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 18^th 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.

Hingham watch tower

 

Bowling green
View from the bell tower

After watching the gentleman wind the clock and listening to the chimes, we set off for Norwich, the largest city in East Anglica. The livestock market was very similar to ours, but the pens were immaculately clean as a precaution against vesicular diseases.

Norwich livestock auction

We continued our tour with a visit to the private school cathedral that Kevin attended and the castle in the center of town. From there we made a quick stop at a Victorian era museum. We only had time to wander through the archeological exhibits but were rewarded with Kevin’s thorough explanations. His knowledge of British history—and ours—made me self-conscious about my own ignorance.

We wrapped up the tour by visiting the St. Peter Mancraft church, which was surrounded by flowers in bloom, and had a baptismal font with an elegant wood carving, a decorative altar, and stained-glass windows. To top off our experience, the choir was practicing for an evening performance.

Norwich cathedral

Cathedral vaulted ceiling

We raced home so we could get ready for Kevin’s date. The three of us were to go out with “just a friend” of his from Kings Lynn, a city bordering the North Sea. They wanted to take us along to evaluate the hamburgers at “Captain America” in Norwich. It was the first time I waited two hours for a hamburger, but in the meantime, we went to the “Brown Derby.” I tried out an Abbot Ale and an E&G—both with less of a bitter aftertaste than the Adnams. Back at “Captain America,” a bottle of Schlitz was the order of the day, which complemented a huge plate of fries and an excellent burger. The waitress was also pretty decent.

The last stop of the day was a discotheque not far from “Captain America.” This was a unique experience for me, but maybe it was the same in America discos. I had never been to one before. It was the first time I had seen men dancing with men or two women doing “the bump.” I approached several women in hopes of a conversation or a dance. After having gone 0 for 4 and them showing no interest in the least, I gave up. I could understand not wanting to dance, but I thought it was rude not to even speak to me. I was offended at first but soon realized that it may not have been a fair cross-section of the young population. I left thinking it was an idiosyncrasy of the disco crowd. (It never crossed my mind that it might have been my dorky clothing or that it was a gay bar!)

Sunday, July 3
After our 3 a.m. turn-in last night, we slept till 11:00 this morning. We started the day with a cup of tea as usual, after which I was challenged to a game of badminton. The day was beautiful for it—calm and sunny—almost hot enough to be Minnesota weather.

My stomach had not cleared last night’s meal when it was hit by another—this time at a small restaurant in Attleborough called “The Doric.” We started with a mug of Green’s beer in a waiting room, after which we went into the dining room for our herring salad, carbonade beef main course, and strawberry shortcake dessert. The meal ended, as usual, with a cup of coffee in the anteroom.

We toured the West’s farm in the afternoon, looking at crops and buildings left there by WWII airfields. One building still had a chalk board on a wall that listed the flight sorties planned for the day. It had been over thirty years since the end of the war, but it seemed like yesterday to the British.

Back at home, Roy gave us a cricket demonstration and offered us a chance to hit the ball.

Roy’s cousin, John, demonstrating
cricket batting technique

Roy showing off his garden

That evening, Roy played his organ for us while his cousin, John and I sang along. When “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree” came up, I showed them how to hully-gully, a line dance that was a standard at every FarmHouse wedding. Tea before bed, and the end of another “lovely” day, as the English say.

Monday, July 4
Happy birthday to Dad, even though you won’t be getting a card or phone call from me. As I think of having left the U.S. for a month, not telling my parents (or even knowing) where I was going in Europe, and sending perhaps one post card that wouldn’t have reached them until I returned, they must have been worried about their vagabond son.

We woke early on Monday to head to the Royal Agricultural Show in Birmingham, after which we were to bid farewell to the Wests. The ride was long, but we got there in time to see all that we needed. The displays were similar to those at the Minnesota State Fair, but there was no midway and fewer 4H type projects. The highlights were the colorful hot air balloons, the variety of livestock breeds represented, and the English horsemanship. I particularly enjoyed watching the hunter/jumpers. Roy knew all the locals and could talk most of them out of a glass of beer or a cup of tea. We only managed to extract one free brew compliments of Barclay’s Bank.

Royal Agricultural Show

Danny Byron decided to go his separate way and head for Ireland the next few days, which made it easier hitchhiking for both of us. I also felt like I was the dominant member of our duo as he rarely spoke unless I failed to answer. By leaving my company, he’ll be forced to interact with the population a little more.

