A Month in England and Europe on $800
A Month in England
and Europe on $800
by Dave Wright
I recently finished reading Rick Steves’ book, “On the
Hippie Trail,” an account of his travels from Istanbul to Kathmandu as a
23-year-old in 1978. It inspired me to rummage through the archives in my
basement to find the journal I had written when I was a 23-year-old in 1977. It
documents a one-month trip to England and Europe with several of my fraternity
buddies. Although his trip was longer and far more adventurous than mine, Rick
Steves and I were traveling at the same time of our lives on the same frugal budget.
When I applied to veterinary school at the University of
Minnesota in1973, I naively thought it was a one-and-done deal—either I’d get
in after one application or I’d need to find a different occupation. I figured
that if I didn’t get accepted, I’d take a backpacking trip through Europe to decide
what else I should do with my life. I got accepted, which meant my European
trip was delayed four years. (The first day of vet school I discovered that
many of the students had applied two or three times before they got accepted.
Ignorance is bliss.)
I graduated from the College of Veterinary Medicine in June
of 1977 and had $800 in my checking account, the amount leftover from my
student loans. I spent $440 on a round-trip ticket to London and used the rest
of it to finance my deferred backpacking trip. I spent the first two weeks of
July in England and another two weeks on the continent with three friends from
FarmHouse Fraternity.
I had negotiated a delayed start to my first job as a
veterinarian in Blooming Prairie, Minnesota. They wanted me to start as soon as
I graduated, but I talked them into waiting until August 1 so that I could take
my trip. I knew that once I joined the work force, vacation time would be
limited and I would become ensnared with adult responsibility: car payments, insurance,
home purchase, and who knows—maybe eventually a wife and kids.
As I read my journal for the first time in forty-five years,
I wondered the same thing Rick Steves pondered in his book: Who was I back when
I was twenty-three?
We are about to find out.
My traveling companions: Denny Hovelson, Me, Danny Byron, and Dan Pearson
As we prepared for our trip, we had no qualms about reaching
out to (or taking advantage of) a friend of a friend of a friend. There was no
email at the time, and international phone calls were prohibitive, so we made
our introductions by snail mail. Sometimes they got back to us. Other times we just
assumed we would be welcome.
We were confident, however, in a warm reception from our
first host, Roy and Thelma West, a couple whose names we had been given by another
fraternity brother who made their connection through his parents. They returned
a letter and offered to host Danny Byron and me for the first several nights of
our visit.
Danny was my first traveling partner, a soft-spoken
introvert, who agreed to step way out of his comfort zone to accompany us on
this trip. We affectionately called him “The Pope” because of his dedication to
the Roman Catholic faith.
Armed with my 35mm Nikormat camera, a graduation gift from
my parents, my Hillary frame pack, a lightweight sleeping bag, a change of
clothes, my passport, and all the money I had in the world, I was ready to go.
Wednesday night, June 29, 1977: Departure
John and Linda Hurtgen (a veterinary friend and his wife) gave Danny
and me a ride to the charter terminal and stood in line with us while we waited
with the masses to get our seat assignments. Surprisingly, the crowd dispersed
to their gates quickly enough that our plane took off within fifteen minutes of
its midnight departure.
Thursday, June 30: Attleborough, England
The plane ride was smooth but not very restful. The seats were so close
together that even short people like us had our knees pushed into our laps. It
made for difficult sleeping, but what was even more tiring was watching the
stewardesses run up and down the aisle all night. It wore me out to watch them.
We arrived at Gatwick Airport in London about 3:00 p.m.
and entered the confusion of a foreign country. Customs was a joke—we just
picked up our bags and walked through. The next step was to find the Roy and
Thelma West residence near Attleborough, Norfolk (a little town northeast
of London). After getting help from an information booth, we bought train tickets
from Gatwick to Victoria Station (£ 1.50 each).
From there we jumped on “the tube” that took us to Liverpool St. where we
bought more train tickets to Thetford (via a change in Ely).
The train ride was much less organized than in the U.S.
You just got on a car at the appointed gate, found an compartment with an empty
seat and the type of people you might like to associate with, placed your
luggage on the rack above, and sat down. The train had an old flavor—as did the
rest of England that we had seen today. The purple seats were clean but worn.
The wood interior and window casings added to the antique feeling. The party in
our compartment was quiet. Most of us dozed while we wound through the
countryside, grinding to a halt at several small towns along the way. The
ornate platforms looked like they came from a Gunsmoke set. The conductor was
particularly friendly and helped us get off at the right stop.
