Not sure why those who attended Dauntsey’s School in Wiltshire were nicknamed ‘Puds’ as it wasn’t in regular use in the school; maybe it was the school itself that earned the moniker? Maybe ‘Puds’ is a nod to puddings, a term for both sweet and savoury dishes, reflecting the nature of the children that passed through the school’s main entrance. Maybe someone will enlighten me?

In 1964 I had hitched with Nigel Bond from Ostend down through Belgium to Luxembourg, then back up the Rhine to Koln, Antwerp and home. Other than that I had never been further than Germany to visit an uncle serving with the British Army in Mönchengladbach, unless you call The Isle of Man overseas?

Few of us growing up in the 1960s thought of taking a Gap Year but the nub of an idea of some adventure after taking our A levels took hold. Eventually the plan to drive across Europe to Greece firmed up and in late July 1965 six of us climbed on board a hard-topped Land Rover, complete with tentage and stores, Gaz bottle and stove.

We were Ray Morrell, Andrew Hamilton, Ian Leigh, Jonathan Appleby, Doug Tester and me. Two of us in the front, four in the rear, with ‘stuff’ piled there and on the roof-rack. If you sat in the back, visibility was limited and this, together with the fact that not everyone drove, meant we soon realised we couldn’t simply drive all day, for hours on end. I think it was on our fourth day, the first of August, when we woke up in our Swiss alpine campsite to find it had snowed overnight.

Our route took us down the Adriatic coast of what was Yugoslavia, formed after World War Two as a federation of six republics, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia and Slovenia. Communist President Tito’s policies allowed some liberal development within a planned economy and he was remarkably successful. (Note 1) Leaving the coast to go around Albania, we drove into northern Greece.

Memories of campsites and putting up the tent and cooking and washing up and sleeping and taking down the tent and loading up the Land Rover and  ….. all tend to merge into a general ‘we drove down to Greece and back’. I had never heard the noise of a Cicada before but now of course the sound brings an instant recall of warm Mediterranean evenings, coastal towns like Split and Dubrovnik, driving inland from the Gulf of Kotor up and around isolated Albania, being delayed by a landslip and finally arriving in Greece.

We had taken much longer than we had imagined to get there so stayed only a few days in Thessaloniki before starting our return! There was another reason. Greece in August 1965 was a country of strife and protest. King Constantine had dismissed the Prime Minister Georgios Papandreou and appointed Georgios Athanasiadis-Novas, who was very unpopular. The streets of Greek cities filled with anti-riot police and student demonstrations and eventually he was voted out of office after 21 days. Not a time to be a tourist!

In amongst ‘we drove to Greece and back’ one particular event remains quite vivid for me, as I was driving! We were on our return journey, making our way around the north of Albania, driving through the suburbs of Pristina, now the capital city of Kosovo, when we realised we had taken a wrong turning. We had lots of road maps but the levels of detail varied enormously and mistakes were easy. The side street was potholed and dusty and, as I started to turn left across the street to execute a U-turn, an unseen motorcyclist on a rumpty-tumpty moped clipped the Landrover’s left wing. He skidded across the street and the bike toppled over. Struggling to his feet, he had the presence of mind to pick up the revolver that had fallen from his jacket, before giving us his opinion of my driving skills. Not being a linguist, I could only judge he was very cross! A small crowd gathered, suspicious and unused to foreigners. The local policeman on his pushbike arrived, my details were taken down, all our passports stuffed in his bag and we were told to appear before the judge at a certain place at 9 o’clock the following day.

Pristina didn’t do camp sites in 1965 so we headed out into the countryside, found a suitable sheltered spot to erect the tent, made a roaring fire and, over supper, contemplated what might happen, wondering what Yugoslavian prisons might be like etc. The following morning we appeared before Judge Kadriu. Contrite and full of apology, driving on the other side, confused, so sorry etc ….. and serendipity came to my aid! We had given a lift out of Greece to a South African girl hitch- hiker named Morgan (Note 2) and our judge had learned his English in South Africa. Chat! Chat! Chat! Fined some 2000 dinars (about £10 in 1965) (Note 3) and told to drive more carefully.

Three days later at Trieste we turned left and settled into a Venetian campsite for a couple of days before driving home. On the way back we had an amusing interlude with a Volkswagen Beetle on the motorway between Basle and Koln. We passed them, they passed us and waved, we passed them and waved and then, as they passed again, they passed us some chocolates and we shared some of our biscuits and then they turned off.

We caught the ferry and, once home, went our separate ways, our adult lives starting.

Richard 4^th August 2023

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS We are all still alive. Ray, whose father generously supplied the Land Rover, lives in Toronto, Canada: Andrew is in Surrey, Ian and Doug emigrated to Australia, the former living in Woongarrah, New South Wales, and Doug further down the coast in Sydney; Jonathan lives near Southampton.

Note 1. Typing these names brings back the horrors of the Balkan/Bosnian War that followed his death in 1980 and subsequent violent break-up of Yugoslavia.

Note 2 The only other Morgan I know, apart from the car, is a film titled “Morgan – A Suitable Case for Treatment”  (1966)

Note 3 £10 may seem a trifling amount but my first month’s pay when I joined the Royal Military Academy as an Officer Cadet in September 1965 was £65.