In 1965, Mr Donnelly our Spanish teacher told us that, at the beginning of the 20^th century, Hilaire Belloc spent a summer in the Pyrenees criss-crossing the French and Spanish borders, with a blanket, red wine and sugar. This minimalist approach prompted a friend and I to hitch-hike in Europe. Apparently you needed a card from the French authorities for this. We approached the French Embassy but they seemed not to want to know. In Piccadilly, a youth squatted on the pavement with a hat and a sign which read "Young Frenchman who is hungry". In these pre-homelessness days, it seemed bold.

In view of conflicting messages about hitching in France, we decided to go by train from Calais to Rome, where my friend’s Aunt worked and to hitch first in Italy. In England we bought single tickets from Folkestone for about £12 each. Rome was a big deal in those days. There was none of your overland drugs trek to Morocco or India, just a few Beatniks who sought the sun in Saint Tropez.

At Folkestone, we were quizzed at passport control on our destination, length of stay and the amount of money we had. I had £11, a packet of sugar cubes, a blanket and a spirit stove which seemed more than enough for a few weeks if we were to live like Belloc. The man disappeared with our passports, but when we didn’t feature on his fugitives list, we were on our way.

Once in Calais, we had a choice of going via Basle, which looked quicker, or via Paris. We chose Paris and later ran into someone who had taken the Basle train. He said it was diabolical, full of scouts, and he had had to stand all night in the corridor. We were decidedly more comfortable, with only one lady in our carriage. When she left in the morning, her place was taken by an Italian in his twenties. He smoked the largest cigar I've ever seen, before or since, read a James Bond novel in English (one up on us) and played chess. His name was Gucci and his uncle ran a fashion company. It didn't mean anything to us. We were thirsty and wanted to buy some wine at a station. Before he left the train at Florence, he advised against buying from a station trolley. We did not take his advice. I slept for most of the way to Rome after we finished the bottle. We discussed with some fellow passengers from Birmingham, whether Sonny and Cher would have reached number one yet.

Each evening in Rome, we took the guitar to the Spanish Steps or the Trevi Fountain and became used to being asked by strollers simply to play something. We usually did What'd say and that seemed to suffice (perhaps they were sorry they'd asked). In the large outdoor restaurant in Trastevere, we played Twist and shout on the resident musician's jumbo guitar which tore my fingers to shreds; he looked distinctly unimpressed.

After a week or so, we began to hitch up the Italian coast. It was very hot and lifts were few and far between. At noon one baking day we walked into a farmyard and asked how far it was to the next town. It was about fifteen kilometres. We asked if there were a bus. There was. Where was the stop? You just stuck out your arm to stop it by the roadside. We wandered back to the road, just as this very infrequent bus was coming down the hill. We stopped it and travelled to Grosetto with a crowd of noisy women all dressed in black and carrying baskets for the market; what a blessing.

We had a near miss when the driver of a Ford Anglia who gave us a lift, tried to beat huge falling level crossing gates at speed. We were immediately pursued by a Police motorcyclist who fined the driver on the spot. Further up the coast at La Spezia, we sat in with a group playing Shadows numbers. There was a large number of US sailors there and, with one of them, we managed to play some more upbeat vocal numbers, including Beatles and old Rock 'n' Roll. We met a nice old chap with a parrot on his shoulder. He put seed in his lips which the parrot took gently. We were outside his home and with a flourish he opened his door and invited us to stay. I’ve always remembered that room when I’ve made an unavoidable trip to our kids’ bedroom. Any lingering doubts we had about the etiquette of accepting his kind hospitality were dispelled by the sight of what was emanating from the parrot down the back of his jacket. We thanked him for his offer.

We slept mainly in railway stations and, after the shock of seeing a man hit by a car and flying through the air in San Marino, then getting up and walking away, we took a train to Nice and slept on the beach. Next day, we played with some French guys who gave us our first hearing of Satisfaction. We acquired very bad sun burn and decided that a proper bed in a youth hostel was called for. The hostel at Nice was outside town, at the top of one of those huge hills with switch-back roads which you see on films. When cooler evening came, we made our way slowly backwards and forwards up this hill. The smell of recent forest fires still lingered. After a very long walk, we arrived at the hostel and joined the queue waiting for admission. By the time it was our turn, the place was full. The Pere Aubergiste suggested that we and a young German who had also been excluded, could sleep on a ledge a few yards down the road. The ledge was below road level, about 6 feet wide and 10 feet long. Below was a drop of a couple of hundred feet to the next layer of switch back road. The German sniffed continuously. He stretched out, produced a long-bladed knife, stabbed it in the ground next to him, said "just in case" and went to sniffy sleep. I didn’t sleep well.

