OFF TO SEE THE WORLD
OFF TO SEE THE WORLD.
Peter Wibrow came out to the Adelaide airport with his guitar to see us
off on the connecting flight to Sydney.
He was on one of his post performance lows but he still managed to
muster a forlorn and version of ‘Leaving on a jet plane’. He sang the song so only Joy and I could hear
it and the other travelers were spared a pre-flight performance. I guess his sadness stemmed from the fact he
was saying goodbye to us, but also he was losing his free taxi service and all
of the other trimmings that came with it.
As our aeroplane came into view Peter hugged us like some newly
conscripted soldier who was going off to war.
See ya later you self indulgent little shit. Just a few short minutes later we were
nestled back in adjustable recliners with chirpy and purposeful flight
attendants fussing all around us. The
sense of privilege that came with entering the aircraft triggered a spontaneous
fantasy where I was a jetsetting rock star off on the next leg of a record
promoting world tour. I certainly looked
the part in my brand name travelling attire and the pre-flight smoke I had with
Peter was nudging the self approval meter ever closer to the point of
climax.
The padded seats in a plane provide adequate physical comfort but as
the trip got underway I discovered a nagging discomfort that no cushion could
ever relieve. Here I was in the lap of
luxury but I was feeling a strange and unexplainable sense of uneasiness. It
extended to a feeling of not belonging and even guilt. It’s as if my stupid disadvantaged childhood
dreams had suddenly crossed over into conscious, living reality and I didn’t
know how to deal with it. I was like a
dog thirsty hobo who had gate crashed a party at the higher echelons of the
social ladder and they all knew I was an outsider. All
thoughts of social and economic inequality were silenced with an almighty jolt
as we ascended to the heavens. My little
pre take off choof was suddenly reignited and now it was just the raw
exhilaration of lift off. On our
departure from Sydney I was astounded by the vast expanse of the city and the
suburbs. It made Adelaide look so small
and it held a majestic charm that said,“I’m
the kind of town where an aspiring young singer might get ahead”. I made a mental note to base myself in Old
Sydney town when we got back from overseas.
There must have been a million bands living in that city who were
looking for a frontman and my fleeting taste of the stage had me itching to do
it again. Our plane was held up for
almost eight hours in Bahrain and the only explanation we got was that there
was some kind of technical difficulty.
It came as a great relief when the Captain’s voice came over the
speakers lamenting the long delay and we resumed our flight. Back then it was the policy of Quantas to
provide free alcohol in the event of this sort of thing happening so Joy and I
started hopping into an unending variety of exotic drinks and cocktails. Everybody else had the same idea and it was
like we were in a big glitzy pub in the sky.
Shortly after takeoff the speakers clicked into life again and the
Captain interrupted our festivities with a definite note of concern in his
voice. He instructed the passengers and
crew not to be alarmed, but if we cared to look out of the windows we would see
eastern fighter jets close to the wing tips of our plane. Nervous apprehension unsettled his words as
he explained how critical it was that no photographs be taken. He said they were a 'trigger happy lot' and
the flash of a camera might be misinterpreted as shots being fired from our
plane. The fighter jets stayed with us
for about six edgy minutes then they banked away and were gone.
After more than twenty hours of takeoffs and landings, stiff necks and
countless complimentary drinks we touched down for the final time at London’s
Heathrow Airport. That’s when the booze
really hit us. I was jet lagged, drunk
and hungover all at the same time and so was Joy. We were ushered into the plastic intestines
leading from the plane to the terminal and here we had to face the mundane
ordeal of customs and immigration. As we
were checking our baggage through customs our snooty nosed attendant was joined
by another official. The second man said
they would like to give my belongings a more detailed inspection which found Joy
and myself detained in a little room off to the side. After our gear had been turned inside out
they were noticeably bewildered. They
were so certain they had snared a couple of international drug smugglers and
when we came up clean they were stumped.
