GRAND TOUR of EUROPE: June 1-2 Vancouver, Canada to Buckinghamshire, England

dep. Vancouver June 1, arr. Gatwick June 2, 1976
4765 miles (7645km)

Vancouver Canada to Buckinghamshire, UK
The plane was filled to capacity with mostly adult holidaymakers and older students embarking on a European summer vacation.  On the surface, our flight promised to be quite ordinary, but this particular transatlantic trip was anything but! 

Fraught with difficulties

Our plane’s water supplies had been improperly replenished between flights, and nobody had noticed.  Our drinking and bathroom water had both run dry before we'd cleared even British Columbia’s air space. Adding insult to injury, neither stereo headsets nor movies had been brought aboard our hapless flight. 

photo by kind courtesy of Wikipedia.com

We were most disgruntled travellers!  And with a total of 8 hours of being forced to endure such shabby treatment, we became more indignant by the hour.   

Laker's Solution
Sensing our dissatisfaction, the sullen crew sheepishly offered Laker Air’s sincere apologies for our inconvenience – along with free liquor for all adult passengers, for the duration of the trip.  
At least we'd feel no pain!

Two hours and several drinks later, we were served an unappealing meal with an equally unsavory announcement: the bar had run dry of both rum and gin.  But happily, though the whisky and vodka would not last long, plentiful soft drinks were available. 

Loud and incessant grumbling promptly ensued.  

How much more could Laker torture us? 

The Passenger's Solution
To prevent anarchy, Mark, my inventive seat-mate challenged each passenger to a tongue-in-cheek limerick contest about the “joys and advantages” of flying with Laker Airlines. The devious creativity of this exercise kept saner minds occupied, which allowed the flight crew time to attend to the more belligerent travellers.  I decided that 

Mark was my first good omen for my forthcoming trip.

When the limericks were complete, they were duly passed, seat by seat, to Mark who then read out each one aloud, for all to hear.  His resonant tones and theatrical delivery presented each limerick in style.  And the eventual winner was decided by applause and laughter.  
This was my contribution...

Fly to UK with Freddie Laker

And you're making a HUGE mistak-e

First, the water runs dry,

Then bland food makes you cry

And infrequent drinks make your head ach-e!

As Mark was busy projecting his voice so the whole plane could hear him, I fashioned a crown from paper dinner napkins, and later we both held a “coronation” ceremony for the eventual winner.  This and other 'group entertainments' helped to alleviate our boredom for the several hours it took to fly across Canada's endless frozen north. 

Even though we passengers were having a blast and steadily getting more inebriated drinking whatever liquor was still available,  I imagine that, for our beleaguered crew, it was a very long flight indeed. 

Happy Landings
Much to the delight of everyone on board, our plane caught a tail wind over Baffin Island! We briskly rode the jet stream across Greenland, and catapulted into Britain to arrive at Gatwick over an hour earlier than scheduled. 

News of our bedevilled flight must have reached the eyes and ears of the airport authorities, because we passengers were  – uncharacteristically – shepherded through British Customs in less than 30 minutes.  Not one bag was searched!!  I was thus ignobly ejected into the Arrivals area of Gatwick a full 90 minutes before my family would arrive to chauffeur me home. 

Caffeine Please! 
Having remained awake drinking the flight's tiny bottles of spirits while helping to maintain sanity aboard, I was weary, somewhat hung-over and in desperate need of caffeine. Even though it meant risking airport coffee in a country whose national drink is tea, only caffeine would do!

In sudden horror, I realized that I had no British currency on me, and the airport bank had not yet opened for the day. What to do, what to do?!  

photo by kind courtesy of creattica.com

In desperation, I caught the eye of a kindly looking older gentleman, and asked him if he would be so kind as to treat me to a cup of coffee, since I had no English money but needed to sober up in a hurry.  He not only shared several cups of coffee with me, but also listened politely as I described my bizarre “Laker” flight.

An hour or so later, satisfied that I was capable of handling myself without further incident, he left me to my own devices.  I decided that my rescuer was  a most chivalrous knight, and that 

his kindness was a second good omen 

for my forthcoming EurRail adventure  

I usually get 3 such omens before important events!

