The ferry set out on time at 8pm, and we immediately ran into our first hitch: the refusal of the Change Office to cash a Commonwealth Bank travellers’ cheque (something which has since been taken up with the bank). Fortunately, we’d taken the precaution of buying some French francs before setting out from London. The one-and-a-half-hour trip across the Channel was very smooth and comfortable, but because of the darkness and the fog, we couldn’t see anything.
When we docked at
Calais, we found the fog still with us, and very thick. We marked our arrival in France by promptly getting lost in the fog. It quickly became apparent that we did not have a hope in hell of finding the camping spot in the fog. We couldn’t even figure out which was roadway and which wasn’t. No matter what we did we always seemed to end up on the docks. So there was only one thing for it - camp there. And camp there we did. Right on the edge of the fishermen’s wharf and about a hundred yards from the ferry.
Saturday, October 11, 1969:
It was a fairly restless night, what with the fishermen coming and going all the time on top of the usual dockyard noises. We were up soon after first light and were viewed with some curiosity by the dock people. We carried on as if we’d always camped on the wharf and went on our way. The fog was still very thick, but we found a light patch about 10 miles out of Calais and pulled up beside the road to cook some much-needed breakfast. Driving-wise, I had to take things pretty carefully for two reasons: the fog and my lack of experience on the right hand side of the road. I had to be particularly careful that I didn’t travel around the roundabouts in the wrong direction. The fog remained very heavy until about noon when we were midway to Luxembourg. The sunshine was beautiful.
We stopped in a pleasant little village and with the aid of my murdered French, bought a French roll, a huge tomato and a bottle of cheap white wine for a roadside lunch a few miles further along the road. Unfortunately we couldn’t make the Belgium border on the one tank of petrol and had to fill up in France. The cost was about 8/- a gallon for standard grade. After getting lost a few times, we crossed the border at Sedan. French Customs stopped us very briefly, but didn’t even check our passports.
Belgium, with its neat white houses and black slate roofs, appeared cleaner and more prosperous than France. But it wasn’t long before we crossed into the Duchy of Luxembourg. The border guards didn’t even cast us a glance. Luxembourg was also neat and prosperous, but we felt rather disappointed by it. I think we had expected some sort of fairytale place, which it isn’t. Everyone must have had at least one TV set, because the horizon was a forest of antennae.
We stopped for tea in the heart of Luxembourg city and found a marvellous shopping centre. Everyone was expensively dressed and appeared very well-to-do.
Immediately after tea we set out to camp at Remich on the German border, only to find the camp closed for the winter. But not long after crossing into Germany (our fourth country for the day) we found a good camping spot along a forest track just off the highway. We were asleep by 8.30pm.
Sunday, October 12, 1969:
We had a great night’s sleep and awoke about 7am. More fog, but it was quite mild. We could hear the church bells ringing in a nearby village. After a tasty breakfast (we had a double-burner gas stove with us) we set out for Saarbrucken and back into France. We didn’t see much of Germany on the way because of the fog, but everywhere seemed very neat. The autobahns were excellent, and were pleasantly landscaped where they passed through built-up areas. The fog began lifting, and we made Strasbourg in plenty of time for lunch.
On the recommendation of one of my BBC editors (a German by the way), for lunch we partook of the local speciality - Choucroute garnie - a local variety of sauerkraut with all sorts of sausages and hams. It was very nice and very filling. Strasbourg seemed a pleasant city, although nothing sensational, and after getting lost (again!) we finally managed to make our way to the nearby border post where we crossed back into Germany. The change was quite dramatic - from the old, slow and poor France to the modern, fast and rich Germany. We found ourselves on a magnificent autobahn, and everywhere we saw evidence of the German mania for efficiency and neatness.
Not long after crossing through the border we found ourselves climbing out of the Rhine Valley into the Black Forest. There were magnificent mountain villages every few miles. They were straight out of the postcards. Quite a few people were wearing national costume. It was all very picturesque, particularly in the lovely sunshine, now that the fog had lifted.