Not knowing what to expect on English supermarket shelves I had brought
ten packets of Bank rolling tobacco. The seals were all carelessly broken as they fingered through my baccy
and they tore open every packet of papers just for good measure. Those dumbfuck, pommy, customs officials
offered not a single word of apology for the inconvenience and they were still
shaking their stupid heads as we passed through the barriers. I suppose when I stumbled into their section
those academy trained robots would have only seen a long haired, hippy wearing
expensive threads and that’s what triggered their suspicion. In hindsight I can reason it away and laugh
as I must have looked like every sniffer dogs dream come true. Once outside of the terminal we jumped into
the first cab we spotted and drove straight to the hotel. Joy had arranged advance paid bookings for a
luxury suite at the Charles Dickens Hotel in Baker Street. We were extremely shagged out by the flight
and we couldn’t really enjoy the grandeur of the place, so we just crashed for
ten blissful hours. The next morning we
were up with the birds and ready to check out Ye old London Town. It was all new to me but quite familiar to
Joy. Before her family migrated to
Australia she had traveled Britain and the European continent quite
extensively. We taxied around to all of
the well trodden postcard locations and received running commentaries from a
host of chatty drivers. Everywhere we
went I was greeted by sights and sounds, smells and sensations I had never
experienced before and I found after just the second day I’d absorbed more than
enough touristy bombardment. Our third
and final day in London was spent driving around to an assortment of car yards
with the intention of buying a camper van.
In the end I settled on a VW camper with a pop up roof and all of the
groovy interior fixtures. After finalizing the deal with a fat and happy, fast
talking salesman we loaded our baggage from the cab to the camper. Before we departed for the open road I tipped
the driver a hansom bonus for guiding us through London’ caryard district.
The cash in my pocket had become like play money and I was ‘Sir. Larry
Lashout’ treating the ghosts of a deprived past to the spoils of the capitalist
dream. This was the moment I had been
waiting for. Joy and I on a quest of
discovery in a new country with the European landscape before us. I wanted to explore the whole place back to
front but my ultimate destination was Figueres in Spain to the birth place and
home of the Master, ... ‘Dali’.Not
knowing what lay in store I blindly went along with Joy’s plans for a family
reunion in the homeland. Her dear old
mum had journeyed to England three weeks prior to us and she was staying in the
Cotswolds at the original family homestead. Joy’s Grandmother lived there in an
old stone building that was nearly six hundred years old. As we inched our way along a thin walled and
cobbled driveway leading into her Grandma’s yard the whole side of the van got
badly scratched by large protruding stones and I was still cursing the medieval
layout of the place as we trudged up the creaky old stairs to her Nan’s
abode. On our approach to the front door
Joy grabbed me by the arm and said,“I
don’t care how pissed off you are, don’t say anything bad about the Queen”.
“Where the
fuck am I?”
The door opened into an ancient dwelling and I was bamboozled into a
whirlwind of introductions to Joy’s waiting relatives. They were simple earthbound creatures who
started firing personal questions from the word go. When were Joy and I intending to get
married? How ma ny kids did we want? and
had Joy thought about moving back home to England? Jesus!
It was so claustrophobic I could taste the genetic stock in the
air. Joy had booked us in for a two day
stay but I was ready to run for the hills after the first bloody hour. The
old dairy that Joy’s Granny lived in was constructed on top of a long arched
tunnel which stood over a cascading stream.
Not far away in the path of the water there was a commercial trout farm
and baby fish had escaped from their pens to run wild and mature further down
the creek. From the downstairs laundry
window I would often spot a flicking tail or a slippery jump so I strolled into
the small township of Nailsworth to buy myself a rod. The fishing thing proved a great escape from
the pressures of the household and Joy’s family reconnection’s. I presented the clan with one great catch
after another which were cooked and served in a variety of ways. Joy’s mother was quick to suggest that I
should forget all about, “This silly Rock
and Roll business” and become a chef instead. Back in Australia Joy’s parents had pretty
well kept their noses out of our affairs but in the company of the extended
family her old lady started putting on the dutiful mother routine. She passed a
negative or condescending comment on every conversation that took place between
us and her relatives and it got so bloody infuriating that I ended up just
shutting my gob and let them get on with it.
