THE
RAMBLINGS OF A SILLY OLD MAN:
For someone who like to think of himself as a writer I just
can not find the words I need to express how I feel about being old. I don’t
hate being old but then I do not like it either. I do not worry about when my
end will come even if I am far from certain there is anything after that end. I
am not sure I actually care. I don’t think my life has been a complete waste of
time but I do wish I had achieved a bit more than I have.
At the age of sixty-nine is that considered to be old
? My grandmother, my Dad’s Mum, lived to
be ninety-four. She is the central character in my book The Bridge House, My
Mum’s Mum lived to be a few weeks short of her one hundredth birthday. My own
Mum and Dad are in their nineties so I guess family history would point towards
my having a few years left.
RIDING ALONG IN MY AUTOMOBILE:
I was twenty-six years old when I passed my test and so got
my driving license. That document has to be renewed in November 2020 when I
reach my seventieth birthday. At twenty-six I remember how I looked at that
license and could not comprehend the year 2020 and being seventy years old
! It would never happen. How I can not comprehend being twenty-six. I’d quite like to be twenty-six but not the
twenty-six I was in my youth but twenty-six in a body with the mind of my
present sixty-nine years. Does that make sense ?
The first car I owned after passing my east as a Triumph
Herald. A rust bucket I paid £125 for from someone who lived in Hunter Drive,
Bletchley if you know where that is. If you don’t then tough luck. Yes, a rust
bucket which quite simply a danger to other road users. Now I drive a Jaguar
which is a bit like me: it has a powerful engine, a slightly eccentric on-board
computer and a bodywork which is knackered.
My dream car has always been a Triumph TR7 sports car.
Sadly it has only ever been a dream, I will never proudly have one on my
driveway. Even if I do finish writing this book, publish the text and sell a
zillion copies I will not buy a classic Triumph TR7 sports car. Yes, I could
still fit into the driver’s seat but once there I doubt I could ever get out
again. More practical for me would be a Bentley, buy lots of copies of this book
so I can afford one. Every day I pass Aston Martin in Newport Pagnell but I
have never dreamed of owning one. Nope, I am not a James Bond lookalike. My
application for a license to kill was turned down. That has just given me an
idea for a story to ramble on about but it will have to wait until later in the
book, if I remember.
I used to enjoy driving but now it’s just a process to get
form somewhere to somewhere else. How long before it becomes a chore. I know
that in time I will dislike being behind the steering wheel, even of a Bentley Continental
so I guess I do need to write here a best seller so I can employ a chauffeur.
As this silly old man rambles on can I share a couple of
driving experiences with you ? Go on let me ramble and you read.
The Berlin Wall came down on 22nd December 1989.
How weird is that ? I am writing this account on 22nd December 2019,
exactly thirty years later. I shed a tear as I watched the news reports on TV. As
Eastern Europe began to open up the eyes of the West fell upon some sad
stories.
Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu ordered that families
in his country were to have many children so increasing the population. He and
his wife, Elena, were executed on Christmas Day 1989. When it became known just
how many Romanian children were living in spartan orphanages as their parents
simply could not look after them all kinds of people and organisations in
Britain sent aid trucks to Romania. I drove one of those trucks.
It must have been around Eater 1990 I guess that this
adventure happened. No satellite navigation n those day, maps of Eastern Europe
were not particularly accurate. No internet. No Google. No Microsoft – thank goodness.
No mobile phones, smart or otherwise. The drive from Milton Keynes England to
Budapest Romania, 1,649 miles, was not without incident. As I recall things
there were only a few miles without an incident.
I planned the route via France, Belgium, Germany, Austria,
Hungary and into Romania. What is it they say about the best laid plans of mice
and men ? You won’t believe this rambling of a silly old man.
There were three of us driving the truck. Two hours behind
the wheel, two hours navigation and two hours resting.
Leaving Milk and Beans – I mean Milton Keynes – we headed
for Junction 13 on the M1. It was closed due to an accident. An alternative
route via the A5, Saint Albans and London Colney to the M25.