We stopped at a little village to look around and found what must have been the local vintage train society running up and down the tracks with a quaint old steam train. Something that struck us in Germany was all the churches and the large number of people going to them. It seemed incredible that the Germans, would have so many churches and so many people attending them. Somehow, somewhere, we missed a turn-off and got lost in the Black Forest (getting lost becomes the story of our lives), and as darkness drew in, we pulled into another forest side-track for the night. It was dark soon after six and we were in bed in the back of the van by seven.
Monday, October 13, 1969:
We awoke to a rather chilly, but sunny, morning. Once again, we were up at 7am, and after a quick snack, we were on our way around the northern shore of Lake Constance to Landau where we crossed into Austria. We ran into fog soon after getting under way and it stayed with us until about 11am. As we approached the Austrian border, we travelled through a lovely neat orchard district. As we crossed the border we were met by a staggeringly beautiful mountain range which loomed up like an impenetrable barrier. But for the first part of our trip through Austria we skirted around the mountains, then through the valleys. We pulled up in one valley for another pleasant roadside lunch. The villages, the scenery - everything just like it was in “The Sound of Music”, down to the tinkling of cow bells across the valley. It just seemed too beautiful to be real. But it was. Later we travelled through a dramatic (and that’s the only way to describe it) range of chalk-like mountains. Some of them were topped with snow, even though it was at least 70 degrees in the valleys. The mountains reared up so sharply they cast giant shadows.
About 4.30pm we reached Innsbruck, capital of the Tyrol, where we planned to stay the night. Looking down on the city from the mountains, it looked most disappointing and we debated whether to bother staying. But we decided to have a closer look. What we saw we liked very much, and for a dash of luxury we booked into an hotel, the Maria Theresia, in the main street of the same name. Not knowing at the time that it was the haunt of such film stars as Michael Caine and Omar Sharif. It was a very flash place with all the mod cons, but we managed to get a room for about £5.
The main unit of Austrian currency is the schilling, which is worth about fourpence. This, believe it or not, is divided into a hundred groschen, although I don’t imagine they have one groschen pieces. The shopping centre was fantastic. It was like a film set for some period play. The only thing that wasn’t quite right was the neon signs and of course the modern clothes. Not everyone wore modern clothes though - there were quite a few people wearing national costume. Most of the streets were mere alleyways.
The majority language was German, but many people spoke English. Their speech seemed much softer than that of the Germans.
Being in Austria, we just had to try a genuine Wiener Schnitzel, so we found a pleasant little cafe and ordered just that. It was excellent, although I don’t suppose it was in all honesty better than what I’ve had in Australia. After our meal, it was back at the hotel for a good night’s sleep. We found, in addition to the other luxuries, a bed vibrator to shake our cares away. Naturally we had to try it.
Tuesday, October 14, 1969:
We were up at 6.30am for an early start (this sort of thing is going to kill us before the trip is out if we’re not careful). For the first time since beginning the tour, there was no fog. To our delight the sun was shining brightly. After a continental breakfast of bread rolls and coffee, we returned to our room to pack. The Austrians were kind enough to broadcast a newscast in English, so we were able to catch up with the latest on the Russian multiple space flight.
As soon as the van was loaded up we set out for the shops to have a good look around in daylight. We spent about two hours poking about in all sorts of interesting little alleyways and shops. There were some lovely little knick-knacks, but we managed to restrain ourselves. About 11am we returned to the van and set out on the next stage -- along the Brenner Autobahn into Italy. The road was excellent and the views quite thrilling. It was our first toll road. The cost was about $2, but it was worth it because it would have taken us hours to travel along the ordinary road through the mountains. At the border, the contrast between Austria and Italy was almost unbelievable. It was like having Dabron’s old foundry in Charlton up against the Victorian Arts Centre.