On the Friday night before we were due to depart from the Cotswolds
Joy’s whole family met for dinner and a few drinks at the Nailsworth football
club. There were a number of new faces
seated among them at long wooden tables and I was subjected to yet another bout
of rapid fire introductions. They were
all getting stuck into the booze with their dinner so it was a lot more relaxed
than our arrival had been. I don’t know
if it was good planning or just good luck but Donald’s cabaret band were booked
to play the gig. They were dressed in
seriously outdated, best man type outfits which in those midland backwaters
were probably seen as a smart and stylish threads. The bands bad taste in stage gear was soon
forgiven as they belted out one great old time singalong favourite after
another. From the first note of ‘Tie a
Yellow Ribbon’ until the final encore of ‘Sweet Caroline’ the clan were up and
swinging. Towards the end of the last
set Joy and I were at the bar meeting the locals and sampling some of their
famous jellied eels.
Pint jugs of Tartans beer were being disposed of with Southern comfort
chasers when I heard my name being announced from the stage. The moment Donald mentioned the word, ... “Australia” the place exploded in a wall
shaking cheer. My back was patted from
all sides by a swag of laughing drunks as I stumbled from the bar. I walked up the stairs towards the mike with
the tail of a quickly gulped eel protruding from the side of my mouth and it
proved a useful prop for my opening address. I gobbled and slurped my way
through a comical rendition of,“G’Day,
Mm,... Mm, ... Mmmm, ... Mate!” and
the applause that followed almost lifted the roof off of the old footy
club. As the crowd was settling down I
had a quick browse through Donald’s song list.
He tinkled on the strings briefly so we could match our keys, then the
band erupted into the filthiest, ball tearing version of ‘Get back’ by the
Beatles I could have asked for. The
audience were a bloody rowdy bunch and that particular song was the perfect
selection to win them over. Even the Grannies and Grandpa’s were up on the
dancefloor doing a highland jig. The
second song I chose from the list was, ... ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ by Glen
Campbell. This just happens to be one of
my own all time favorites and it presented a great opportunity to throw in a
few of the more subtle tones. The crowd
was quiet and receptive during the mellow opening verses but they went wild
when the all powerful chorus came thundering in. I don’t think there was a person in the house
who wasn’t singing along. This wonderful
family oriented gathering was a complete contrast to the punters who had
attended the concerts at the festival. I
didn’t have to act like some kind of high and mighty Rock Star to win their
approval and I could just be myself.
That beautiful footy club crowd made sense of Donald’s musical
contentment and it suddenly occurred to me that all a performer really needs is
a happy crowd to be fulfilled. After the show Joy’s mother hinted that she had
actually been impressed by my singing.
Up until then she had never seen me perform, other than the odd times I
broke into song around the house. I
said,“Oh!, does that mean I don’t have to
spend the rest of my life in a stinking hot kitchen?” to which she reverted to her normally stern
demeanor. The following day Joy
informed me that we were going to be driving her mother to visit some more
relatives. They lived about sixty miles
to the North and she suggested that we might stop at a place called Longleate
Castle along the way. This mother and
daughter conspiracy was getting seriously out of hand. I was still hung over and all I felt like
doing was fishing for trout from an easy chair in the back yard. As usual I had to put all of my own plans
aside and pamper to the needs of Joy’s mother and it was really starting to
give me the shits. I didn’t even like
the woman and I resented having to share my first ever international experience
with her.
Longleate Castle is a palatial country estate which was turned into a
lion park so that some Lord or other could afford to pay his taxes. We were driving slowly along a bitumen path
with lions on all sides and I was inspired to get snapping with the new Nikon
camera I had bought for the trip. I
pulled the van to the side of the path so the following cars could pass and I
got the camera out of the glove compartment.