Mother makes an entrance
My head was almost clear when Mother arrived, a mere 2 hours later than expected.   There was something oddly comforting in knowing that even my 3-year absence from England had not in the least improved her punctuality.

Gatwick to Hazlemere, Buckinghamshire

27 miles (67km)

En route home, we stopped at a Little Chef Restaurant for lunch, which Mom and John seemed to enjoy. As my stomach was still lurching from the flight, I refrained from eating anything till it settled. After battling traffic for a few hours, we eventually arrived at our Buckinghamshire home, just in time for tea.

photo by kind courtesy of worldoftak.ning.com

The Importance of Being Darjeeling
Tea is revered in my Mother's household. Whenever welcoming a prestigious guest - or, in my case, the prodigal daughter - the best china tea service and silverware was always used. Having spent the previous three years in what Britons like to call 'the Colonies', it gladdened my heart to see that Mama still retained England's olde worlde customs.

photo by kind courtesy of afternoonteatable.com

Mother moved to England, and became a permanent British citizen in 1952. And now, she was welcoming me home for the first time since I emigrated to Canada. Within an hour of our arrival in Buckinghamshire, she had indulged me with neat triangles of crustless cucumber sandwiches, sliced angel cake and a quantity of delicious Bourbon biscuits. Along with these delectable treats, she also served Indian tea so strong you could stand a spoon up in it!

It might have been the relief of ending 16 hours of travelling that caused my appetite to return.  Or perhaps it was the thoughtful splendour and charm of Mom's English teatime table, for she had procured  all my childhood favourite foods to welcome me home.  

Good omen number 3 was now fulfilled which

boded well for my forthcoming adventure!

1973-1976 
The tumultuous beginnings of my relationship with my Canadian sweetheart had evolved into a snail-mail, long-distance, summer romance. He had returned to Britain in the Fall and asked me to marry him.

Our Valentine's Day marriage and my emigration from UK to Canada, had shocked my family.

We had married in London and had a 48-hour honeymoon in Brighton before he left for Canada, leaving me to complete my medical and say my goodbyes to colleagues, friends and family. Having too little time to sell my belongings, I simply gave away my lifetime's accumulation of 'stuff'. The surprise and delight on the faces of the recipients gladdened my heart, and made the whole process much easier than I'd feared. So, 3 weeks later, when I emigrated to join my groom in Vancouver, I was carrying only 2 suitcases and a treasured original oil painting.

I spent 1973 trying to be "The Good Wife", but - to my chagrin - soon discovered that my new husband and I had completely different views about life.  Surpringly, I had genuinely welcomed the challenge of integration, of understanding my in-laws and of learning the ways of my new country.  But despite the seriousness of our wedding vows, my husband later confessed to marrying me only to prevent my dating anyone else. He neither wanted nor needed, a permanent commitment with me. At first devastated by his announcement, I eventually resolved to make the most of a less than stellar situation.

So, in Autumn 1974, I enrolled in Vancouver's Simon Fraser University, as a full time student.  I loved the mental discipline of learning new material.  But my soul deeply craved the avant guard element that had been the heartbeat of my London existence, but was absent from my more sedate Canadian life.

photo of Simon Fraser University by Christobelle in 2010

At University, I thus gravitated toward Bohemian types with razor-sharp minds juxtaposed by a zany wit. Those who recognized a kindred spirit in me also devoured books, loved classical music, indulged in "Be-Ins" "Theatre in the Park" and other artistic weekend excursions.

My husband's mood grew darker and more brooding as I spread my mental wings and began to fly!  My love was simply not strong enough to 'save' our marriage. So we separated in May 1975, almost amicably.

photo by kind courtesy of www.guarding.co.uk

I was then free to do my own bidding. But that freedom demanded a full-time job so I could eat and keep a roof over my head. My scholarships and bursaries did not cover everyday living costs.

Night classes at SFU, after a full day of work in the downtown sector, provided me with regular academic infusions. And, more importantly, introduced me to a new people, who gave my life depth and filled it with humour.

The rush-hour bus commute from downtown Vancouver to the campus on Burnaby Mountain was crazy in those pre-Skytrain days.  I was the one strap-hanging and catching up with my reading assignments during the 90-minute journey. Of course, after the insanity that was London Transport, I welcomed busses that were clean and ran on time.

