Scrapbook of Poetry and Prose

CARVE HER NAME WITH PRIDE

Leo Marks

The code-poem used in the film was the real code poem used by Violette Szabo while she was sending messages back from occupied France. The poem was written by 'Leo Marks' (qv) who was a cryptographer for SOE and often used poems like this for agents to use.

The life that I have is all that I have,
And the life that I have is yours.
The love that I have of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.
A sleep I shall have,
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause.
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours

Leon Mentenacken

Life is vain
A little love
A little hate
And then - good day!

Life is short
A little hope
A little dream
And then goodnight.

Anon

Remember me is all I ask
But should remembrance prove a task
Forget me!

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

My version of this:
Do not stand at my grave and cry
If I am there then pigs can fly.

Joyce Grenfell

If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower
Nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I am gone
Speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves
That I have known

Weep if you must
Parting is hell
But life goes on
So sing as well

Dame Edith Sitwell

Love is not changed by death
and nothing is lost,
and all in the end is harvest

Oscar Wilde

Youth is wasted on the young.

The soul it is born old and grows young

That is the comedy of life.

The body it is born young and grows old

That is life's tragedy.

Samuel Jonson

If you are idle, be not solitary.

If you are solitary, be not idle.

Dryden

Tomorrow do your worst,

for I have lived today!

Benjamin Franklin

Do not squander time for that is the stuff life is made of.

Raymond Carver:

'Late Fragment' from All Of Us: The Collected Poems (first published in Great Britain)

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

Bellini

Casta diva from Norma

Text: Felice Romani (1789-1865)

Casta Diva, che inargente

Queste sacre antiche piante,

A noi volgi il bel sembiante

Senza nube e senza vel.

Tempra tu de' cori ardenti,

Tempra anchora lo zel audace,

Spargi in terra quella pace

Che regnar tu fai nel ciel.

Chaste goddess who doth bathe in silver light

These ancient, hallowed trees,

Turn thy fair face upon us,

Unclouded and unveiled.

Temper thou the burning hearts,

The excessive zeal of thy people.

Enfold the Earth in that sweet peace

Which, through thee, reigns in heaven.

AUBADE - Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half drunk at night.

Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.

In time the curtain edges will grow light.

Till then I see what's really always there:

Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,

Making all thought impossible but how

And where and when I shall myself die.

Arid interrogation: yet the dread

Of dying, and being dead,

Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse

- The good not used, the love not given, time

Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because

An only life can take so long to climb

Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never:

But at the total emptiness forever,

The sure extinction that we travel to

And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,

Not to be anywhere,

And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid

No trick dispels. Religion used to try,

That vast moth-eaten musical brocade

Created to pretend we never die,

And specious stuff that says no rational being

Can fear a thing it cannot feel, not seeing

that this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,

No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,

Nothing to love or link with,

The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,

A small unfocused blur, a standing chill

That slows each impulse down to indecision

Most things may never happen: this one will,

And realisation of it rages out

In furnace fear when we are caught without

People or drink. Courage is no good:

It means not scaring others. Being brave

Lets no-one off the grave.

Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.

It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,

Have always known, know that we can't escape

Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.

Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring

In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring

Intricate rented world begins to rouse.

The sky is white as clay, with no sun.

Work has to be done.

Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

A young Man's Epigram on Existence - Thomas Hardy

A senseless school, where we must give

Our lives that we may learn to live!

A dolt is he who memorises

Lessons that leave not time for prizes.

extract from Julie Jane - Thomas Hardy

'I suppose', with a laugh, she said,

'I should blush that I'm not a wife';

'But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,

What one does in life!'

BURNT NORTON - T S Eliot
(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

II
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

III
Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.

IV
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.

V
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after

TO A BUTTERFLY - William Wordsworth
I've watched you now a full half hour,
Self poised upon that yellow flower,
And, little butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! - not frozen seas
More motionless! And then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours,
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers,
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

THE TERROR OF DEATH - John Keats

When I have fears that I should cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teaming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain.

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the fairy power
Of unreflecting love - then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

VERGISSMEINNICHT - Keith Douglas

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone,
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.

The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.

Look. Here is the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put; Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht
in a copybook gothic script.

We see him almost with content
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.

But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.

For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.


Laurence Binyon

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.


The Fly - William Blake

Little fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death.

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die?


Appointment in Samarra, Death Speaks  

W Somerset Maugham

There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, "Master, just now when I was in the market place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me". The merchant lent him his horse and the servant mounted it and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop, he went. Then the merchant went down to the market place and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.