A P&O ferry to Calais. NO. The French were doing some
form of protest, as the French do, at the port on their side of the ENGLISH
Channel so an alternative boat to Ostend in Belgium, where the natives would
not know a protest if it smacked them in the face, was needed. No problem, a
nap in a cabin and we were set to start driving in friendly Belgium.
Germany, ah well !
In 1990 there were two German countries – West Germany and The German
Democratic Republic of East Germany. The East being the former communist bit.
Our route was through West Germany, the lot we whipped in the 1966 Football World
Cup. In 1990 England still was not forgiven. If Big Time Bureaucratic West Germany was the state
then god help those in the former communist sector !
Our paperwork was forensically analysed under a microscope,
our passports were photocopies with everything faxed to the exit border control
with Austria. We were charged an extortionate fee for the inconvenience and hold
up. The border guards wore guns so hold up is not a metaphor.
I do not know if it is still the case but driving in
Germany in 1990 was different. On the autobahn, the German motorway system,
there was no speed limit. Autobahn – do you know the amazing 1970’s recording
of Autobahn by Kraftwerk ? Shut up
rambling you silly old man, get on with the story. OK, yes, give me a minute.
Where was I ?
Goods vehicles on German roads were, in places, forced to
drive only on the inside lane. The right hand lane as Germany drives on the
wrong side of the road. This rule applied when crossing a bridge or driving up
a steep hill. I am sure the Germans built extra bridges and navigated heir
roads up as many hills as possible just to frustrate our journey. We were not
in a heavy goods vehicle, we were driving a seven and a half tonner so not
subject to the rule but better be safe than sorry we never knew where the
German police would be lurking.
All trucks were banned from driving on European roads on
Sundays but this bah had been lifted for all aid trucks en route to Romania.
There were so many aid trucks heading for Romania, dozens of them. It was
obvious which trucks were on this mission, we would flash our headlights and
wave to one another.
Planning for the journey, I had taken empty five gallon
containers to bus and coach companies, to haulage business and to filling
stations where I put operators under pressure to donate fuel, a minimum of five
gallons, in these containers. What’s that you are saying: How many litres in
a gallon ? Sod that, we won the
Battle of Waterloo so I’ll stick with British measurements not foreign stuff
even if we were driving across Europe. In the back of the tyruck we had enough
diesel to take us all the way to Romania and a hundred or so miles along the
return journey.
Into Austria leaving Germany behind, phew ! Just to remind you England 4 West Germany 2.
We spent the night in a local hotel, very nice, before heading in the morning
to Hungary. Not so nice.
I remember as a small child saying to my father that
Hungary was an odd name for a country. I am guessing that would have been at the time of the Hungarian
Uprising of 1956. My father responded saying it was called Hungary because the
people there were hungry.
As our aid truck crossed into Hungary we were not aware
that Hungarian truck drivers were in dispute with the government over fuel
prices. Trucks were blockading the border with Romania. It looked as if our
journey was over and e would have to turn round to head for home. Sod that ! How were the other aid trucks getting through
?
I approached a Hungarian trucker and bribed him with $50 US
to let us through. Form him that was almost two weeks wages so obviously he did
not turn us away. We were taken down a track and into a field. Then another
field, and another field and another field until we were in Romania never
having seen a border post.
Reaching our destination we unloaded at the orphanage then
turned to head back home. Maps came out, we could not go through Hungary so a
circular route round the country was needed. That was going to have to be
through Yugoslavia, that country does not exist today, Austria, Germany (England
4 West Germany 2), Holland, Belgium and finally France.
On the way to the Yugoslavian border our truck was stopped
at gun point by a lone Romanian soldier. Obviously a conscript he looked all of
sixteen years old. With the collapse of communism did Romania have an army anymore
? This lad was freelancing.
In a friendly and polite way but still with his rifle ready
the soldier took me to the back of the truck and had me open the shutter. “Oh
you are empty !” He said in English – well I can’t speak Romanian can I ! “What
can I have ? Orphans get everything, I need something.”
Back at the cab we gave him a few bits and pieces. Seeing a torch under the drivers seat he
picked it up and said, “For me ?”
No way ! We may need
that. I took it out of his hands. He did
not shot me, we shook hands and our truck was on its way home.