We decided to take a train to Avignon. A lady advised vinegar for our sunburn. In Avignon there were old ladies by the famous Pont, gathering driftwood for fires. One called us "pauvres enfants", but we knew we were there by choice. Our first attempt at hitching in France was fruitless. Towards evening, a car laden with family stopped, but only with a puncture. We changed their wheel for them and they gave us a bottle of wine. We retired with it to a nearby ruined house and slept there. Outside, next day we met a guitar-bearing Englishman with a tea cosy on his head. We passed the time of day and discussed the problems of hitching before he moved on. I saw him later in England on the Simon Dee TV programme; he was Roy Harper.

Eventually, there were several short lifts in the backs of vans and, memorably in a 2CV over the Massif Central when I steered from the passenger seat while the driver consulted a map. Then we were given a lift in a Renault Dauphine by Joel Pillière. The back seat was coverered in stuff, so we crammed into the front bucket seat. This attracted the attention of the police and Joel was stopped and fined. We were ditched by a roadside ceramics shop at Nevers, with an offer of accommodation in Paris from Joel. The huge urns were patrolled by a nasty looking alsatian dog but we were offered the use of a barn by a neighbouring couple, who thoughtfully removed our matches and passports. They sent us on our way next morning with huge bowls of black coffee with chicory. We arrived in Paris with an American correspondent who had also asked me to steer, this time at greater speed through a section of road with warnings about rock falls. We made our way to Joel’s address off Rue Lagarde. Without a lift, we climbed the carpeted stairs to the 6^th floor, but did not see his name on a door. On returning to the ground floor, we found a dingy, parallel staircase off to the right, without carpet. Again we climbed to the 6^th floor, past a tap and standing toilet and there was Joel’s room. Hessian is what I remember. Hessian curtains, a hessian bedspread, a hessian "rug". We ate there for the duration of our stay and slept at his friend’s flat.

On a clear, warm Saturday evening, Joel took us to the steps of Montmartre. We strolled around looking at the portrait artists. Suddenly there was a commotion and the crowds drew back. We saw two men fighting violently. When one lay on the floor, the crowd applauded. Then the protagonists got to their feet and dissected their set piece blow by blow. Joel explained that they were actors. On the steps, a trumpeter played St Louis Blues with a guitar accompaniment from someone a few steps further down. It was very effective. The acoustic was surprisingly good and the backdrop of Sacre Coeur very dramatic.

We got to know the Latin Quarter quite well and went daily to a record shop in Rue des Ecoles, which played great R&B and jazz. We hung around cafés, bookshops and the Jardins de Luxembourg but ended up being asked to leave France "sans autostop", after an incident in Boulevard St. Michel.

We had been busking to a good crowd with a sign not dissimilar to that which we had seen the young Frenchman use outside the Royal Academy in London. We made a good collection, singing Dylan, Beatles, Stones, and Jerry Lee Lewis but the police intervention seemed a bit over the top, with five officers in a paddy wagon.

The British Consulate came and collected us from the police station and took us to Place de la Concorde for a good dressing down. We arranged to leave but missed the night train to Calais. We eventually arrived in Dover at 5.30pm and took a bus to where we could hitch. We hitched uselessly until after it got dark, then decided to look for a park bench. A lady who overtook us, pointed to one by the roadside on the slope of a hill. It was a misty, September evening. We dozed on the bench. Some time later, my friend woke me. There was a man inviting us in. We went into the warm, and were given a hot drink, some apple pie and a settee to stretch out on, by the lady we had met earlier. We were very grateful to these good samaritans. It was a memorable end to some fine experiences and we had encountered much kindness. It would be good to know that such a trip were still possible, but times seem less safe or are they just more sophisticated?

Copyright © John Scott Cree 2001

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