SFU operates on a trimester system, so I was able to maintain my small connection with sanity, throughout the glorious summer months. I revelled in the beautiful mountain view that is visible from many parts of the campus, and also enjoyed the modern award-winning architecture of the 7-year old university.

Despite my dedication to my formal education, it was my self-taught job skills that reaped the best and most unexpected benefits. My bosses discovered that huge, clunking computers didn't scare me. So they  offered me a generous financial package to remain in their employ for the entire year that it would take for them to pack up the whole company and move to Ontario. They offered, but I declined a position at Head Office, in Toronto. My soul belonged in the west and I was totally in love with my new province!

British Columbia had extended me an opportunity 
that would take much hard work and perseverence

but promised to be a lot of fun 

I blessed my good fortune!  

In addition to three academic evening courses, I familiarized myself with the brand new computer that my company had purchased prior to their cross-country move. I was part of the team that made sure important company documents were magnetically backed up. As a result, 1975-6 proved to be an extremely busy and highly successful year of learning for me.

With proper economies, and my end of job severance package, I calculated that I would be able to indulge my dream of travelling overland throughout the continent of Europe.  For the first time since arriving in Canada, I felt like a woman in charge of my own destiny!  How ironic that my first concrete travel plan involved leaving my beloved chosen country. But, I definitely return...for the Fall Trimester.

My difficult and often lonely marriage had been a blessing in disguise. It had brought me to Canada, where I immediately felt that I'd finally "arrived home" - a feeling I'd first experienced in Alhambra during my 1972 trip to Morocco.  

At 26, I had learned that I could survive on a new continent, without the support of family, and despite the treachery of some who proclaimed friendship but whose actions were those of enemies. Though their untrue words and cruel actions had wounded me at the time...

My life 

now resembled

a  plant 

s

t

r

e

t

 c

 h

 i

 n

 g 

through cracks in the asphalt 
towards the warm sun for the 
first time.  And suddenly, 
I realized  how much  my 
entire being needed the 
warmth of that sunshine

Making Decisions
So, I put together a plan to travel all over Europe in the summer of 1976.
Below are my decisions:

• traded my spacious one-bedroom apartment, close to work, for the cramped quarters of shared digs, closer to the University. I thus travelled less far in darkness after my evening classes.
• allocated my accommodation savings towards buying my return plane ticket to London, UK.   
• purchased the book "Europe on $10 a day" and made a list of countries and towns to see.
• pre-purchased a second plane ticket with hotel, in northern Sweden, to see an iron mine.
• pre-paid a luxurious 3-day cruise to the Greek Islands in July

The die was cast once I had committed

time, energy - and money - to my dream!

Travel Plans

photo by kind courtesy of inkwells.net

My mode of travel was to be via EuRail, not because I loved train travel, but because it was economical, and frequently the quickest way to travel from town to town within countries in Europe.

Prior experience of British Rail's delays and breakdowns had negatively coloured my expectations of EuRail.  But, with few choices available for student paupers, I staunchly decided to be brave and hope for the best!

My SFU student card permitted me to purchase a cheaper second-class EuRail pass. But since I anticipated spending hundreds of hours on trains in Europe, I treated myself to the 'luxury' of first class upholstery and seat suspension.  Unknowingly, I had made a very wise decision.

Phone calls
The hallway phone began to ring shortly after Mother had poured my third cup of tea, as old friends and family members welcomed me back home to England. Having abandonned the comfort and familiarity of the country that had been my home for 20 years, I soon discovered that others knew as little about my new homeland as I once had - before I'd emigrated.

But though I had grown to love my new province and country, I was shocked to realize how deeply my leaving had impacted others. To comfort and reassure them, I told them about my life in Canada.

*    *    *    *

Beautiful British Columbia

photo by kind courtesy of bcpowersports.com

British Columbia, to the west of the Rocky Mountains, is a mountainous province, filled with picturesque lakes and rivers thanks to the effects of plate tectonics.  Its broad valleys were gouged out during the Ice Age.  And, for over 20,000 years, its many terrains were inhabited by bands of Native People, who walked gently upon it and left only footprints.