The Austrian side of the border was extremely modern, neat and tidy. But 20 yards further on, in Italy, there was a great mess. A pot-holed road, trucks and other vehicles parked all over the place, dilapidated buildings that had been erected in defiance of any planning scheme, and market stalls on every spare piece of ground. It seemed incredible that there could be such a dramatic switch in appearance and atmosphere over such a short distance. After going into four separate buildings all marked “Automobile Club”, I eventually found the one that was in fact what it said it was. Armed with some petrol coupons which give tourists a 40% reduction on the price of petrol, and some maps, we set out for Venice. The roads were very poor, but eventually they began to improve as we drove through the Dolomite Mountains - an awe-inspiring, even threatening, range of grey, snow-capped peaks. In spite of the snow, it was too hot in the valleys to wear a jumper.
Italy appeared tatty and dusty compared with Austria and Germany. Gradually the Tyrolean architecture gave way to what we imagine were typical Italian villages. The road wound all over the place and made driving hard work. Darkness came as we reached the Venetian Plains, which are very industrialised. After trying unsuccessfully for some time to get to a camping spot in one of the orchards along the road (to get off the road meant slowing down - a very risky procedure in the light of the narrowness of the pavement and the speed of the vehicles) we decided to keep going until we reached mainland Venice (as distinct from Venice proper which is on an island, offshore). About 7pm we spotted a pleasant camp about 10 miles from Venice and pulled in for the night.
Wednesday, October 15, 1969:
Had a good night’s rest and indulged ourselves with a sleep-in until 8am. It was another beautiful day. As we left the camping ground for Venice, I made my first driving slip-up. Concentrating on a direction sign rather than on what I was doing, I instinctively swung onto the left of the road. There was a great shriek from Rosemary and I looked up to find us in the path of an oncoming truck. He missed, but it took some time for Rosemary to recover.
The approaches into Venice were very dreary. They were heavily industrialised, and as we had noted the previous day, there seemed no control over air pollution. The horizon seemed to totally comprise factory chimneys belching smoke everywhere. It was a depressing sight. The parking area on the shore apposite Venice was chaotic. It took us quite a time to figure out where we were supposed to leave the car. Further time was wasted trying to find the public ferry into Venice. I think the Italians assume that everyone knows their way around the country.
The trip along the Grand Canal to St. Mark’s Square in the centre of the island city was most interesting. Everything seemed very run down, but unlike the other parts of the country we had so far seen, the effect was total. There were no buildings or structures out of character with the rest of the city. Evidence that the city was slowly sinking into the sea (at the rate of about an inch every 10 years) was everywhere. Water lapped against the front doors of most buildings along the Grand Canal and it was clear that the “ground” floors were uninhabitable.
St. Mark’s Square was quite attractive, and it was easy to see why Venice was once one of the world’s great cities. Like most public squares, we’ve seen in Britain and Europe, St. Mark’s was alive with pigeons - something that doesn’t particularly enthral Rosemary.
The square was bounded by an attractive shopping centre on three sides and St. Mark’s Roman Catholic Cathedral on the fourth. Hundreds of chairs and tables were laid out to one side, making a giant sidewalk cafe. Two small orchestras provided very pleasant entertainment. A notice at the front of the cathedral announced that entry was banned to women wearing mini-skirts and other licentious wear. Rosemary decided to look around all the same. We were most impressed with the quality and the style of the clothing worn by everyone. Admittedly, most were tourists, but it was clear the locals were also well-dressed. This was particularly noticeable with the schoolchildren as they scurried home. When we found gondolas cost a minimum of £3 for half-an-hour, it passed through my mind that I’d be far better off financially rowing a gondola than working in journalism.
Time for lunch, and we found an attractive little cafe in a side street. Being in Italy (and because it was the cheapest item on the menu) we ordered spaghetti. During the meal two wandering minstrels wandered in, sang a song, made a collection and wandered out again. Perhaps if I’m no good on the gondolas I could try that for a living. After lunch, we strolled through the residential area nearby. All the buildings were very faded and run-down in appearance, but this was frequently misleading. From what we could see of the interior of some, they were expensively and stylishly furnished. The clue seemed to be the front door. The buildings with the heavy varnished timber doors and polished name plated appeared to be the ones with the good interiors.
