called Mont-St-Jean. Wellington and his Prussian allies thoroughly routed the French, in a battle that Napoleon referred to as “la bataille de Mont-Saint-Jean”, while Wellington, who thought the British might not appreciate such a “French” name, instead opted to name the battle after the municipality a mile north of there where he had his headquarters: Waterloo.
I wanted to be in London on the 23rd, to help Betsy Hanson4 celebrate her birthday in London, so I had to rush north to catch a ferry to cross the channel, leaving me no time to explore the Waterloo battlefield, although I did take a quick gander as the bus I was on drove straight across it. I made the ferry, and the first two hours onboard were fine as the boat hugged the coastline. But for the third hour, the ferry turned to starboard and made straight across the open water, and it was rough – the boat was really rolling. I wanted to get a message to Betsy, and the ferry had a wireless room allowing me to do so … but it was in the radio tower, WAY up at the very top of the boat, where the swaying of the boat was greatly magnified. Luckily, I managed not to throw up.
I had spent about ten days on the continent, but that was strictly introductory, as I was planning on staying two months in the British Isles. My first day or two was spent in London. Unluckily, Betsy had decamped that place, so we weren’t able to meet up, so then I headed west to the Salisbury area. I stayed with some family friends (Edna and Rich Richardson, Fig. 7.8.6), who took me to Stonehenge (back then, the stones were not roped off, and you could get right in there among them, Fig. 7,8,7). We also visited the nearby “Woodhenge”, which was a Neolithic circle of, you guessed it, wood timbers, plus another visitor’s attraction, “The Lions of Longleat”, as well as Salisbury Cathedral. Although I had been in good health up until Salisbury, I was struck down by some unknown agent (probably viral), so I lucked out greatly as the Richardsons were able to nurse me for the two or three days it took for me to recover.
Then I was back on the road, checking out the ancient city of Bath, crossing southern Wales to grab a ferry from Fishguard across St. George’s Channel to Rosslare in Ireland. I hitched across southern Ireland through Waterford and Cork. At one point my ride was an older gentleman, a farmer I think. He told me I spoke English well. I assumed he meant I didn’t have a strong American accent (I had been told this before by someone else), but no, he was surprised to find that I understood English as well as I did. Apparently, he thought we only spoke American back there, while I was unable to find the words to explain that English was our native tongue as well (although this presaged an event a week later in Liverpool that did make me wonder about it).
In any case, at Cork I visited the Blarney Castle and kissed the stone (a guide holds onto your feet as you dangle backwards over a ledge) and then travelled out to the Dingle Peninsula (Fig. 7.8.8), the westernmost part of the country. That ticked off everything I wanted to do in Ireland, and so I headed to Dublin to cross back over to Wales. After one ride, I landed in the middle of nowhere, and was looking for another. Across the road was a lad about my age thumbing a ride heading west. After a period of no traffic, he crossed the road and asked where I was headed. His told me his name was Mike, and he was headed to Dublin as well to visit his aunt in Dublin; he proposed that we might have better luck if we hitched as a pair instead of two loners. If I got a ride east first, then I’d ask the driver to include Mike as well, and if he got a ride west first, we could head to a nearby town with a train station. I hedged at this because I was trying to economize, but he convinced me that if we boarded a train without a ticket, the worst they could do was to put us off at the next stop, but we’d be that much closer to our destination. And, he suggested that if they asked us for ID, we could get a paperback book, write a name in it, and show that to the conductor. Well, “when in Rome”, I thought, and we went into a small shop to pick out a book to buy. I didn’t see one I liked, and I was sort of leery about this anyway, so we walked out without buying a book. After we got back to the road, he handed me a book to use (Borstal Boy by Brendan Behan), having acquired it through a five-finger discount. Luckily, we never had to put his train idea to a test, because a van heading east came by and stopped for us. The occupants were a rock band that Mike knew (Fig. 7.8.9), and they gave us a lift the rest of the way (and I did enjoy reading the book afterwards)
With that bit of accessory to larceny behind me, I crossed the Irish Sea to Holyhead in Wales, and took in Caernarfon Castle. Now that I was back in Britain, I started using my BritRail pass, which provided me with unlimited train rides for a period of four weeks, and I rarely hitched afterwards. First I headed a bit further south to enjoy one of the highlights of my trip: Portmeirion, the location where one of my favorite TV shows, Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner, had been filmed (Fig. 7.8.10). Then east across the astonishingly beautiful hilly area of Betws-y-coed (Fig, 7.8.11) and Llangollen (no, neither of those are typos).