Down the slope in the distance there was a big old male lion reclining
in the sunshine with a bunch of young ones wrestling at his feet. I got some
great shots as they rolled and tumbled in the dewy grass and I went through
almost a whole roll of film in the process.
I had turned on the engine and was preparing to rejoin the convoy on the
path when the van started sliding in the grass.
Before I could get enough traction on the bitumen the rear end started
slipping away and we slid down the slope sideways. Two deep furrows were gouged
into the wet soil and it was an absolute miracle we didn’t roll. We thudded to a startled and somewhat shaken
stop with one side of the van resting on a high cyclone wire fence. My first most important task was to get Joy
and her mother to calm down so I assured them that the beasts were adequately
fed and they would not pose any kind of serious problem. Some of the lions were walking around about
forty feet from the van but they didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in
us. Looking nervously from window to window both Joy and her mother seized the
opportunity like the extroverted ‘Drama Queens’ they are. They bit their nails nervously like a pair of
stupid schoolgirls and went through the most likely way the man eating monsters
would claw their way into the VW. More
amused than anything I started honking the horn at the traffic up on the track
and I soon caught the eye of a young guy who was sitting in the top story of a
tourist coach. We exchanged an effective
visual communication as I waved my arm out of the open window. I gave him a beckoning kind of gesture that
said, “Hey!, ... check out where I have
landed”. There was a look of
genuine fear on the face of Joy’s mother for the brief moment my window was
open and I think it might have been the prettiest sight I saw all day. People started noticing us and kids were
waving from cars up on the path. I knew
it was only a matter of time before someone came to help but that did nothing
to console Joy and her mum. They were up
to the scenario where the lions would lift the camper roof with their claws and
pluck us out like sardines, when the cavalry came roaring down the hill like a
scene from ‘Daktari’. A pack of
landrovers covered in zebra stripes slid to a stop all around the van and a
series of shots were fired into the air to ward off the lions. An elderly Park Ranger attached a steel cable
to our front bumper then his young assistant towed us out. The females in the back were expressing their
boundless gratitude and relief as we were hauled up the muddy slope. Once back on the track the old lion keeper
towed us into the main carpark area.
Along the way he stopped near a sign that said, ... ‘Stay On The Grass’
and he smiled back at me as he pointed at the sign, in a mode of amused
authority. The little sign pointing
ritual the Ranger had performed was just the excuse Joy’s mother was looking
for. As we drove away from Longleate she
announced that I was an irresponsible lout who never considered the feelings of
others and I thought that life was just a big joke. I was self centered and
vain to boot and she certainly felt that her daughter could do a lot
better. Joy jumped in with her two bobs
worth about our little incident, but eventually she calmed down and started
talking about other things. The old
battle axe just sat brooding and silent in the back until we reached the home
of their rellies, then she turned into the most pleasant natured person you
could ever want to meet. Yet again I sat
through hours of painfully slow family reconnection’s and endured the prying
questions of people I would never see again.
Where was the fun filled holiday I had planned with my girl back in
Adelaide? Where was the dusty road to
adventure and my meeting with Dali?.
'Where the ....
is all my
money going?'
Joy’s mother was returned safely to the clan in Nailsworth as evening
shrouded the town in mist. The whole
lion park story was recapped over dinner and as expected my detour from the
bitumen path was the main feature. Thank
Christ we were moving out in the morning.
I needed to get Joy and most of all myself away from that family and
back on our quest for Spain. With the
new day we departed from the Cotswolds amid strained farewells and headed North
towards Scotland. After just a couple of
days on the road in the camper Joy and I settled back into our normal shared
reality. We were both relieved that the
family tensions had dissipated and now we were getting down to the serious
business of having fun. A pattern was soon established where we spent one night
of the week in some swanky roadside villa or motel, one at a hired camping site
and the rest at whatever romantic location we might find along the way.