A typical village train platform
At the Attleborough stop, we stepped onto a platform that
left us absolutely alone as the train pulled away. We had no idea where the
West farm was located so we found a phone booth and dialed the number. The operator
said that the Wests had moved in November! Bummer. What now? We lingered near
the phone booth for about fifteen minutes when in the fading daylight, a young
man, somewhat tipsy, approached on the other side of the road. We asked him if
he knew our host.
“Yes,” he said. “I buy potatoes from him.” He gave us
directions and assured us it was within walking distance.
The phone booth was an old-fashioned model
that Superman would have admired.
The directions were good. We donned sweaters and packs
and walked for about a mile and a half. When we got to the house we were
greeted by a rugged-looking man with graying hair and a hearty laugh. Roy
invited us in and introduced us to his wife, Thelma, his son Kevin, and a
cousin and his wife who were also staying with them. He showed us to a
comfortable room and let us clean up while they prepared a meal of ham, bread,
salad, some type of ham/egg loaf, and tea (prepared the English way with milk
and sugar). We chatted until midnight and bid them farewell for the night.
Roy, Thelma, and Kevin West
Friday, July 1
We slept until noon today when they woke us for lunch. The jet lag mut have
caught up to me.
I was interested in seeing a local veterinary practice,
so Roy arranged for us to meet David Flatt, a veterinarian who had his office
in Diss. We met him at a farm where he had an appointment. He drove up in a
white Volkswagen Beetle and was wearing a white shirt, bow tie, an old sport
coat, and sandals—much different from that of an American veterinarian. He only
had to castrate a few pigs at the farm, but it was great fun chatting with his
clients, an old man and his boys who were both about my age or a little older. Our
conversation moved from the price of land to the metric system to Richard Nixon’s
vices. The old man felt that Jimmy Carter was more of a showman than a
president…
The litters of pigs were scattered around the farm with
no more than three sows in each building. The buildings were old, but they were
clean and well-bedded. I saw my first case of psitteriasis rosea, a
self-limiting skin disease that is not nearly as awful as it sounds.
A chorus of “cherio” followed us out of the barnyard as
we roared down the narrow curvy roads to an animal holding station where David’s
wife kept some of her hobby dogs—whippets and Italian greyhounds. After showing
us around his well-equipped veterinary office, Mr. (not Dr.) Flat, as is he is
known professionally in England, returned us to the West residence.
That evening we were served an excellent “English” dinner
that included white wine, turkey, Yorkshire pudding, spuds with gravy, followed
by fresh strawberries and a glass of very sweet Port wine. It was better than
anything we could have ordered at a restaurant.
We wrapped up the evening with a visit to a traditional
pub named after Queen Victoria. The bar counter was only about four feet long.
A red brick fireplace was on each side of the room with a well-worn, but highly
decorated carpet between. A couple of old ornate tables sat against the far
wall beneath a ceiling held in place with original beams. I suspect it was
built sometime in the 18th century. Kevin suggested several
half-pints of a non-carbonated Adnams bitter while Roy invited me to try a
sweeter carbonated beverage called Tartan. Both were served only slightly
chilled but were a refreshing change from American beer. American beer served
at that temperature would have turned your stomach, but not the British beers.
They must put more quality into their brew since they can’t hide the taste by
chilling it. The cost was about 15p a half-pint. They quit serving at 11:00 so
we went home early. (11:00 is early?)
Saturday, July 2
Saturday, we got up at a reasonable hour and were treated to a typical English
breakfast of an egg, bacon, sausage, and fried bread—with tea, of course. We
only made one blunder by putting marmalade on the fried bread. It’s supposed to
go on toast that is served after the main meal.
We were soon off on a day of touring with Kevin as our knowledgeable
guide. I must start by describing the countryside: The most noticeable thing
for an American are the small roads—all tarred with hedges on either side and a
curve at least every half mile. The roads wind through a patchwork of fields
separated by hedgerows, ditches, or rows of trees. There are no ditches next to
the roads—and therefore no litter to accumulate in them—replaced instead by invasive
red poppies.
Our tour started at the Protestant church in Hingham. The
beautiful stones and woodwork are characteristic of each of the community
churches found along the road. This church is particularly significant because
Abraham Lincoln’s forefathers belonged to this congregation. We happened to be
in the building the same time the clock winder was there, and he invited us up to
the top of the bell tower to have a look. There we got a scenic view of the
countryside and the town below. Of special interest were the bowling green and the
Dutch/Flemish architecture characterized by rounded peaks in front of steeply
angled roofs.