Some of the shops contained magnificent displays of modern Venetian glass. They were quite out of this world - beautifully simple and with wonderful colourings. All the walking was thirsty work, so we returned to Mark’s Square for a drink at the open air cafe. We ordered something cheap like Coca-Cola. The waiter returned with due ceremony, handed us our drinks - and a bill for 900 lira. I paid the money over before it hit me just how much I’d paid - the equivalent of $1.20! After that bit of daylight robbery, we decided to begin heading back to the car, and caught a ferry. We stopped about halfway back to investigate one of the famous bridges crossing the Grand Canal. The bridges bore small shops and were most interesting. After a good look around, we bought some fruit and tomatoes for tea from a nearby market and returned to the van. We set out on the road to Padova and found a nice camping spot a few miles out.
Thursday, October 16, 1969:
We awoke at 6.30am (I know you won’t believe a word of this). It was another fine and mild day. By 8am we were on the road to Florence and Rome, and we got as far as Bologna before getting lost. We spent one and a half hours trying to find our way out of the maze of little streets. To top it off, we got onto an autostrade (toll-road) going the wrong damn way. We had to drive several miles to get off it, then were charged 200 lira. Eventually, we got onto the correct autostrade and set about making up for the lost time. We reached Florence about 1pm and (wait for it), immediately got lost again.
Florence seemed very tatty, even for Italy. We spent ages driving down narrow streets barely wide enough for one car, trying to find our way into the heart of the city. Finally we found ourselves outside the city cathedral, which is alleged to be very famous. It certainly wasn’t our cup of tea and was in a very poor state inside. We decided we had seen enough of Florence and got under way for Rome. It was becoming quite warm - around 70 degrees.
The countryside was very boring until we got close to Rome and passed through a region of block-like hills with bleak stone villages sitting atop them. I imagine they would be difficult places to get to, and no doubt made excellent natural fortresses, centuries ago. We found the autostrade surface rather rough, but it was very good in that it cut straight across the valleys and through the mountains. Most of the cars seemed to be little Fiat 500s which cost about half a million lira ($700) each, buzzing along like angry bees at 55 to 60 mph. We were directed to a very good camp (Monte Antenna) only a few miles from the heart of the city and found it full of Australians. There were no less than 10 vehicles with Australian signs on them within a 100-yd radius of where we were parked. I was told that more than 3000 Australians had stayed at that camp so far this year. And this is just one of the many camps in Rome. We settled down for the night at about 9pm.
Friday, October 17, 1969:
Up again at 7am. There were a few clouds about, but it was quite mild and looked like being a reasonable sort of day. Although the camp was ringed by trees, we could still hear the Rome traffic noises, which seemed to consist of three main ingredients - the buzz of the little Fiats, the frantic beeping of their horns, and the violent screeching of tyres. Public transport into Rome seemed pretty hopeless so we decided to take courage in both hands and venture out in the van. Naturally, we soon lost our way. We seemed to spend hours going down little streets just wide enough for one lane of traffic. Parking was chaotic, with cars lining the streets at all angles right up to the corner. Parking inspectors walked up and down the lines of cars handing out tickets like advertising handbills. It would have been nigh impossible to get about in anything bigger than our van.
We did get one very pleasant surprise. As we were crawling down one little street, a Fiat 500 stopped in front of us - and who should get out of the passenger side and start walking along the street but the famous Italian actor, Marcello Mastroianni. We madly tried to get the camera out of the case to shoot some film of him, but he became lost in the crowd. After driving around in circles for ages, in a never-ending game of bluff with the city’s suicidal drivers, we found a legitimate parking spot within walking distance of the Vatican. The Vatican, although quite impressive, wasn’t our kind of architecture, but there were all sorts of interesting people wandering about.
We ventured into St. Peter’s Basilica, but the guard pounced on Rosemary about two-thirds of the way across the foyer and ordered her to leave. They claimed her skirt (eight inches above the knee) was too short. Quite a few other girls and women were ordered out too. Rosemary reckons the guards are a lot of dirty old men with nothing better to do than look at female legs. She had been quite confident she would be allowed in because the skirt was one of her more conservative ones and certainly run-of-the-mill for London. But not run-of-the-mill for Italy, it seemed.