With Joy as the navigator and me at the wheel we soon perfected the art
of discovering secluded detours that took us far from the beaten track. We drove all over England, Wales and Scotland
for about two months just checking out the sights and immersing ourselves in
the local vibes. Mixing with the
inhabitants in their home territory was seen as a more worthwhile exercise than
running around to crowded tourist destinations.
My history with fishing had only ever involved holiday attempts with a
handline when I was a kid. I became too
easily bored if the fish weren’t biting and I would usually scoot off to do
something else. The trout fishing
escapades in the backyard of the dairy had provided a valuable insight into the
time honored discipline of patience and I wanted to explore it further. I have always been such an impatient bastard
and through fishing I discovered a doorway which leads to a more mellow and
laid back mode of being. Trout
populated streams were a feature at most of our British camping spots and as
well as the patience thing a stronger hunting instinct than ever started to
emerge. I became quite an accomplished
fly fisherman and the little bar fridge in the camper was always stocked up
with fresh trout. While in Scotland and
parked by a lake eating severely undersized hamburgers we spied two old blokes
trying to haul a small wooden boat down to the water. It was stuck in the shallows and not moving
so I wandered over to help. The old guys
said they were planning to do some night fishing and as is my way I asked if I
could go along. They didn’t mind in the
slightest so with mud up to my knees I raced back to the van for my rod. Joy was glad for some time alone so she could
finish reading the final chapters of her Harold Robbins novel, so I quickly
parked the camper under a tree, grabbed my rod and hi tailed it back to the
boat. The fishermen were waiting
patiently when I returned with my gear.
We rowed for about half a mile on the sunset kissed water and came to a
stop at a small inlet on the other side.
As we moved along they spoke about life in their little village by the lake. I got to tell them the bare essentials about
myself but they seemed much happier when they were running off the most loved
of their fishing tales. Once we had
stopped by the inlet the conversation turned mostly to angling. In hoarse, Scottish accents they whispered
the finer points of fly fishing and other than that we were silent. We stayed in same spot for about three hours
and in that time only two good sized trout were caught. I was yet to catch a thing but I was dammed
if I was going to let impatience or restlessness get the better of me.
We were coming into the Scottish summer and the heavens were remarkably
cloudless and clear. The sun had set
over the ridges that bordered the lake and a big full moon was up in the sky. As we waited for the fish to attack our
lures, two slow moving clouds drifted in front of the moon and were illuminated
with moonlight reflected rainbows. No
fish were showing any interest in my dangling hook so my attention was easily
distracted by their changing form. One
of the clouds was smaller than the other and it occurred to me that they were
very similar to the shape of the British Aisles. Without making a big issue of it I brought the
clouds to the attention of the fishermen.
All of a sudden the silence of the lake was shattered. One of the old guys stood up in the boat as
if to get a closer look. After the
initial excitement they looked up at the stars in wonder and amazement. The clouds dissolved into the night sky
leaving it as clear as it had been before.
With all interest in fishing now abandoned the old Scotsmen were eager
to get back to the village so they could share the vision with their
cronies. As we rowed back at top speed
they were saying things like, “He’s a
Tinker, he sees messages from the fairies”, ... “Oooh!, ... have we been
treated to some magic tonight?” The
old boys told me that a ‘Tinker’ is the Sottish word for Gypsy. They asked if I was a descendant of some
nomadic tribe to which I had no answer.