Love Letters

John Keats to Fanny Brawne

'Sweetest Fanny you fear sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? My dear girl I love you ever and ever without reserve. The more I have known you the more have I loved.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Robert

'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life, and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death!

Byron

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart

Tis woman's whole existence.

Margaret Drabble - Extract from The Waterfall

Human contact seemed to her so frail a thing that the hope that two people might want each other in the same way, at the same time and with the possibility of doing something about it, appeared infinitely remote.

'When it's summer,' he said, 'will you still love me?'

'Of course', she said.

'In the summer,' he said, 'we'll go away. You and me and the children. We'll go abroad. Will you come?'

'Of course', she said

Though she did not think that they would go. Or that love could last so long.

questioning herself on why she married::

Love, may be: I did think that I loved him, but I don't like to think that love might die: so I prefer not to believe that I married for love.

Alice Thomas Ellis - Skeleton in the Cupboard

'People who are in love are like people who are out of their minds and it is best to forget what they say. Passion dies. Even love poetry has a faded scent to those who entomb dead desire and everyday words by everyday people attempting to convey their emotions are possibly the most banal in the language.

E M Delafield - The Way Things Are

…hers was not the Great Refusal that ennobles the refuser and remains a beautiful memory for ever……In a flash of unavoidable clear sightedness, that Laura would never repeat if she could avoid it, she admitted to herself that the average attributes only, of the average woman, were hers.

Imagination, emotionalism, sentimentalism……what woman is not the victim of these insidious and fatally unpractical qualities. But how difficult, Laura reflected, to see oneself as an average woman and not, rather, as one entirely unique, in unique circumstances….. It dawned upon her dimly that only by envisaging and accepting her own limitations, could she endure the limitations of her surroundings.

From ‘The Shipping News’ – Annie Proulx

For if Jack Buggit could escape from the pickle jar, if a bird with a broken neck could fly away, what else might be possible? Water may be older than light, diamonds crack in hot goat’s blood, mountaintops give off cold fire, forests appear in mid ocean, it may happen that a crab is caught with the shadow of a hand on its back, that the wind be imprisoned in a bit of knotted string. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.

Is That All There Is? - Stoller and Lieber

Taken from a story called ``Disillusionment'' by Thomas Mann (written when he was twenty). The following summary, taken from Colin Wilson's book The Craft of the Novel, makes this absolutely unmistakable.

The narrator is sitting in St Mark's Square in Venice when he falls into a conversation with a fellow countryman. The man asks, "Do you know what disillusionment is? Not a miscarriage in small unimportant matters, but the great and general disappointment which everything, all of life, has in store?" He tells how, as a small boy, the house caught fire; yet as they watched it burn down he was thinking, "So this is a house on fire? Is that all?" And ever since then, life has been a series of disappointments; all the great experiences have left him with the feeling: "Is that all?" Only when he saw the sea for the first time, he says, did he feel a sudden tremendous craving for freedom, for a sea without a horizon... And one day, death will come, and he expects it to be the last great disappointment. "Is this all?"

The song sung by Peggy Lee leaves out the part about the sea, but ends, just as Thomas Mann's story does, with the idea that death will be just one more disappointment.

The verse to this song is actually spoken rather than sung. The refrain, the only part which is sung, goes

Is that all there is?

Is that all there is?

If that's all there is, my friend,

Then let's keep dancing,

If that's all

there

is.

Alexander Pope
from Eloisa to Abelard

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;

"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"

Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,

Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.

Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.

For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,

And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,

For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,

For her white virgins hymeneals sing,

To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,

And melts in visions of eternal day.

MID LIFE CRISIS

On either side the King’s Road lie

Long rows of shops (and yellow lines)

That clothe the young and catch the eye

And through the crowds a road runs by

To much replastered costalot.

And up and down the people go

Gazing where the rubbish bags blow

Round a corner there on show

The house of Chastealot.

Only builders starting early?

In amongst the hurly burly

Hear the song that echoes eerily

Tis the lady of Chastealot.

Along came Sir Lancelot

His smile was ablazing

Did melt her old heart and set it aracing.

She left the sink, tripped over the broom

Then went sprawling across the room.

(It was the effect he had on her).

The mirror cracked, (her age was telling)

Thoughts of wasted years sent her reeling

She grabbed Sir Lancelot by the arm

And took the can opener from the drawer

(How else could she tackle the armour)

Stuff the curse what a way to go

Rapt in mutual ardour

So much better don’t you think?

Than floating down the river!

My Dad’s memorial reads: 25 November 1922 - 30 January 1986

Treasured memories of a wonderful Husband, Father and Grandfather. He lived for those he loved and those he loved remember.