I decided to venture into St. Peter’s alone (my trouser length apparently didn’t offend anyone). It was quite impressive, but I think I’ve just about seen my fill of cathedrals and they are all beginning to look the same.
From the Vatican we went to the nearby Castel Saint Angelo, which is Hadrian’s mausoleum. It was built about 110AD - a long time ago. We had lunch at a street cafe. It was quite nice, and the service was good, but as with everything else, we’ve seen in Italy, there is always something to shatter the effect. Like run-down houses overlooking the cafe; like the old hag, with a fag in the corner of her mouth, leaning out an upstairs window and staring down at the street. Still, the food tasted excellent, although I wouldn’t have fancied seeing where or how it was cooked. Ignorance is bliss.
Rosemary’s mini-skirt must be sexier than we thought. I’m sure it is going to cause a bad traffic accident before long. The motorists shout, wave and whistle at her almost non-stop, and it’s amazing how many found some reason to slow down as they passed us. People in the sidewalk cafes openly commented about her skirt. One one occasion, a truck went hurtling by with the driver hanging out the window and looking back at Rosemary in delighted disbelief. How he avoided a pile-up, we’ll never know.
The chaotic traffic conditions in Rome are quite beyond my powers of description. Traffic lights are merely a rough guide for motorists, and pedestrian crossings are only for those people with a death wish. We slowly made our way towards the Colosseum and the Roman Forum. In the case of the Forum, we found it hard to pick the modern ruins from the Roman ones. They all looked so neglected, and it irritated us greatly that the Italians should treat such historic places with such disregard. I’m sure that anywhere else in the world they would be kept tidy and in pleasant surroundings.
After the Colosseum, we made the long walk back to the van. And it was there that our troubles really began. We had a detailed map of the city, showing even the smallest streets, and we carefully worked out the best way to get back to the camp, three miles away. But we hadn’t allowed for the Italian mania for one-way streets and constantly changing traffic flows. No matter which way we went, we never travelled more than half a mile before the traffic flow was reversed. It was like some diabolical maze. We began to believe that there was no way back to the camp. Although we had left our parking spot in broad daylight, it was now quite dark, which made the going even harder. But just as we were beginning to despair, we found the road to the camp and the nightmare ended. The time for the trip: One and a half hours! We were thoroughly fed up with Rome and decided to move on the next day.
Saturday, October 18, 1969:
We “slept in” until 8am. The beautiful sunshine had returned. We attempted unsuccessfully to leave Rome by the route chosen by the Royal Automobile Club, but it was hopeless trying to find our way, so we headed north up the autostrade, back part of the way we came, and turned off to Sienna. The service centres along the autostrades are marvellous, with restaurants, service stations and wonderful shops displaying an inventive and most attractive range of goods. We felt sorry for anyone with children, because they would never get out without spending a fortune. Today, we have just realised, is the anniversary of our departure from dear old Aussie. The time has just flown for us, mainly I guess because we have had so much to do.
After passing through Sienna, we cut across country to Pisa through some very interesting country, although the smells were often vile. The trouble seems to be that many sewers were open and ran alongside the roads between the bitumen and the houses.
Near Pisa, we stopped in a pleasant little village to get some food. I had an hilarious time in a supermarket trying to explain with my indescribable Italian (it’s even worse than my French) what I wanted. The staff were most friendly, but I’m sure they reckoned I was the funniest thing since Charlie Chaplin. Something that is a trap in Italy is the afternoon siesta. Just about everything closes down at 2.30pm for two hours.
We found the famed leaning tower without any trouble. Although we’d seen many photos of it, we were still surprised by how much it was out of plumb - (about 17 feet). It looked like a multi-tiered wedding cake that was about to collapse. Because of the lean, it was really weird walking up the stairs to the top. Unlike most monuments we had seen in Italy, the tower was in very pleasant, well-kept surroundings. From Pisa, we set out along the coastal road to Viareggio where we found a nice, quiet camp. Tomorrow, the Riviera.