With Wales done, I headed north via the city of Chester. And here I have to say, that throughout my entire trip, both on the continent and in Britain, I enjoyed the loveliest of scenery … except for Chester. To quote Bette Davis in Beyond the Forest, “What a dump.” So I was happy to pass through there as quick as possible, and continued to Liverpool. As immortalized by Gerry & the Pacemakers, I crossed the River Mersey on a ferry to get into the city proper. On the ferry I met an ex-Liverpudlian, a chap who had spent the last several years in either Australia or New Zealand, and after disembarking we went to a cafeteria-style eatery for dinner – lucky for me. Because seated right next to us was a table with four or five kids, about high school age, I think. They heard my American accent and began peppering me with questions, which I could not answer, because I couldn’t make head nor tail of their accents/dialect. In Liverpool, there are a couple of accents – one, which I call “high Liverpudlian”, are what the Beatles sound like – distinctive, pleasant and perfectly understandable. Unfortunately the kids at our neighboring table spoke what I called “low Liverpudlian” and I sat there like a gaping fish unable to answer their friendly questions – even on the continent I hadn’t been in such dire straits conversationally. Luckily though, my companion stepped in, and he kindly acted as an interpreter. It was quite a surreal experience.
With that barrier passed I entered the Lakes District (Fig. 7.8.12), another tourist area that merited the epithet, “a walkers paradise”. I regret I didn’t take the opportunity to really explore the area, and instead just made a simple transect from Kendal to Cockermouth, but this was in mid-October and the weather cooperated and I enjoyed every bit of it.
Then I was Scotland bound, taking the train from Carlisle to Inverness, stopping first at Lockerbie and then Moffat (where I bought a deliciously warm sweater – that plus the “London Fog” jacket that my mom gave to me for the trip provided all the warmth I needed the rest of the trip). After staying just one night I took the train to the west coast at Kyle of Lochalsh (Fig 7.8.13), from where I crossed to the Isle of Skye for an overnight trip, renting a three-speed bike to explore the area towards Broadford. The next day I returned to the Inverness area, travelling over the most scenic stretch of railway in all of Great Britain. Well that’s what I was told anyway: I can’t vouch for that because I crossed at night. My next stop was the battlefield of Culloden, where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobites were defeated and Scotland became further integrated into Britain. Then off to Nairn5 where I looked in on the mother of one of my Dad’s fellow building inspectors, Scottie Bochel, and then further east along the north coast of Scotland to Banff.
Then it was time to return south, so I headed for Drumnadrochit, enjoying a very placid view of Loch Ness (Fig. 7.8.14) (there was a rumor of a recent sighting of the monster, but of course nothing for that day), as well as a nice expedition up the Ness Islands near Inverness. Then by rail south to Pitlochry, which is another completely captivating burg, then southeast to St. Andrews where I got a look at “The Royal and Ancient Golfclub”6. Then a couple days in Edinburgh, where I explored the castle and met the parents of Bea Watson, a SCD friend of mine. I finished my Scottish tour passing through Glasgow and Helensburgh for a brief visit to Loch Lomond (nice place, but to my mind nothing noteworthy enough to write a song about).
Then south again to pass Hadrian’s Wall into England, and the ancient town of York, where I saw York Minster, the Shambles, the birthplace of Guy Fawkes7, and the city walls and battlements – this was one of the coolest places of the whole trip. If you are into British history, you gotta check out this city (Fig. 7.8.15).