Mum's memorial: 1 August 1926 - 17 January 1993

When life became intangible it was dismissed with dignity to go gentle into that last goodnight.

My memorial
I would like to be serenaded into the afterlife with the following;

BEIM SCHLAFENGEHEN (Going to Sleep)
Richard Strauss

Now the day has wearied me,
and my ardent longing shall
the stormy night in friendship
enfold like a tired child.

Hand, leave all work;
brow, forget all thought.
Now all my senses
long to sink themselves in slumber.

And the spirit unguarded
longs to soar on free wings,
so that, in the magic circle of night,
it may live deeply and a thousandfold.

From Four Last Songs
Sung by:
Elizabeth Schwarzkopf

or

LARK ASCENDING - Vaughan Williams
MEDITATION FROM THAIS – Massenet

Other favourites:

VIOLIN CONCERTO NO 1 PART II
Bruch

THE SWAN
Saint Saens

CASTA DIVA
Bellini

OVER THE RAINBOW
Sung by Judy Garland

BEAUTIFUL DREAMER

My Dad sang this to me as a lullabySung by Bing Crosby

SHE’S A RAINBOW
Sung by the Rolling Stones

THE WAY WE WERE

Sung by Barbara Streisand

DO WAH DIDDY DIDDY

Sung by Manfred Mann

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT - Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

...I'm on my knees, I'm waiting for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm Running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I Never wanna die
I Never wanna leave
I'll Never say goodbye
Forever, whatever
Forever, Whatever

After I'm gone please don't say 'she's in a better place'

The only place is here and now, to be alive is all there is.

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

So long and thanks for all the fish!

Holidays in the 1960s

My first holiday abroad was in 1967 when my then boyfriend (who, much later, seven years in fact, became my husband) and two other friends drove to Spain in a Mini! As we were intending to camp we had two ‘2 man’ tents, sleeping bags and a box of tinned food to cut down on expense when we were over there, unbelievable as it sounds today there was a limit on the amount of money a person could take out of the country and that was….£50! Packing everything into the car was quite an achievement given the size of the boot and the camping equipment, two two-man tents, went on the roof rack.

When we were finally ready we set off towards the M1, the only motorway in Britain! I hadn’t understood my Mother’s concern at the time but with children of my own I now know how she must have been feeling. We were barely thirty miles into our journey when the roof rack started to fall off and that was one of our first stops at the side of a motorway. Once the roof rack was secured we carried on towards Dover where we conserved petrol by pushing or coasting the car along as we queued to board the ferry. Once across the channel we headed south with only a few scary moments when I realised the car was hurtling down the wrong side of the road and it was then I decided I wouldn’t be sleeping but making sure the driver was awake. The sleeping bags were in the back seat and so made a reasonably comfortable albeit cramped sleeping space for the couple not on driving or navigating duty.

Our first night was spent somewhere in France in a dingy pension but with a magnificent view, it had taken quite a time to find somewhere to stay as we had left it quite late in the evening before we started looking but we didn’t learn from this and were often in the same predicament. The wonderful coffee and croissant more than compensated for the room.

Our journey continued until we reached the Spanish border and our second night was spent just over the border in a hacienda style hotel which was very welcoming after the long drive. To this day I remember breathing the hot dry air and the sound of the crickets. We carried on down the coast until we reached La Escala a delightful fishing village; we found a campsite on the beach and pitched our tents. We got ourselves ready, as best as we could and hit the town. Even in the sixties there were bars proclaiming they served English beer and Tetley tea but compared to today it was charming. Although I’d had my doubts about it, when the sun was shining camping didn’t seem so bad after all.

Barcelona was nearby so a visit was planned. We explored the narrow streets of the old city which I now know was the Ramblas, drank Cuba Libre in the bars accompanied by snacks including small fish called boquerones and lovely cheese it is only in recently I realised we had been eating tapas. It was suggested we should go to a bullfight although I wasn’t too keen but soon found myself sitting, in the blazing sun, overlooking a bull ring. There were several ‘fights’ in which the bull tried to gore the Picador’s horses underneath their padding and it looked as if the bull would lift the horse off the ground, the Picadors stabbed at the bull with their spears. The Matador would then enter the arena and after twirling his cape and generally aggravating the distressed bull further would then be given his sword with which he was supposed to carry out a clean kill with one lunge into the bull’s head. It didn’t happen like that though several attempts were made and the bull staggered and swayed with blood gushing from its mouth it was awful. The only ‘fights’ remotely fair to the bull was with the Toreador when one man on a horse took on the bull. We didn’t stay until the end and found the experience quite barbaric.