Sunday, October 19, 1969:
Up again at 7am (and on a Sunday too!). It was very smoky and there was quite a bit of high-level cloud. We travelled along the beach front as far as La Spezia. It was rather like Surfer’s Paradise, except that the sand was grey and there were rows and rows of changing boxes. From La Spezia, we set out through the mountains to Genova. Along the way we came across an accident in which a truck had smashed through a retaining wall and dropped about 20 feet to a shelf below. We were held up 45 minutes, and to make up for lost time, got onto the autostrade to complete the 30 miles or so to Genova.
The engineering of this stretch of highway was almost incredible. It travelled through a particularly mountainous area, yet the road neither went up or down or made any sharp turns. Giant bridges spanned the valleys, and whenever the autostrade came to a mountain, it went straight through it. In all we counted 22 tunnels - a quarter of them a mile or more long - in the stretch to Genova. Fantastic. The cost was 200 lira (less than 4/-), which we considered a bargain. Genova has large, recently-built areas, and it was the first city we’d come across in Italy, with wide streets. It was also the first one we hadn’t got lost in.
From Genova, we began travelling around the Italian Riviera. The traffic got progressively worse and more and more maddening. There were a couple of times when I was on the verge of getting out and flattening the next driver who tooted me.
The Italians must be the most impatient drivers in the world. At the traffic lights, you are given only one-tenth of a second to get moving as fast as possible, or everyone begins tooting. Everywhere we’ve gone on Italian roads it’s been “toot, toot, bloody toot.” I’m sure that if they could get away with it, the Italians would connect the horn to the ignition switch so that it blasted continuously from the time they started up until the time they stopped.
We paused along the way at a service station for a petrol tank fill-up and a bladder empty-out. The doors on the men’s toilets were wide open, giving a full view of the urinals, but no-one seemed to bother. And as I was in there having my pee, a woman cleaner strolled in and began sweeping up almost around my feet. Again, no-one took any notice. It was a somewhat unusual experience, to say the least, but in all honesty I think the Continentals have a much healthier attitude than us to this sort of thing. You may recall in my Paris diary that I lamented my failure to find a genuine French pissoire. Well, in the last two days, we’ve seen two pissoires - in Italy. But I couldn’t use either because one was under repair and the other was still being built. About nightfall, we found a camp at Vertimiglia, near the French border. We had hardly any food left, but Rosemary managed to whip up three ‘courses’ - a glass of red wine, a mug of vegemite ‘soup’ and a tin of peaches.
Monday, October 20, 1969:
Up about 7am (isn’t it getting monotonous) and we were on the road fairly smartly, seeing we had no food for breakfast. We soon crossed onto France and found a pleasant little sidewalk cafe for breakfast. The high-level cloud persisted, but the temperature was quite mild. Immediately on crossing into France we noticed an improvement in cleanliness, neatness and style. We did some urgently-required shopping for food, but we were still not able to find meat at a reasonable price. Most meat, even the poorer cuts, cost at least 12/- a pound. Butter, unappetising stuff at that, is also extremely dear, at around 12/- a pound.
The next major point on the route was Monaco, with its chief city, Monte Carlo. The tiny principality stands out like a gem along the Cote D’Azur. It is a very striking place with very modern, attractive buildings. The Monaco Yacht Club bay contained the most incredible array of yachts we’ve ever seen - or likely to see. Actually, they could hardly be called yachts; they were more like smallish liners - and luxury ones at that. They were probably owned by some of the richest people in the world.
Monte Carlo is built on a steep mountainside which runs almost down to the water’s edge. After lunch, we visited the palace inhabited by Prince Rainier and Princess Grace. It was in very attractive surroundings with a cobbled quadrangle at the front. Security was maintained by the funniest bunch of guards you’ve ever seen. They looked rather like pantomime London bobbies. I think I’d feel safer with a guard of boy scouts.
From the Palace to the Casino. Admission was five francs (about 70 cents) each, but it was worth it. The interior was absolutely sumptuous - all gold leaf, russet-coloured marble and matching velvet curtains, carpets and upholstery. It was like a setting for a James Bond movie.