Unfortunately, because (as I see it) I was back in England, I got sick again. Luckily, I was now in Berkshire, where the Richardson’s elder daughter, Carol Whapshare lived, and this time SHE was able to provide me shelter while I recovered. We visited Runnymede (one of those famous places where there is really not much to see), and then I proceeded to Windsor, and finally, just as my BritRail pass expired, London. I made a side trip to Rye and Hastings on the coast, but spent the bulk of the last three weeks of my trip exploring that metropolis. I settled in a place near Kings Cross and saw the usual touristy places: the Tower, Hampton Court, and Covent Garden (which, I admit, is not really all that touristy, but I considered it a landmark of the city), Greenwich, Battersea, Hyde and Regent’s Parks, Madame Tussard’s, Piccadilly Circus). I also witnessed three events: 1) the changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace (this was in November, so the Guardsmen were wearing grey greatcoats instead of their red tunics), 2) Queen Elizabeth laying of a wreath at the Cenotaph at Whitehall on Armistice Day (I would have had an excellent view, but at the last minute, Guardsmen with their tall bearskin hats took up position along the street just in front of me, making it quite difficult, even for a tall person like me to see everything (Fig. 7.8.16), and 3) a bonfire at the Crystal Palace celebrating Guy Fawkes Day 7 (again).
I have never been much of a night owl, and throughout my trip I stayed in most evenings. But three weeks in London was too long a period not to enjoy some evening entertainment, and I took in two concerts and two plays (one of which was Pygmalion with Diana Rigg8 playing Eliza Doolittle). I also saw a movie or two, and on my way back from one of those, I was crossing a highly populated plaza. There, a fairly pretty young woman asked me if I wanted to have a date. Well, this nonplussed me – for one thing, boys always asked girls for dates, never the other way around (well unless it was Sadie Hawkins Day, but that was an American custom, not a British one). I never considered myself the least bit attractive to females, and so while I felt complimented that she would ask me, my mind reeled with the complicatedness of the whole business: after all I didn’t have a car, and where would we go, what would we do? Besides, it was pretty late, and I just wanted to turn in for the night. So I politely said no thank you, and she melted back into the crowd. But that got me to thinking, and the idea of having a date wasn’t such a bad idea. So a couple of days later I returned to the same place, and just wandered around a bit, but alas, no one ever came up to me again to ask if I wanted to hang out with them. It was only a decade later that I realized what “Want to have a date?” actually meant.
I also had an interesting run in with a guy. It was during my closing days at London when I thought I ought to visit the American embassy to make sure everything was in order for my return to the States. After I left there, a chappie accosted me, calling me his “American friend” and asking if I remembered him. I didn’t, but he seemed quite friendly, so I continued our discussion. Then he suggested the two of us go to the Playboy Club in town, and that’s when the penny dropped. I figured he had seen me exit the embassy, thus figuring I was an American, and used that to claim our prior acquaintanceship (I suspect he also figured that as an American, I might have lots of dough to spend as well). Anyway, I told him I had no interest in his suggestion, and then he quickly made himself scarce. This was the first time someone had tried to scam me, and I remember afterwards being a little disappointed that it happened not in the “uncouth” United States, but rather in the more sophisticated United Kingdom.
I flew over to the continent with a one-way ticket, and figured I could return the same way by checking out the London travel shops. Indeed, one place I went to said they had such a deal, but when I asked them for details on where to meet, I was told that they couldn’t tell me until the last minute. I had no idea if the company was on the up and up, but it sounded pretty damn sketchy to me, so I walked out. And that’s when my folks came to my rescue. I phoned to tell them of my situation, and they, without comment, paid for a one-way ticket home on TWA (which must have cost a LOT). They never reproached me for my failure to take care of this basic duty, and knowing how much my dad, er, economized; this had to be extra tough for him. Afterwards, I also figured this trip had to have been tough on my folks for another reason – like my bike rides, I was away for long stretches of time with virtually zero communication options, while unlike my brother’s trip to Europe three years earlier, I didn’t have a travelling companion. But again, they never reproached me, and let me lead the life I wanted. They turned out to be pretty great parents.
