In the mid nineteen-fifties I was friendly with a young Classics teacher in Dublin. In 1957 she, Eithne, bought a Lambretta scooter and invited me to go as a pillion passenger on a six-week ride. She planned to follow the old Roman roads from Holyhead to the south of Italy.
I jumped at the opportunity to set out on what was then a major and a daring adventure for two young women brought up in a sheltered environment. It would be our first unsupervised experience of the big wide world outside our conservative island home. Although not as hazardous as hitchhiking, it would pose us many a dilemma.
I let Eithne do all the planning and booking. Having budgeted for all likely expenses she quoted a modest sum of money, just about within my capability to raise. I was in my 8th year of teaching yet I was earning very little. I had started work in 1947 on a salary of £210 a year. Out of this, £10 was deducted at source towards repaying a student grant. Eithne taught in the top girls' school in Ireland, so she was earning a lot more than I was.
We would be travelling light, each of us wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a cotton top and sandals. Neither denim nor trainers had yet appeared. We borrowed two rucksacks, rough khaki canvas bags, ugly to look at and uncomfortable to wear. They were a far cry from the present-day lightweight designer rucksacks.
We each packed a pair of pyjamas, an ancient, unfashionable swimsuit, a cotton skirt and long-sleeved blouse and a headscarf to wear when visiting churches in Italy. At that time Italy was even more conservative about what to wear in a church than Ireland was! Women were expected to cover their arms and their heads. Shorts would be frowned upon. We would be barred from entering a church if we were considered to be unsuitably dressed. We also had raincoats, mine being a flimsy, cheap plastic one.
We travelled to Holyhead on one of the old ferries of that time - cattle boats we used to call them. We planned to stay in Youth Hostels wherever possible. Our first stop in Britain was Llangollen where the Eisteddfod was in full swing. The Youth Hostel took one look at us and decided we were past the youth stage! We were twenty-eight years old! They gave us an address of a private house where we could stay one night. We paid quite a bit more than we would have paid at the Youth Hostel.
We set off next morning along the A5, Watling Street, and travelled at about 20 miles per hour! Somewhere in Shropshire a crowd of male cyclists whizzed past us, whistling and cheering as they went. I buried my face in shame, humiliated not just at being passed by mere road cyclists but at receiving rude wolf whistles from strange men!
It began to rain and before long, my plastic coat was torn to shreds. We arrived in Leamington Spa as dusk fell. We hid the scooter and trudged uphill to the Youth Hostel, hoping we looked like two student trekkers in our wet shorts and torn coats, having an adventure on a shoestring. It didn't work! We ended up in a pub Bed and Breakfast. Our meagre funds were dwindling faster than expected.
Next stop was London and a free night's board and lodging courtesy of my two sisters. When I think of today's traffic in London, I find it difficult now to visualise how easy it was in 1956 to travel around in London. As we left next morning I was sporting a heavy bright-yellow raincoat with hood. Wasn't I glad of that! It was to shield me from many a downpour in the weeks ahead and afford me some warmth from the wind. However, when I wore it I was certainly conspicuous!
Folkestone was our next stop for the crossing to Boulogne. The Channel crossings were rough in those days before the boats had stabilisers. All around me people were being seasick, their faces green as they threw up. I escaped quickly to the deck as nothing makes me feel sicker than watching people vomiting. The boat would rise high in the air and dip dramatically like a giant seesaw. My stomach heaved with the movement. Waves broke over the deck and the gales blew but I felt happier out there than inside. I crouched in a corner to escape the full blast of the wind. It was a miserable experience. I was wondering when the adventure was to begin!
On leaving the boat, we set off along the planned route. Toll roads and motorways were yet to be built in France. However, today's heavy volume of traffic was as yet unknown. Many of the roads through towns were cobbled.
Our progress was punctuated with comical incidents. We rarely exceeded our brilliant speed of 20 miles per hour. As we rode along one stretch of road, the tarmac suddenly gave way to sand and down we went in a tangled mass under the scooter. There had been no road signs to warn us of the danger. Our noses were embedded in the sand and our legs trapped under the scooter. Such an ignominious position to be in! Our faces were red with embarrassment as a dozen or so Frenchmen stopped their cars and came running to lift us up. We weren't used to such cavalier attentions from young men and in the presence of these Messieurs we were overcome with confusion and humiliation. You could say that our pride was hurting more than our bodies!
Having been educated in single-sex schools, Eithne in a convent and I in an Anglican school, we would find it strange being in contact with so many members of the opposite sex. We seemed to have been launched into a strange world without any warning or preparation. We were certainly unaware of any particular danger connected with our travelling in strange lands and it didn't dawn on us that our mode of attire might give men the wrong impression! Our very innocence made us vulnerable.
In one Youth Hostel we went below stairs to wash in cold water in a kind of horse trough. We stripped off. I was dressed when a young man entered and stood beside Eithne. Her clothes were in a heap in the middle of the floor and she was completely unaware of his presence. I began to giggle and soon I was too convulsed to do anything but nudge my friend's back. 'What is wrong with you?' she demanded. She turned around and spotted the man, her face registering utter shock. 'Hand me my clothes', she shouted, as she covered herself with her towel.
Such a tiny incident appeared as a major catastrophe in those days. The man didn't bat an eyelid. We realised then that the washing facilities were what today we would describe as Unisex. The freedom we were encountering on the continent was very new to us.