In Belgrade we were lost. We saw a young man and tried to
ask for directions.
“Go down the road, up the hill then take the first right.
Go round the roundabout then follow the signs.”
Wow ! Perfect English and perfect geographical knowledge.
Next problem. About ten years earlier while on holiday in
Italy I had been on a day visit to communist Yugoslavia. I remembered there
were tolls on its motorway system. We had no local currency and did not even
know what it was. Fortunately the US dollar, of which we had a good supply, is
universal so was accepted both at the toll booth and at the filling station.
Many miles later, and I do mean many miles later, in Calais
the French had given up whatever silly nonsense the French delight in, I think
it was the fishermen protesting about the size of the holes in their nets, we
were on a ferry and back to the calm of British soil, M25 and all !
Honestly, that did happen exactly as I have just told you.
Could I do it again today ? I doubt I could even drive the truck to the end of
the road.
Originally there was no speed limit on British motorways.
It was during the fuel crisis and the three day week of the early 1970’s the
government set a 70 mph speed limit to conserve petrol consumption. Although
ration books were issued for fuel rationing never actually came into force.
Once the fuel crisis was over the speed limit was retained for safety reasons
even though any car worth its name could come close to doubling that speed.
In the Spring of 1981 I hired a Ford Granada, what a car
that was, to drive to Cornwall. On the M5 south of Bristol I pushed my foot to
the floor to see just how fast a Ford Granada could go. It was reaching 102 mph
when the cops pulled me over.
“Keep it down to seventy,” the officer said. “You’ll get there
just as quick.”
I did not and still do not comprehend his maths.
I was fined £102. Today, driving on the motorway at that
speed would mean an instant ban. If I did that, not that I have any intention,
I would not need to renew my license whan I reach my 70th birthday.
I am trying to let my mind scramble across the different
countries where I have driven a vehicle. England, of course. Wales and Scotland,
are Wales and Scotland separate countries ? I guess it
depends if Nicola, The Wicked With of The Highlands gets her way or not. What
about foreign countries ? France,
Belgium, Holland, Germany, Hungary, Romania and what ever Yugoslavia is today.
I’ve driven in Albania and I’ve driven in Italy. I’ve driven in American and
you don’t get much more foreign than that.
Italy, people say there are some crazy drivers in Italy but
I did not find them even if many think the steering wheel operates more
efficiently if you sound the horn. Barbados, I’ve not driven there but found
road manners to be very courteous. What do you expect, after all they drive on
the correct side of the road. They do that in Australia don’t they but it’s a
bit too far to go and try it out.
Egypt. I did not drive when I was there. Crazy ! Mad !
Insane ! You would have to combine all three superlatives then triple
the sum to get anywhere near to what is accepted as normal driving in Egypt.
Why in the United States of America do they drive on the
wrong side of the road ? After all wasn’t America originally part of the
British Empire ? They didn’t have cars
then you silly old man ! But they did have hoses, which side of the road did
they walk on ? Oh yes, I see they were cowboy horses, cowboy drivers so they
used the wrong side of the road.
I have driven widely on the Western side of America. From
Los Angeles to San Francisco. From San Diego to the Giant Redwoods. From Las
Vegas to Death Valley. From Lake Tahoe to The Grand Canyon. In the California
Redwoods one giant tree has a tunnel carved through it, you can actually drive
a car through it. I’ve done that. In San Francisco Lombard Street with eight
twists is said to be the crookedest road in the world. I’ve driven down there.
Warning, in America the speed limit is fifty-five miles and
hour. Break that and the cops all carry guns.
After two weeks in America I was on board an overnight
flight back to England. After hours in the sky I woke up and thought to myself
that the Boeing 747 had not flown as far as I had driven during my stay.
For the most part driving in America is boring with long,
straight roads. I am not planning to return to America and if I did I am no
longer brave enough to tackle driving on the wrong side of the road but I have
to say I would quite like to drive along John Denver’s country roads of West
Virginia.
Right, that’s enough riding along in my automobile from
this silly old man. Where now should I ramble to ? I know !
No comments:
Post a Comment