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. 

Skiing; Saalbach 1967ish

Roger Hostombe, Christine Monk, Colin Monk