We never sensed any danger while in a Youth Hostel. There was a strict code of honour among members, but, nevertheless, we took time to get used to the freedom we were encountering on the continent.
We had a scare in one town where there was no Youth Hostel. Eithne spoke fluent French and used it to ask in a shop if they knew of rooms we could rent for a night. An older man was listening and he spoke to Eithne and she left the shop with him. Some women there started tittering and I remembered enough school French to catch the main drift of what they were saying. They reminded me of the women knitting as heads rolled under the guillotine!
I must say I had already felt uneasy at the alacrity at which the man intervened and he didn't somehow appear quite right. The ladies were confirming my fears. I ran out of the shop to see Eithne trying to keep up with the man, who was shuffling as fast as he could up a hill out of town, constantly looking back and urging her on. He wore a strange expression, showing something between excitement and anticipation. I didn't like it one bit so I shouted to Eithne and it was with some difficulty that I persuaded her to return. I was convinced that the old man was up to no good but I couldn't define the danger I sensed we were in. Eithne was a lot more naïve and trusting than I was. She was blissfully unaware of any danger.
On returning to the shop we were given an address where we could collect the keys to a self-contained flat. We enjoyed hot baths, a real luxury after so many days of rough living. I didn't sleep too well as I kept watching the door in case some scary old man had spare keys to the flat. I hadn't altogether trusted those ladies in the shop. They seemed coarse and malicious.
We survived the night and set off next morning determined to plan our journeys better and arrive in a town with a youth Hostel in future.
Every day so far the rain had poured down on us. The first fine day occurred after we had crossed the mountains in central France. As we arrived in Monaco, however, the heavens opened once more and we stood at the foot of the rock on which the palace was built and endured a fierce electrical storm. The rain ran down my canary-yellow coat and my sandals oozed water but we dried out when the hot sun returned. Some local people jokingly accused us of bringing the storm with us! It was the first bad weather they had seen in months.
France was an expensive country at that time so we had to manage our money very carefully. On entering the country as tourists, we had been allocated a generous allowance of petrol vouchers enabling us to buy our petrol at half-price. We didn't need that much so we devised a scheme to offer the vouchers to native drivers at a price between what we paid for them and what native French people had to pay. We did a good trade, targeting drivers at petrol stations, and thus replenished the coffers! Most of the transactions were with motor cyclists.
We also economised on food. We usually bought some ham or cheese and fresh bread with a piece of fruit. By buying a carafe of cheap wine in a cafe we were given place settings at a table where we could lay out our own food and eat it in comfort. Sometimes we took an empty bottle to a farm and had it filled with cheap wine to drink with a picnic meal in the open. We treated ourselves to one good meal at a truck-drivers' café. The food was superb. Eithne loved grilled steak and my favourite main course was roast chicken. Both were cooked and served, as only the French knew how. The servings were massive so we stoked up well as we wouldn't be doing that too often. When it was time for dessert we were taken to the kitchen and there, on a wooden table were gateaux and tortes and fruit of every description, making our mouths water. Having made our choice, we returned to our table to enjoy the rare treat. The charge for the meal was modest. The truck drivers knew where to go.
The evidence of wealth along the Riviera impressed us as we headed on towards Italy. Seeing wealthy women of all shapes and ages parading topless along the seafront was quite a shock to our innate modesty. Possibly, seeing two bedraggled young women riding slowly along on a Lambretta scooter was an equal shock to their systems! Our eyes were opening wider day by day as our horizons broadened.
In Marseilles we had met a young Canadian lad who was travelling on a motor bike. His mother had sent him to Europe for a year so that he could take his time deciding what he wanted to study at University. He was on what we now call a Gap Year. He had bought an old motor bike in England but it would break down frequently. We became friends with him in the Youth Hostel and next morning we arranged to meet that evening at the next hostel. We left first but it wasn't long before he sped past us waving and calling, 'See you tonight.'
By mid-afternoon we caught up with him. He was sitting by the roadside, surrounded by bits of bike. Nevertheless, he managed to reach the hostel not long after we had arrived. That night as we lay in our bunks, a big, middle-aged Dutchwoman passed on her way to the toilets. She was stark naked. We were shocked and we turned to face the wall in our confusion. Not long afterwards the Canadian rushed in to us. He was in a state of agitation. He had encountered the naked woman on the stairs and she had blocked his way and tried to engage him in conversation. He was pale and shaking with fear, obviously even more shocked than we were at seeing the woman. He came to us asking us to protect him. We did see a funny side to it. Our horizons were certainly widening!
Later we met two Irish lads and they were pleased to see two fellow-country folk. After we had settled in our bunks for the night they brought us cups of tea and said they'd come back for the empty cups. Eithne had some anti-insect repellent and she offered me some. I replied, 'There aren't any insects here'. Then we both went hysterical with laughing and when the lads returned, they couldn't make out what we were laughing about. This shows just how innocent we were in those far-off days.
Talking about insects reminds me of another incident. We sat down one day on a tuft of grass on a quiet road to eat our lunch and soon I felt a sharp sting on my leg. On looking down I could see that the grass was alive with ants. We leaped up and for some time afterwards we suffered the odd bite where an ant had 'got into our pants'!