On BC's prairies and northern region, the harsh climate imposes its iron will upon all who live there.  Ignore it and you die.  Fail to stock your winter pantry and you will go hungry for months on end.   Fail to procure firewood, warm parkas and boots for winter and you will freeze.

photo by kind courtesy of maijasmommymoments.com

The people who live this way, tend to be straightforward and practical, in both speech and habit. They are good neighbours, when someone is in need, not out of pity, but simply because it would be unthinkable to watch your neighbour die.

Captain Cook was the first known white man to see British Columbia a mere 200 years ago, when he sailed the west coast of North America, looking for a North-West sea Passage.  Explorers and government agents later followed the overland route, travelling along the same river that Scottish Simon Fraser traced, from its source to the ocean. The mighty Fraser River that bisects the province bears his name.

British Columbia, though politically younger and less sophisticated than England, has its own charms, and I had grown to love being there.  Her people were mountain people, observers of ever changing weather patterns, and the movement of animals, as they hunted, fished and farmed the land.  With nature in abundance, BC's main industries were resource based: Forestry, Fishing, Mining and Farming.  Life in Canada was very different from my experience of life in industrial Britain. Here, Nature cannot be subdued, only respected.

My BC university built in 1967 atop Burnaby Mountain, near Vancouver, boasted a magnificent view of the Coastal Mountains and the temperate rain-forest that covered them.  I loved to walk the trails around the campus because my heart truly felt 'at home' amongst those tall evergreen trees.  So much so, that I had gallantly taken a skiing course the previous winter.

photo by kind courtesy of www.allposters.com

But sad to say, I was absolutely dreadful at skiing! Any serious mountain escapades would need to be conducted during the other three seasons.  Winter was definitely not my season! 

*    *    *    *

By the time I finished chatting on the phone, sharing my adventures and listening to those of my callers, both my body and mind were spent and begging for sleep.  So I skipped supper, took a long, hot shower and headed to bed early.  

Mother was to drive me into London the next day, and with the many surprises in store, I would need an undisturbed and restful sleep.

Coming Soon!

June 3 - 17  
England to France
At the British Museum
Shopping in Regent Street
Getting about in Britain

Leaving for the Continent

GRAND TOUR OF EUROPE - June 3-17 ENGLAND TO FRANCE

Chapter 1: Prologue

In the spring of 1972, I was a vibrant, single, socially-awakened 23-year old London girl, with a broken heart and an insane passion for travelling. 

I'd met my Canadian boyfriend whilst we  had both been hitch-hiking through Scotland the previous year.  He had returned to London with me, and for several months, we'd laughed, loved and lived together. 

Then, just before Valentine's Day, he returned to Vancouver...on the west coast of Canada...promising to come back  'one day'.  

We had since written regularly to each other, trying to make our relationship work across eight time zones. But, cheap phone calls, texting and the Internet were yet to be invented and communicating via snail mail was both unreliable and frustrating.

At that time, a one-hour transatlantic telephone call cost more than my monthly salary, thus any voice-to-voice communication proved impossible. Our romance had inevitably floundered, and I had called a complete halt during the last days of March. 

While the split had been my idea, I missed my boyfriend and was profoundly saddened by the demise of our friendship. So now,

I desperately needed 

to lift my spirits!

That winter's rolling electrical blackouts had continued for far too long, hurling London into a  gloom, from which its hospitals and  massive underground system were the only escapees.  Their emergency generators kept these essential services lit, warm and safely functioning.

Everyone was depressed by the blackouts, including my colleagues and me. But, with our usual British stoicism, we commuted daily, from our flats to our jobs in Central London, praying that we might get through a single week without blackouts. 

We had coped in offices deprived of warmth, electricity and even that British staple - a nice cup of tea. But when the lights that signalled which of our several desk phones was ringing failed, all hope of efficient communications ceased.   

By Easter our last nerves had been rubbed raw! That was when the lifts (elevators) in our Mayfair offices failed, and our huge Government complex began to unravel from the top down.  

Nothing prospered during those hateful black-out days! Unable to do our jobs efficiently, we minions were frequently dismissed long before quitting time.  

photo by courtesy of: www.http://www.instantoffices.com

On one such afternoon,  dizzy with happiness to be dismissed into a pale British spring day, I decided to walk home through London's parks. 