So that was one hell of an experience. Although my journey lasted from mid September to mid November and wasn’t in what one would call a “warm weather clime”, I was blessed with rather remarkable good weather (yes there was some rain and overcast in Britain, but no terrible rainstorms or freezing temperatures). They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I think this was a good example, as England tried to kill me twice via disease, then discombobulate me with scams, soliciting, a dubious travel option, and just plain funny talk. But I did come away with a lot more self confidence … not to mention a red military tunic I got in a secondhand store (Fig. 7.8.17) as well as an addiction to Swiss rolls. Oh, and a series of cloth badges that I sewed onto my backpack that helped document my travels (Fig. 7.8.18).
Having grown up in Los Gatos, with its fairly clement climate, I had never paid much attention to the seasons, but having seen so much beauty on this trip, fall became indelibly marked fall as my favorite season, and I made a point of taking many of my subsequent trips in that same season. I doubt any of these trips would be considered remarkable enough to bring to the attention of the general public … except for the one in 1980 when I attended a SCD weekend at Asilomar. Afterwards, Cathy Sponseller, Robin Outzen and I went for a hike at Point Lobos. I was in the lead on a seaside trail and saw in front of us a bald, bearded photographer and his assistant, who were focused on some otters in the water. I glanced back at my companions and said jokingly: “Hey, it’s Ansel Adams.” To which Cathy said, “Omigod – it is!” To which I said “Really? – I was only kidding.” Well, evidently I was not kidding, and even managed to get a photo of my two friends with Adams and his aide (Fig. 7.8.19).
I don’t have a list of trips (to me, a “trip” includes either one or more nights away, and/or day jaunts that require at least a two hour car trip each way) I took by myself, but I figure I took 50 with Carolynn – five of which involved Scottish County Dance workshops, three were for football bowl games, nine were international, three were for rafting/boating excursions, two were for cross country skiing, and two were to Disneyland.
And for you statistic freaks, I’ve lived in two states (California and Washington), had at least an overnight stay in 21 states (plus the District of Columbia), passed through on a train five more states, and disembarked from a plane (without leaving the airport) in four states. Internationally, I’ve visited 17 countries (lumping England, Wales and Scotland under the U.K.), passed through one on a train, and never got beyond the airport at another. The majority of these trips were for vacations, but trips to Chile and Australia were professional, looking for biological control agents to import back into the States.
Additionally, I have moved (so far) 15 times (I read that the national average is 11-12 times in a person’s life), having lived (with my family) in three places in the San Fernando Valley, and two in Santa Clara County. My most mobile period was from 1971 to 1976 (which included my undergraduate time at Berkeley), when I lived in seven places, while as a married person I’ve lived in four places. My shortest sojourn was about two months in an apartment in Berkeley, while my longest (17 years) is my current residence in Oakland.
1 “Wo ist der bahnhoff?” as taught me by my brother, which, as it turns out, was not very useful, since any reply I would get would be in incomprehensible (to me) German, while (believe it or not) the ability to count from one to ten, is not all that helpful.
2 I went there expecting to see the building, which was marked on a map of the city, and was upset when I couldn’t find it – it was nowhere in sight, although I did note a “line” of colored bricks in the pavement of there. On my train ride to Switzerland, I explained my disappointment to a fellow traveler who amusedly instructed me that the prison had been torn down in 1789. I later learned that line of colored bricks I saw did mark the outline of the building, so at least I saw that … although I couldn’t appreciate it at the time.
3 After separating from Les and Mark, I was delighted to find the gardens I was looking for … except I hadn’t. I had found the lovely gardens of the Hellbrun Schloss, but it turns out the Archduke’s gardens were in Vienna, at the other side of the country, so I never got to see them.
4 Younger sister of one of my two good friends from LGHS, Kakie Hanson.
5 Where I had the BEST fish and chips of my whole life. Fish and chips had been my main staple while travelling in Britain, but nothing could compare with this meal. Someone suggested that since this was a fishing area, the shops benefited from having fresh catches.
6 One of the oldest golf courses in the world. I didn’t play there, but for someone who was used to the course at Aptos, the flatness of St. Andrews made it seem pretty tame to me.
7 If you’ve skipped it, now would be a good time to go back and see footnote 2 in Chapter 4.
8 Who I actually met after the performance, after I waited for her outside the stage door to give her a bouquet of flowers.