Roy dropped Danny off at a busy intersection and drove me to the A-1 where I started hitching north. My ultimate destination was Durham where I had arranged to stay with Sarah Mann for a couple of nights. Sarah is the sister of a young woman I dated a couple of times while in vet school and was studying in the U.K. Hitchhiking went pretty well, getting rides with one businessman and two lorry drivers (we know them as truckers). One hauled machinery and the one who took me into Doncaster, a city about halfway to Durham, hauled coal. All were pleasant, and when they heard my American accent, were eager to hear about my life.

Soon after he let me off, I met a couple who were hitchhiking south to Norwich. They were going to sleep under a trestle that night but ended up meeting me fifteen minutes later in a pub for a glass of supper. All three of us crossed the street about 11:00 to lay out our sleeping bags in a small glen surrounded by woods. I could hear traffic but was asleep in minutes.

Tuesday, July 5 Durham, England
We were all up early—around 6 am—and departed to stake out a place on the roundabout. I waited about a half hour when a benevolent lorry driver hauled me to a more lucrative hitchhiking spot farther up the road. From there I caught a ride the whole way to the outskirts of Durham. I walked into town guided by the view of the church and cathedral, which stood together in the center of town.

Durham in the distance

The train into Durham

I went to two addresses to find Sarah’s residence hall. There was no response to my knock, so I left a note on the door and dropped in at the nearby “Colpit Pub.” I drank beer with the locals who were charmed by my American accent and bought me two more pints after which I ventured out to see the sights of Durham. The woman at the bar allowed me to leave my pack in the pub for safe keeping.

The main attraction is the Durham Cathedral. The River Wear runs around it on three sides and is bordered on the other side by a castle. A collection of stained-glass windows and ornate woodwork made it more attractive than other cathedrals I had seen. I spent the rest of the afternoon lying in the sun by the river and sitting in on part of the afternoon vesper service.

I traipsed back to Hawthorne St. where Sarah lived. My note was gone so someone was at home, but it wasn’t Sarah. I re-checked the address and found that the correct one was 44 Hawthorne, not 55. Things were more promising down the street. Linda Mese, a tall, dark-haired girl with a lovely smile, met me at the door and invited me in to wait for Sarah to get home. We talked for a half hour and decided to walk to the library to find her. We must have just missed her, because she was waiting for us when we returned.

I hadn’t eaten all day except for my liquid lunch, so I was ready to go out to eat. The ladies joined me for an evening at an Italian restaurant. Since I bought the meal, they insisted on treating me at “Colpits” afterward. It was more crowded than earlier that afternoon, but a dog was still in the same place, resting peacefully under the owner’s stool. It reminded me of a scene from a James Herriot book.

Wednesday, July 6
The house began to stir about 8:30 today, so I pulled myself out of my sleeping bag and washed the sleep out of my eyes before the customary tea and toast were served. It was to be another sunny day, so we decided to hike around Durham and bike to a couple of neighboring villages.

Before we took off with the bikes, we changed into shorts, a dress rarely practiced in Britain except for the rare, extremely hot day. We picked up some fruit, wine, bread, and cheese for a picnic and then biked to the outskirts of town where we left the bikes in a wooded area near the path. We followed the river to a clearing perfect for a picnic. During the ride and the walk, Sarah chatted non-stop. When I had last seen her, she seemed like a shy introvert. I could hardly believe the change.

On the way back we snooped around some small villages and returned to campus for a meal of fish and chips. It was quite different from Arthur Treacher’s. The fish were cod fillets—not the chopped carp, like at home—served with a pinch of lemon juice in a folded newspaper.

We ate our dinner and walked through town to the “Traveler’s Rest” where we stayed till closing. I sipped a couple of pints of “Old Peculiar,” a brew known for its rich body and deadly potency, then went home for coffee and chatted until midnight.

Another roommate came home while we were visiting. She was another nice looking “lass” and from what I heard, she had quite a string of male suitors, many of whom had the first name of Brian. Linda seemed to know a lot about Brian the Smoothy and Brian the Tramp. The roommate wasn’t home forty-five minutes before she was off to “The Pits” to look up Brian the Smoothy.