I didn’t know anything of my Hungarian ancestry other than fragments of
stories I had heard. There was never any
talk of Gypsies and certainly no mention of secret magical powers. Once back in the village we hauled the boat
back onto the muddy bank. Joy had been
reading by candlelight and she was just about to fall asleep when I got back to
the van. It took some real lovey, dovey
persuasion but in the end she agreed to join me and the fishermen down at the
local tavern. As we walked in the door
‘Jock and Angus’ had a group around them and they were eagerly sharing the tale
of the two clouds. Our entrance was met
with a big cheer and we were promptly welcomed into the fold. On our departure three days later Jock and
Angus insisted we have a parting pint at the local which turned as you might
expect into a parting few. The farewell
revelry seemed like a fitting end to our tour of Britain so as drunk as
highland rebels on Scotch whisky we agreed to head for the European continent
the following day. With chronic hangovers and exhausted from the trip we arrived in Dover
at dusk and from there we caught the motor ferry to France. Learning how to drive on the wrong side of
the road was an experience I would sooner forget but our road weary condition
made it even worse. France was charming in many ways but in others it wasn’t up
to the hype at all. The sense of
personal contact we had felt with the British locals was left far behind,to be
replaced by the detached and slightly superior reserve of the French. I sensed a constant vibe of prejudice against
foreigners at hotels, restaurants and the like.
It seemed that most of the attendants we dealt with couldn’t take their
noses out of the air long enough to see where their bread was being buttered
and I came to see France as a necessary evil we had to pass through on our way
to Spain. The most entertaining thing that happened during our entire French
excursion was a stop we made at a very pricey country inn. Our room overlooked a cobbled courtyard which
extended out of a working dairy and the adjoining stables were home to a pair
of big old Clydesdale's. As we showered
and got dressed for dinner the horses were attached to a cart that was being
loaded up with large wooden milk barrels.
The Frenchmen who were loading the barrels were the kind of true
provincial characters you might see in some fine work of art and the old girl
who ran the place yelled at them from an upstairs window to stop making so much
noise.
‘Is it
not, ... how should I
say?, ... Charming, ... eh!, ... Wee!,' ...
In the evening we sat down to the finest French cuisine we could have
wished to sample and the Matron of the Chateau made a grand entrance into the
restaurant once all of the guests were seated.
Apparently in younger days she was a celebrated French movie starlet and
there were once glossy pictures of her on all of the walls. As was her unfortunate habit the poor, old
eccentric woman used all of the unsuspecting diners to prop up her aged and
faltering ego. A tape recording of some
long forgotten movie theme was played as she floated half shot down the stairs
and her bare wrinkled shoulders dripped out of a tight fitting dairy maids
outfit. The remnants of her time on the
silver screen I should imagine. The
layers of makeup on her hail damaged old face gave the appearance of a sad,
Pollyanna like clown as she sucked in the restrained applause of her
guests. The evening progressed into the
midnight hour and the old darling became more and more intoxicated. She was hopping into the cognac like there was
no tomorrow and her limited English became a jovial but incomprehensible
slur. The older of the workmen who had
been loading the milk barrels came in as the staff were preparing to close up
and with well seasoned dedication he escorted the very pissed Matron upstairs
to her quarters. As we were preparing
for bed we heard what sounded like a lovers spat coming from our hostesses
abode. Joy and I were still in the early
stages of new romance and the theatrics of the old lovebirds was just another
part of the fun. We fell asleep to the
braying lament of a sex crazed bullock and the rumblings of the cows in their
stalls. With the first hint of daylight
we were woken by a God awful racket coming from down in the courtyard. Still half asleep and giggling like naughty
children we peeked out through the lace curtains. The elderly farm worker was clutching his
boots in his arms and tippy toeing on the cold cobblestones as the Matron
bellowed out abuse in French. This was
punctuated by clumsy attempts to land a blow on the poor little fellow. In the bitter cold of morning she was only
dressed in a flimsy nightgown and the long flowing silk garment was soiled by
the dirt on the stones. As she tried to
take another swing at her shivering, hen pecked lover she tripped on her
nightgown and fell. Our most
entertaining image of France was the large and dirt be-smattered arse of our
hostess as she was lifted to her feet sobbing.
‘Love, ... Eh!, ...
But it
is not Grand, ... No, ...’
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