Sunshine had been in very short supply in England that year.  It was now early-April, officially springtime, and the gift of this warmish afternoon was just what my flagging spirit needed.   

From Mayfair to my home in Kensington Olympia, is a distance of two and a quarter miles, if one flies like a crow. 

map courtesy of The Guardian Newspaper, UK

To avoid traffic fumes and London's manic crowds, I decided to walk home that day. Crossing Park Lane, I entered historic Hyde Park and enjoyed a brisk walk beside the Serpentine and into Kensington Gardens.

I had planned to walk as far as Holland Park, eventually emerging mere yards from my flat in Kensington's Olympia district.

But when I noticed that the lights were on in Knightsbridge, the chance of a hot meal suddenly seemed possible. So, at 3.30pm, I left the park via Church Street which led me to Kensington Road.

Thus was I in the right place at the right time to participate in a minor miracle!

Through the open door of a nondescript store, I heard a voice saying:

"By this time tomorrow,   

you could be on the Road to Morocco!"

                                    map courtesy of  turkey-visit.com

  

"What an absolutely 
delicious idea!!"

Wrapping myself in a blanket and straining to read via candlelight in the chill of my tiny Kensington flat was most decidedly not living my best life.

The chance to visit ancient Spanish locales, en route to the sunshine and romance of Morocco sounded so much saner than suffering another sombre spring in stiff-upper-lipped silence. 

My feet walked me inside that store, where I found a salesman extolling the joys of an overland bus tour that was due to depart the very next morning.

Following an overwhelming impulse, 

I signed up for this exotic adventure, on the spot!

The idea of eating now completely forgotten, I practically ran home!  Secretly thanking my globe-trotting Mother for insisting I keep a current passport, I threw a few clothes and travel items into my trusty backpack, and then tied my sleeping bag securely onto the frame.

There was only one drawback that I could see, but it was a big one - I detested camping!

So why was I willing to camp, eat, sleep and travel for days on end with 12 strangers? 
In a word: desperation!  

I yearned to set my soul free and hoped that this 2000 mile road trip through France and Spain to Morocco  - and back again - would banish my blues while expanding my horizons.

Just signing up for the trip improved my mood, partly because it was a dream vacation, but mainly because 

I was willing to risk living life to the fullest.

little did I know that the

events of the next few days

would blow my mind!

.

.

 . 

.

Section 3 - Chapter 2: 

from London to Bordeaux

Meet my travelling companions as we leave London,
cross the English Channel to Belgium where we 
camp overnight then begin our epic adventure in

   My Road to Morocco - Day 1-Day 2 

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Remembrance

Today is November 11. Remembrance Day when we honour the Veterans who gave their lives in a war.

Where I grew up, in London England, during the 50s, the city was still pock-marked by bombs that had been dropped there during the Blitz. Since I'd never before experienced bomb-sites, my seven-year old self was rather overwhelmed by them, and astonished by the untidiness of the destroyed home-sites.

It never occurred to me, then, that people probably died there, that another little girl and her brothers and sisters might have died, or might have lost their Mother and Father during that bombing raid.

With no personal reference to the horror or war, I was fascinated when neighbourhood friends showed me a way through those parentally forbidden bomb-sites, that would shorten my daily trek to school.  They showed me where to step to maintain a safe route, and warned that a child had been blown up by straying from it. 

As a girl, the havoc that an unexploded missile might wreak should I accidentally tread on one, didn't even enter my mind. Nor did I consider the homes that had been destroyed by those bombs, all those years before I'd even been born.

My worst nightmare was swallowing the tablespoonful of cod-liver oil my Mother forced upon me each morning. Yet, without the sacrifices represented by that forlorn bomb-site, I might not have had that cod-liver oil, nor a school to attend, nor even the freedom to attend it.

My generation takes freedom for granted, and rarely ever stops to consider who paid the piper on our behalf.  But War affects everyone, and many people, besides soldiers pay the price. As the saying goes:

"They also serve who stand and wait" 

What did you do in the war, Mum and Dad?