Thursday, July 7: Lake District, England
In the morning, I bathed and had a bite to eat before Sarah and I headed out to the highway. She had an interview in a small village that was on the way, so she decided to walk along. Before we got to the intersection, a middle-aged man who was preparing to leave asked where I was going and offered to give me a lift. Since getting out of town is often the biggest task of a hitchhiker, I gladly accepted his ride and his advice regarding getting to the Lake District, my next destination. I had read all four of James Herriot’s “All Creatures Great and Small” series, and although he practiced in Yorkshire southeast of the Lake District, I was eager to explore the type of countryside where he made his rounds.

Rides came along quickly, and I arrived in  Keswick shortly after noon. I grabbed a bite to eat, bought a few groceries and a corkscrew at one of the tourist rip-off joints, wet my whistle with a pint of lager, and set out to find a camping site or a bed and breakfast.

I had originally planned to hitchhike on the road south from Keswick to Borrowdale, but the walk along Derwentwater was so beautiful I had to savor the view and decided to hike. The lake was crystal clear and looked so refreshing that I joined the vacationers on the beach for a swim.

Stone walls bordered the roadway south to Seatoller. Picturesque hills and the occasional rustic farmstead made me feel like I was a hobbit walking along one of Tolkien’s adventuresome highways. If the weather hadn’t been so bright, I could imagine the Black Horsemen coming around the next bend.

The campground I chose was just outside Seatoller, a small village with an inn and several small cottages. The campgrounds here are very primitive and cater mainly to tent campers. You just go in and pick out a spot that suits you. Then in the morning the farmer, upon whose land you have been staying, walks around and collects about 25p per person. This farmer has an unusual way of letting people know he is coming. About 7:30 a.m. he opens the gates and allows his small herd of Friesian cows to amble through the camp. In addition to collecting his camping fee, he carries a basket of milk in pint bottles for the English to mix in their morning tea. (Every camper carries a teapot and a small gas stove so as not to miss teatime.)

There is a family camping near me who was willing to look after my gear while I went hiking. They were a bit skeptical of my sleeping arrangements—a simple tarp wrapped around my sleeping bag. They took pity on me and offered me part of their large tent if the weather got nasty. So far, I’ve been lucky. Although it looked bad for the home team earlier, I think I may luck out for at least one more evening.

Three “lads” traveling by motorbike also camped near me and were going to the pub that evening. Naturally, I agreed to meet them there and arrived around 9:30 after a twenty-minute walk. I bought the first round and English generosity paid for the rest of the evening—one more round, then two before closing. We were surprised when the hot shot who ran the pub insisted that we down the last two in ten minutes! It made the walk back to the campground more boisterous than usual.

Friday, July 8
After a rigorous hike up Scafell Pikes, I’m overlooking a beautiful view of the Lake District. The land is rugged and grassy with many large rock outcroppings. On the way up, I crossed multiple clear streams that ran to the river below. Shaggy ewes and their half-grown lambs graze peacefully on the available forage. Once on the top, I had a meager lunch of bread, fruit and wine. I may have to eat better tonight.

Lunch overlooking the Lake District

Catching up on my journal

Saturday, July 9: Oxford, England
I lucked out with the weather while in the Lake District but there was one annoyance that kept me from sleeping soundly—those stupid midges, the English curse. Being that I didn’t get to sleep until after 3:00 a.m., this morning rolled around pretty early. I escaped from the campground before the farmer let out the cows, so I had another free night.

I took a bus north to Keswick and had planned to hitch south toward London from there, but on the way I reconsidered. I was tired and not feeling sociable, which is a prerequisite for hitchhiking, so I bought a bus ticket to a town near Oxford. After a relaxing ride and a half-hour walk to a promising intersection, I sat down to catch a ride the last 40 miles.

My hitchhiking sign using a couple of pages in my journal

About the time I thought I’d better find a better location, a young fellow picked me up who said he was going to Oxford to visit some friends. When we got to their apartment, he asked me to wait in his car to see if they were home. Not only were they home, they invited me to spend the night with them!

David, the fellow who picked me up, was an Oxford graduate in engineering and the recent victim of an early divorce. He showed me around town and invited me to see his college. Every person who attends Oxford must be accepted by both the university and a college. The colleges are organizations that provide housing and a social network for the students. They are not necessarily separated by fields of study except for a few select professional fraternities.