Everywhere, stinking-rich types were gathered around the gambling tables, laying bets worth more than the entire cost of our holiday. Most were playing blackjack or roulette. We could not work out how the games are played, but could see that thousands of dollars were floating about each table. We confined ourselves to putting a few francs in the one-arm bandits and departed empty-handed. The day was getting on, so we set out for Nice. On the way we stopped at a supermarket to get a few more things. Eight items to be exact - at a cost of 20 francs (about $3.10). We found a camp about midway between Nice and Cannes. The facilities were okay, but the noise was a bit much. We found ourselves between a highway and a railway line and only a mile from the Nice airport. It was 10pm by the time we got to bed.
Tuesday, October 21, 1969:
It was a restless night, due to a combination of noise and a warm humid night. It was so warm we slept with the windows and back doors open. There were a couple of short, sharp showers during the night. We were disappointed to find the cloud still about. We decided to drive further round the Cote D’Azur to St. Tropez, playground of the film stars. We went through Cannes and St. Raphael, and found the trip much longer than expected. The coast was extremely pretty, but Cannes and St. Raphael appeared to be the only places along the entire stretch with decent beaches. St. Tropez was most disappointing. There was a big boat marina, but the town didn’t even have a beach. It was most unpicturesque. In a word, it was a dump.
We drove back to Cannes along the autoroute (the French equivalent of the freeway, autobahn or autostrade). We found a good quite camp near Cannes and about 100 yards from the beach, then drove into town for a look-see. The shops were open until 6.30pm, and we had a great, if tiring, time wandering around the streets. The goods were very expensive, but of excellent quality.
The women appeared to be what we imagined were typically well-to-do French - tall, and lithe with long legs and very well-dressed. During the day, the cloud thinned out and there was quite a bit of sun. The temperature hovered around the 70 degrees mark. We could have gone for a swim if it hadn’t been so windy. We were finding money was going through our hands like water. Two cups of coffee set us back a dollar.
Wednesday, October 22, 1969:
We arose to a marvellously sunny day and feeling on top of the world after a good sleep and a hearty breakfast. As soon as we could, we drove to the beach at Cannes. The weather was marvellous and the water not too cold. We spent a wonderful two hours on the beach, swimming and having a picnic lunch. It was our first swim in 18 months. After a shower back at the camp, we drove into Cannes for another look around. Cannes has lovely wide boulevards and a very leisurely atmosphere. Something which had attracted our attention is that most of the girls seem to own mopeds. And in spite of their mini-skirts, they somehow retain their poise. All the big-name French designers, such as Jean Patou, Larouche and Cardin, seem to have shops in Cannes. It was nothing to see women’s suits or coats on sale at around $200.
Thursday, October 23, 1969:
Up early at 7am and on the road at 8am on the next stage of our tour - to Geneva. The high-level cloud had returned, so we weren’t so sad at leaving the Riviera. Our first obstacle was the mountain range behind the Riviera. I’m sure that we went up and down more than forward. I’ve never driven around so many hairpin bends in my life. It was really hard work. But we travelled through some thrilling country, with majestic mountains of grey or maroon rock. Some of the mountains had stone villages clinging desperately to their precipitous sides. Their very existence seemed to defy all the laws of nature. We regretted not having enough time to visit one. The mountains were dotted with hardy rock shrubs in autumn tones, ranging from yellow through brown to the brightest red. Some were terraced for agricultural purposes. We zigzagged up the mountains to about 3,500 feet and crossed into Italy through a two-mile-long tunnel.
There was no real need to put up a sign saying that we were back in Italy. It was quite obvious from the tooting horns, the mountains scarred by quarrying, and the untidy nature of everything. The mountains quickly gave way to the plains, and it wasn’t long before we reached Turin, Italy’s car manufacturing capital. The smoke and fumes were unbelievable. Wherever we have gone in Italy, smoke has been in the air, but the air pollution in Turin must be just about the worst in the world. It was like a thick fog, and we found ourselves choking on the fumes. We drove through Turin as quickly as we could and got onto the autostrade to Aosta. Soon we were back in the mountains. Pretty, terraced vineyards adorned most of them.
