My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969. Анна Томкинс
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Mister-know-it-all, it said.
Time was now not on our side if we were to make our ferry booking at Dover. Then my father had an idea. “I have an idea,” he said. Told you he did.
He jumped out of the car and ran across the road to talk to the driver of a black taxicab. In fact he was the only person in our vehicle physically capable of jumping out of the car without help. The rest of us would need the assistance of specialist rescue teams equipped with those cutting machines that firefighters use in the aftermath of a major rail disaster. Then the car could be searched by highly trained sniffer dogs and infra red cameras to make sure they hadn’t missed anybody. It really was that cramped in there.
Anyway, dad spoke to the taxi driver for a minute or two, and then handed over a note of the realm. The children all looked at each other, mindful of the fact that we had not as yet been given any holiday pocket money. Dad jumped back into the drivers seat and announced simply “That’s that sorted”. The taxi pulled away from the curb and we followed in hot pursuit. He led us out of town onto the main road south. In front of a sign indicating the way to Dover and the Channel ports, he pulled over, pointed at the sign and gave us a cheery wave and toot on the car horn.
“Good luck” he shouted as we sped on by. I appreciated the sentiment.
We reached the ferry port with twenty minutes to spare. The speed cops thankfully must have been taking well-earned forty winks. Tickets checked at the kiosk, we were directed to a line of vehicles waiting to board. Ahead we could see our hovercraft racing majestically towards us. Our spirits soared at the prospect of being on board such a magnificent craft.
I had been lucky to travel this first leg of the journey with a window view. Now I had an opportunity to glance out the window and observe some of our fellow travelers.
On our right were lined up all the cars with trailers or caravans, a minibus and a transit van. Directly adjacent to us was a large red Volvo estate towing the biggest luxury caravan I had ever seen.
Now I am not a fan of Volvos, especially the estate models. I find them about as ascetically pleasing to the eye as a house brick with headlights. Who actually cares if it’s the safest car on the road to drive? Do you really want to drive around town in the Scandinavian equivalent of Hitler’s Berlin bunker on wheels? Thanks but no thanks.
However that was not what was occupying my mind at this precise moment. Instead I was staring enviously at the cavernous space behind the drivers seat.
Two young children about my age lounged in this vast indoor arena. They had enough room in there to play table tennis. From my cramped quarters I could only imagine what it must be like to travel in such pomp and splendour.
I caught the younger child, a boy, staring back at me. A puzzled expression on his face. The boy craned his neck as though trying to work something out in his mind. Then he nudged his sister and she joined him at the window. A short conversation ensued, and then both children poked their mother in the back. She also turned and stared. The father leaned across his wife to look at us.
“Good lord, there are six of them in there”, he mouthed.
Luckily our lane started to move. Slowly we climbed the ramp into the belly of the hovercraft. A man in orange overalls and wearing ear protectors guided us into position on the car deck. He was waving a set of luminous red ping pong bats around like he was positioning fighter aircraft on the deck of an aircraft carrier, no doubt with the theme music to “The Dambusters “ playing through his ear defenders. He banged on the bonnet of the car to indicate he was satisfied we could go no further toward the vehicle in front without actually shunting him out the front of the hovercraft and back onto the car park.
“Handbrake on and out of the vehicle, please sir”.
Somewhat stiffly dad got out of the car. Nobody else moved. Nobody else could move!
Mum’s left leg had gone to sleep where it was jammed between some tins of baked beans and the passenger door. My father went round to her side of the car and helped her get gingerly to her feet.
It took considerably longer to get us out of the back seat. After some seven hours or so cramped in the foetal position, our limbs were in a very uncooperative mood, so we were pretty much dragged out and onto the vehicle deck. Unable to stand up straight we hobbled along after my limping mother towards the passenger deck.
Behind us the Volvo family looked on with undisguised amusement. “Good lord, if it isn’t the Quasimodo family”, hooted Daddy Volvo.
“Har, har, har”, laughed the other Little Volvos.
“Sod off and die dogbreath”, I thought to myself, but being only ten years old decided it prudent to keep my thoughts quiet.
Our family went to the very front of the passenger deck where the seats gave the best view. Dad appeared from the direction of the buffet with a can of cola and a chocolate bar for each of us, which we soon polished off.
When the last of the passengers and vehicles were safely on board, the captain started the engines. The biggest of the engines quickly filled the skirt with air and the body of the hovercraft gently rose up off the ground. Four smaller propeller engines mounted at each corner on the roof of the hovercraft provided the forward thrust and steering.
The hovercraft picked up speed as it turned out of the car park, crossed the shingle beach and slipped smoothly on to the surface of the sea.
Travelling by hovercraft is a most unusual and unique sensation. The craft skims over the surface of the sea making the most minimal of contact, held aloft on a cushion of air, so it travels much faster than a conventional ferry.
Soon we were racing over the Goodwin Sands – a natural sand barrier that lies just below the water but becomes visible in paces at low tide. For centuries it has been a hazard to unwary ships. We could see the skeletal remains of some of its unlucky victims stuck fast in the treacherous sands, rotting masts pointing at the clouds.
Sand barriers, sea, beaches, car parks – it was all the same to our hovercraft. We didn’t even have to slow down.
My father had just closed his eyes to get half-hours sleep when there was a tap on his shoulder. Daddy Volvo was about to engage him in conversation.
“I say old chap, couldn’t help noticing you people s we were getting on the ferry. Not going far are you? You seem awfully overloaded, if you don’t mind me saying so”.
“Barcelona”, replied dad curtly hoping the smarmy sod would go and bug somebody else. Not an earthly.
“That roof rack of yours looks rather unsteady and it is awfully high you know. You may find that the Gendarmes will have something to say about it when we land in Calais, old chum.”
We find it much more convenient to travel with the caravan. A regular home from home you might say. Of course we are old hands when it comes to tripping around France. Been coming here for years…”
Daddy Volvo had a really plumy upper class accent coupled with an extremely arrogant attitude. The overall effect of listening to him being somewhat less attractive than the sound of fingernails being dragged across a blackboard. I found myself wondering if you could hit him really hard on the head with a spade, could you make it adopt the same shape, like happens in Tom & Jerry cartoons.
He droned on and on, neither listening to nor interested in anything anybody else had to say. Dad gave up any hope of getting his catnap and tried manfully to get a word in edgeways.
But I had my own problems to contend with. Once over the Goodwin Sands, the sea had become very choppy. The hovercraft was no longer gliding smoothly along but bouncing from the top of one wave to the next one. Or worse, bouncing off the top of one wave and dropping heavily into the trough before the next big wave hit.
Now, I love roller coaster rides. I can spend a fortune in an amusement park. This trip was fast becoming the roller coaster ride from hell. What I like about roller coaster rides is that you have that adrenaline fuelled two or three minutes, then it stops and you return to terra firma. Nobody sensible uses all his or her ride tickets up one after the other without pause for breath. Not me anyway.
Initially