Ian, our host, was an endocrinology professor who received his PhD working with oxytocin. He had an enthusiastic sense of humor. We talked about his research, the political scandals that seem to rock every country, and sports—football (soccer to us) and cricket. It was entertaining watching David demonstrate his batting technique in their tiny apartment. That evening we feasted from 9 till 11 on a meal prepared by Ian’s wife and toasted each other with glasses of his 1948 vintage port.

Sunday, July 10: London, England
After having slept on Ian and his wife’s apartment floor, I boarded a train to London where I became more of a typical tourist. I found a hotel for £5 per day near Pellington Station, which included a continental breakfast of bread, biscuits, and tea.

Sunday evening, I had little to do and no one to do it with, so I went downtown in search of a movie. I found mostly sex cinemas around Oxford Circus until I came upon a theater showing “The Prince and the Pauper.” It was one of the better movies I’ve seen in a while. I was surprised that the walk back to my hotel didn’t bother me a bit. I felt safer than if I’d been in Minneapolis.

Monday, July 11
I was to meet Danny Byron after his trip to Ireland today in Trafalgar Square at 12:00 noon. But by 12:40 I still had not seen him, and that irritating lump was beginning to grow in my throat. Of all the people I know, Danny would be the last one to be delinquent. My worst nightmare was implementing our backup plan—placing a long-distance call to the Wests using that damned English phone system.

While I was stewing on the square, looking at my map of London and planning my day without Dan, who should tap me on the back but Brother Dan. He was full of apologies and amazed that I was still there. The train schedule had not coincided well with his.

More pigeons than people in Trafalgar Square

I was sitting on the step to the right of the Lion’s statue when Danny tapped me on the shoulder.

That afternoon, we bummed around looking at the outside of a lot of places: Westminster Abby, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, and the Palace of Westminster.

Palace of Westminster with Big Ben in the background

 

Westminster Abby

That evening, we took in the London Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall. They performed a number of classical pieces familiar to us, my favorite being Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker Suite.” It was a particular treat just to sit down after a full day of walking. When we came out of the concert, all those beautiful buildings we had seen in the afternoon were lit up and reflected off the Thames.

Reflections on the Thames

That evening, I snuck Danny into my hotel room. He took the floor the first night and I took it the second, and we both took advantage of the free continental breakfast.

The next morning, we toured the Science Museum, which reminded me of the Smithsonian, and Westminster Abby. We were going to try to get into Parliament, but the line was so long, we visited the Royal Academy of Surgeons instead. It was free to people in the medical professions, so I exercised my new professional prerogative and got us in for nothing!

That evening we took in “Hamlet” at a theater that was planned, in part, by our own Tyrone Guthrie. It was so good, I may even kindle an interest in Shakespeare.

Wednesday, July 13: Calais, France
This morning, Danny and I traveled to the London Airport to meet Denny Hovelson (known to us as Hovel), a veterinarian who graduated a year before I did and was practicing in Lewiston, Minnesota. He had finagled a couple weeks of vacation to join us on our European adventure. We arrived at the airport, confirmed the flight number, and waited…and waited…and waited. I never felt sure that things would work out for this rendezvous until I saw him. He was nearly the last person to disembark from the plane, and he looked like he had just been dragged out of bed for a 3 a.m. calf-pulling session.

Denny Hovelson after recovering from jet lag

We caught the train to Victoria, grabbed a cold lunch for the road, and got on a second train for the ferry terminal in Dover. The ferry was a bit more than I expected. It was a full-fledged ship! It dropped us off in Calais, France about 7:00 that evening.

The Hovercraft

After struggling to find our way out of the station, we hiked to a campground we noticed on our way in. Denny brought my two-person Eureka Timberline tent, so we had shelter for the night. French campgrounds never fill up; you just crowd closer together. In the U.S. I never would have had the balls to pitch a tent so close to another camper that we could share tent stakes. But I guess in France, do what the French do and put up with it.

Thursday, July 14: Munich, Germany
We left the campground and found our way back to the hovercraft port to line up our rental car. Since it was July 14, the French Independence Day, things were moving slower than usual. We put up with the delay and were on our way toward Munich by noon. We literally drove like hell through the countryside heading for southeast Germany. Once we got on the European Autobahn, we could drive as fast as our little four-cylinder Ford Fiesta would take us. We kept the “pedal to the metal” and were still routinely passed by cars sporting Porche and Mercedes Benz emblems.