As the autostrade ended, we came upon snow-capped mountain peaks, and it wasn’t long before Mt. Blanc loomed. It was an angry, grey mountain with snow on its slopes and shrouded in storm clouds. We climbed to about 4,000 feet to the French border and the entrance to the Mt. Blanc tunnel, which at seven miles, is the longest road tunnel in the world.
An Italian customs man made the first proper customs check so far on our trip, but he soon gave up because he couldn’t understand us and we couldn’t understand him. I think the authorities must have been carrying out some sort of blitz, because we had our passports and other documents checked four times in a distance of only 20 yards. Finally, we got to the tunnel entrance where we paid a fee of about $3. The tunnel was very poorly ventilated and the fumes were nauseating.
At the other end of the tunnel, heavy rain was falling, and this continued almost to Geneva, where we arrived about 7pm. We crossed through the Swiss border on the outskirts of the city. After a bit of hunting around, we found a satisfactory hotel near the main railway station.
By night, Geneva looks good. The restaurants were very dear, so we settled for the railway station buffet (second class). We were delighted to find that we could get an excellent meal for about $2.60, including drinks. It was a considerable improvement on Melbourne’s Spencer St. Station, I can tell you. It had been a heavy day, with 11 hours solid driving, so we returned to the hotel for some much needed sleep.
Friday, October 24, 1969:
We had a reasonable night’s sleep, but there were interruptions from a gurgling wash-basin in the room. The slamming of doors echoed around the hallways, and the toilet next door sounded as if it was going to explode every time it was used. The rain had disappeared overnight, but some high-level cloud persisted. In daylight, Geneva seemed a pretty quiet place, in spite of a population of 165,000. There was very little road traffic, and it rather reminded us of Bendigo on a quiet Sunday afternoon. It seemed pleasant enough, but there was little to see, so we set out along Lake Geneva for Lausanne. To the south of the lake we could just see Mt. Blanc in the mist.
Lausanne was a lovely city. The inner city was very old and was surrounded by modern shops and homes. The meat on display was quite cheap by continental standards and was beautifully presented. After a very nice meal, we set out for the French border, crossing through at Vallorbe. We drove through some very interesting hill country to a forest near the French town of Gray and found a nice camping spot. Light rain began falling as we cooked tea.
Saturday, October 25, 1969:
We awoke before 7am to a clear and sunny, but very cold, morning. Once on the road we ran into fog. The road was very rough - so rough that the Italians would have been proud of it! The fog remained with us until midday. Simultaneously, the roads improved. We began driving through rolling farmlands with big paddocks of poor-looking chalky soil. We had a bit of time up our sleeves, so we stopped at Reims to look at the ancient cathedral - once the coronation place of French kings. The cathedral was most impressive and the stained-glass windows, magnificent.
Before leaving Reims, we bought a couple of bottles of wine to take home with us. About 60 miles from our destination, Dieppe, the weather began closing in. Soon it began to rain, and this continued all the rest of the way. After driving around Dieppe aimlessly in extremely heavy traffic, we found a restaurant and later a camp on the seafront. With some difficulty, because of the rain, we settled down for the night.
Sunday, October 26, 1969:
The weather cleared overnight and by 11am it was a lovely warm day. We bought a couple of bottles of wine for about 50c each to take back with us, then went for a stroll through the shopping centre. Even on a Sunday, the streets were very busy and most shops were open. It is quite an old town, but very vigorous. Like Dover, the cliffs along the seafront are white. As well as being a holiday resort, it seems to be quite a big fishing port.
About midday we made our way to the car ferry, and we set out across the channel to Newhaven on the south coast of England about 1pm.
The crossing, which was very smooth, took about three-and-three-quarter hours. But by the time we arrived, it was cloudy and chilly. The passage through customs was uneventful, but it took three-quarters of an hour. The first task ahead was learning to drive on the left-hand side of the road once again. But it came back to me surprisingly easily. After a short stop along the way for some genuine English fish and chips, we arrived home about 8pm to find a lovely pile of mail.