That was the question many children my age asked, but their parents were reluctant to answer.  As the eldest in my family, my parents had been a lot younger than many Fathers of my neighbouring friends. Their Fathers had been actively involved in "fighting the Hun" in France, or at the Battle of the Bulge. 

Both of my parents had still been teenagers, growing up in Bombay, India during WW2.  Had they been involved in the war only as a terrified spectators?  Not the way they tell it!

My Mother spent much of the year away from the city in her Himalayan private school.  But in 1940, and for every school "holiday" during wartime, Mom volunteered at the hospital where they treated the battlefield wounded, brought into the city for medical care.

Never squeamish, she so abhorred the waste of human flesh, through amputation, that she told her Father she wanted  to become a surgeon. "NO" said Grandfather. No daughter of his would be a surgeon. And since his word was LAW, Mom later studied to become a teacher instead.

My Father had completed secondary school by 1942, and although he was old enough to join the armed forces, was denied that experience because of his poor eyesight. Instead, thickly bespectacled Dad articled as an accounting clerk at the Bombay Docks in the latter days of World War 2, where he survived many air-raids, simply because his youthful legs could quickly carry him away from the carnage.  But he told me horror stories about those whose legs were not as swift.

From his dockside office, the 18 year old young man, who was to become my Father, got more than a glimpse of the effects that war can have on the average person. Many of the ships in the Bombay docks carried raw cotton, bound for England's mills before being shipped to other war zones, to replenish clothing, bedding and bandages.

Whenever a cotton ship was bombed, it exploded beyond violently, sending contorted white-hot sheets of metal flying in all directions.  Those working on the docks ran for their lives, the minute the air-raid siren sounded. 

But some were not speedy enough.  Dad reports seeing three men running from a white-hot, flying m-shaped curve of metal that cleared the heads of the two outer fellows, but decapitated the man in the middle. That poor man's legs kept running for a few seconds longer, till his headless, lifeless body dropped to the ground.

Both of this man's companions survived, but their glossy black hair turned white from the shock of witnessing their friend's gruesome sudden death. Then Dad explained that, as awful as those dockside explosions and their aftermath had been, battlefield experiences were more unspeakably violent and gory.

Today, I am remembering those in my own family who have been directly, and indirectly, involved in war. We are indebted to those who have sacrificed their lives through war, to maintain the freedoms of and for future generations. May the light of their courageous souls shine gratefully in our hearts forever.

• My English Grandfather fought in Crimea in 1917 during WW1, during the collapse of czarist Russia. He was demobbed in Bombay, where he met and married my Grandmother who later gave birth to my Dad. Grandfather was to suffer the after-effects of physical ailments and shell-shock for the rest of his life.
• My Father, excused duty for medical reasons, had lived through the continual bombing of Bombay Docks. He rarely talked about those experiences. Yet the war definitely affected his parenting ability and style. Out of necessity, Dad's freedoms had been curtailed during his teens. As a Father, he was unable to understand and unwilling to sanction my own teenage quest for "freedom". The strain of raising three such willful daughters was evidently too much for him, since Dad died shortly before my 16th birthday.
• My Generation had the luxury of peace and Greenpeace in which to protest war and warmongers. But we rarely thought about how that peace had been hard won - or by whom. Beyond that bombsite of my early days, and what came into our living room via the TV - or from the letters of my American pen-pal, war did not seem to, personally, affect me.
• Coming full circle, after 50 years of peace in the West, the next generation is now free to exhibit a love of war "games". By combing army surplus stores, my son kitted himself out and enjoyed many an afternoon of pitting his team against another team set both bent on mock annihilation on a wooded hillside in Langley, near Vancouver, BC.  I wonder if he realizes the irony of his recreational choice?

I hope my children, their friends - and our ruling elite - realize that our freedoms have been pre-purchased for us by real soldiers, airmen and sailors, young men and women who paid the ultimate price so that we can now live life as we see fit.  Regardless of how distasteful the concept may be, it is why western children can now safely "play" at "war games" instead of fighting a "war to end all wars".

I pray also that children who must fight every day, just to survive in our commercially obsessed world will soon enjoy the same Freedoms that our own offspring now take for granted.

Practising gratitude will open your own heart and the hearts of others

And open hearts have no need of war

Namaste