We returned to camp. We spent the next morning on the beach, the climate in this part of Spain seemed to follow a pattern of becoming quite windy in the afternoon and so we had left the beach in search of lunch and had found a restaurant overlooking a small street and suddenly all of the beach paraphernalia; inflatables, parasols and hats from one of the small shops was blown into the air as a sudden hurricane blew through the town. We thought it might be a good idea to check our tents, they had been blown across the site and our belonging were scattered to the four winds. We gathered everything up and decided it might be a good idea to find a more sheltered campsite with better facilities.


Further down the coast we found a beautiful camp site set among trees and there were showers and a restaurant that served wonderful steak (I tried not to think about the bulls) salad and chips and I had never tasted such delicious tomatoes. The rest of the holiday passed uneventfully and soon it was time to return home.


The car was loaded up again and I was still the object of fun because I had a hard suitcase in which I had packed a winter coat on my mother’s advice even though she had never set foot out of England! Not far into our journey home whilst descending a steep mountain road the car developed a serious wobble and we realised something was seriously wrong, there had been several incidents of overheating and other minor mechanical problems but this was something else. We pulled as far into the side as the road as the steep cliff would allow and looked at the wheel that had appeared to be wobbling. The wheel was actually falling off because the bolts had sheered through the metal; this was the narrowest escape of the trip.


The following year we returned to Spain with the same friends but this time in a larger car, a Hillman Avenger which was my boyfriend’s company car so a bit more reliable than the Mini. This proved to be quite a slow journey because we were towing a borrowed speedboat. We were going up in the world and had hired a villa with pool in Tossa del Mar. The villa took some finding but was wonderful and l decided my camping days were over.

A couple of years later we drove to Yugoslavia we had booked another villa close to the sea near Makarska. Although going with the same friends, this time we took two cars, we were in an MGA and they had a Mini. I can’t remember much of the journey so it couldn’t have been particularly eventful although I can remember crossing the border into Italy by mistake causing unnecessary delay i.e. entry and exit of a country within an hour. Venice was nearby but I had recently seen ‘Don’t Look Now’ and although saving Venice was high on the international agenda at the time I think the film made it look dark and sinister, although we didn’t visit it on this occasion I have been there since and loved it. I can remember one of our stops in Rijeka just over the Yugoslavian (now Slovenian) border; it was a grim industrial area and as it was getting late we had to find a room for the night and that is all we could find; one room for the four of us.

Our villa was beautiful with fig trees in the garden and the beach was reached via a short woodland walk. We sat on the beach with the mountains forming a dramatic backdrop. The sea was the clearest I had ever seen and we had an idyllic two weeks… except for our attempted trip up Mount Biokovo. Attempting to go up this mountain in an MGA was ridiculous the road was a rocky track and we didn’t get far before we had damaged the exhaust this meant an unscheduled journey into Split to find an MG garage. Split was impressive with its mediaeval ruins but finding a garage that could fix the exhaust proved impossible therefore it was eventually patched up with a baked bean tin, not unusual back in the late sixties/early seventies.


Another rather unsuccessful excursion was to the island of Hvar we travelled down the coast to the ferry terminal that was the closest point to the lower end of the island unfortunately this point was also the opposite end to the island’s capital also called Hvar (Town). We sat at a café whilst waiting for the early morning ferry and had our first taste of Turkish coffee and made the mistake of drinking it to the bottom as I suspect most people do. We were travelling together in the Mini, reminiscent of our first trip to Spain together. When we reached the island the road was not a road but a track strewn with boulders and the journey had to be abandoned after only a few miles, however, I have wonderful memories of the perfume filled air from field after field of lavender.


Our route back from Yugoslavia took us through Austria and when we reached the small village of Trebesing, late in the afternoon we decided it would be a good place to spend the night. We soon found a small pension where we left our bags and set off to explore. In a local bar we were the centre of attention possibly because of my extremely short skirt, which was definitely out of place amongst their traditional dress. Everyone was happy and it wasn’t long before we found out why, the village had a new fire engine and they were having a party, that night, to celebrate and we were invited. It was wonderful complete with oompah band, waltzing and decorative necklaces made from gingerbread, mirrors and bells on a ribbon one of which I was given. We drank schnapps and danced through the night and my trophy from the night was a fireman’s cap, complete with edelweiss badge, which I still have today. The next morning after our lovely breakfast, that to this day reminds me of Austria, of boiled eggs, poppy seed bread rolls and honey we said our goodbyes, many of the villagers came to say goodbye before we left. We had been treated like celebrities.