My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969

“Its no use love,” he admitted to mum. “I’m going to have to pull over and rest for half an hour.”

Ever since his time in the army he has been able to catnap for half an hour, then wake up refreshed and ready to go. A very useful knack if you have it.

At the next services we picked up some more fuel, thirty liters to be exact, and a plastic Chopin. To one side of the service area was a large car park with a picnic area. We parked up in a quiet corner. Mum woke us all and pulled us from the car so dad could recline his seat and stretch out a little.

We were somewhere in the Massif Central. The elevation made the night air cold, so we pulled on our coats. Tired and irritable, the Quasimodo children followed their mother to a nearby wooden picnic table, where she distributed soft drinks and the last of the sandwiches she had prepared before we left Manchester.

All four of us were fussy eaters. Mother always indulged us by making a pile of sandwiches to cater to our individual tastes. She need not have bothered this time. By now the sandwiches were so stale that they were not so much food, but more like a new form of composite building material. After a few half-hearted bites I left mine on a wall for the birds. Really it was not an act of kindness. Any poor bird that managed to eat some of my leftovers would probably find itself too heavy to take off for a week. We spent a very boring hour sat around the picnic table, before dad at last emerged from his chrysalis like state in the car. Fresh as a daisy, just as predicted.

“Let’s go guys. With a bit of luck we could be on the beach by tea time,” he assured us.

By the time dawn had risen we were within an hour of the Spanish border. Time for another fuel stop. No Total station around this time, so we had to make do with patronising an Elf station and collecting some glassware instead.

We had reached a large service area with an out of town shopping mall. Mother had noted our lack of enthusiasm for last night’s sandwiches and suggested we visit the hypermarket for some fresh supplies.

I love shopping in hypermarkets abroad. Okay, it may take two hours to walk round the place, and sometimes even longer to negotiate the check out queue. And the owners should face criminal prosecution for the tacky background music [Beatles cover versions played on a Hammond organ – you know the stuff I mean]. At least you can just pick up the products you want without having to overcome a language barrier or tote around an English to whatever-language dictionary. Having to deal with completely disinterested shop assistants in your own language is bad enough, but abroad? You’ll see what I am getting at later.

So, thirty litres of petrol heavier, we turned out of the fuel area and towards the central car park serving the mall. Trucks and buses to the left, cars to the right.

“ Bill STOP! Screamed mum. Just for a change he didn’t ask why, he stood on the brakes. The car came to an abrupt halt mere inches away from an overhead barrier with a sign on it indicating <maximum vehicle height 2 metres>.

Why do they do that? I mean what bloody difference does it make how tall your car is. All you want is a convenient place to park so you don’t have to carry your shopping half way round the continent. It’s not like you’re at the front of a drive in movie theatre and nobody behind can see the screen. It’s just a sodding car park.

Even the local fast food burger place has an overhead barrier on the car park. Why for God’s sake? Is it to keep out those riffraff truck drivers? Hardly. Those riffraff truck drivers have got more sense.

When truck drivers are hungry they stop at places that sell real food cooked by people that actually know how to cook, and not a slice of gherkin in sight.

They stop at places where you are not still hungry after spending ten pounds on processed junk food, served by a bored adolescent with acne so bad even his own mother wont kiss him goodnight.

Truckers stop at places where they can get a decent mug of tea or coffee and not be offered a choice of: regular; medium or large and the ubiquitous “do you want fries with that?” Incidentally, it is not ‘regular’. It is small. S.M.A.L.L. So let’s stop kidding ourselves shall we? Since when did the catering community officially list the word ‘small’ as a dirty word?

Sorry, I lost the plot there for a minute. Just don’t get me started on ‘theme pubs’, all right?

Now where were we…oh yes. South of France, stopped inches away from a big steel warning notice that our car was too tall to pass beneath.

“Phew, that was a close call,” said dad.

“Yes, we just about got away with that one,” agreed mum. Just about, but not quite.

It all happened in a split second, but looking back I remember it in slow motion. The six of us leaning forward, peering up at the sign. The sudden jolt forward as the car behind hit us, not having any reason to expect us to stop so suddenly.

The steering wheel hit dad in the chest winding him. Mum managed to put her hands out in front of her just in time to avoid rearranging her facial features on the windscreen.

On the back seat, the four of us were packed in so tightly there was no chance of any impact injury. Despite that, with the unfailing response of children everywhere to an event they do not fully comprehend, we started screaming our little heads off.

“Wah, wah, wah, wah,” wailed the kids on the back seat.

“My babies, my poor babies,” cried mum.

“Shit, shit, shit,” complained dad, nursing his bruised chest.

The car had been shunted forward about two feet and was now firmly wedged on the overhead barrier. As always happens in such situations, the sleepy little rest area had immediately transformed itself into the car park queue for this year’s Rolling Stones a

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