We arrived in Munich around 10:00 p.m. and after dining (at McDonald’s of all places), we were directed to a couple of mid-range hostels. We took a double room for 66DM (about $30). There was only one bed, so after showers and shaves, the three of us climbed in together. We slept well even in a crowd.

Friday, July 15, Dachau and Neuschwanstein, Germany
We began our day with a sobering tour of Dachau, the first of Nazi Germany’s WWII concentration camps. It was a worthwhile stop, but not the most enjoyable. After enduring that visit, I wish every American war hawk would see it. It was an unforgettable experience. The sculpture in the center of the camp was particularly frightening. It looked like a conglomeration of torched skeletons.

This sculpture tells it all.

“Work makes one free”
The foundations of the work camp barracks

Entrance to the gas chambers

 

 

The ovens

 

“Remember How We Died Here”

Never Again

After a meal in Munich, we took a quick walk around Olympic Stadium, the site of the 1972 Summer Olympics, and then made our way to Neuschwanstein, a castle built only a hundred years ago by King Ludwig II of Bavaria. The castle took seventeen years to build, but the king only lived there for a hundred days, after which he was deposed because of supposed insanity. Three days later, he and his doctor were found drowned in a river. No one knows why, but each political faction spun the tale to suit their aims.

He left several beautiful palaces that could have come right out of a fairytale. Neuschwanstein was the model for Walt Disney’s castle at Disneyland. The inside was as elegant as the outside, decorated in large part based on the composer, Richard Wagner.

Neuschwanstein Castle

We drove to the nearby town of Füssen to eat, and decided to drive into Austria for the evening, which was only a few kilometers away. Soon after we crossed the border, we took a side road into one of the many beautiful mountain valleys and just pitched our tent beside the road. Two of us slept in the tent and the third slept in the back of the Fiesta. A rushing river ran alongside the road, and only a few cars went by all night—quiet and free!

Hovel peeks from behind the Fiesta at our roadside campsite in Austria

Saturday, July 16: Innsbruck, Austria
The morning sun broke through a break in the mountains to warm up the brisk morning air. Our next stop was Innsbrook where we deliberated about the cost of taking the tram to the top of Northern Peak. The price was high, but the view from the top was breathtaking.

Innsbrook Tram

After our short visit to Innsbrook, we started out for Berchtesgaden, the site of Eagle’s Nest and Hitler’s Tea House. It was late afternoon and had turned cloudy when we arrived, so we decided to forego the the visit to the acclaimed peak and settled for a walk through town. It was quaint and clean, but it was too much of a tourist trap for me.

After perusing several menus posted outside the restaurants, and attempting without success to decipher the available entrees, we selected a place where we could sit outside. Our waitress was a pouter, but after a half bottle of wine, she didn’t irritate us so much. The American family sitting across from us were amused as we blundered through ordering dessert and paying the bill. They tipped us off that the service charge was included in the bill, but even if it wasn’t, leaving a tip for that waitress would have been a big mistake.

We found a campground not far from town that had more facilities than most hostels, so we stayed there two nights. The old duffer who collected our money didn’t speak a lick of English but made up for it by shouting loudly and making dramatic gestures with his arms. It was worth the effort to hear him out. The showers had HOT water.

Sunday, July 17: Austria
It rained steadily all night and was wet and cloudy in the morning, so after a slow start, we fought more tourists for a launch ride on an icy green glacial lake. By the time we reached the far end of the lake, we managed to escape most of the tourists by hiking to a remote farm near the top of the mountain. There, we found a small herd of red and white dairy cattle grazing next to a combination barn, milking parlor, milk house, and home. We cheered our find with a mug of fresh milk—richer than anything found in a grocery store.

A small dairy in the mountains of Austria

Toasting the local dairy industry!

We met a gal from the States who was traveling alone and staying with a family in Munich. She was looking for a hiking partner to explore the Swiss Alps. I thought she would be a perfect fit for Hovel, but he argued that we wouldn’t get the car returned safely without him.

That evening after dinner, we stumbled upon live entertainment. We purchased tickets (6DM each) about five minutes before the production began but ended up getting the best seats in the house—front table right next to the microphone. The show featured polkas, yodeling, a demonstration of an alpenhorn, a slap dance performance, and other musical treats. We sat next to two German couples who spoke little English but who were willing to communicate with a few phrases and hand gestures. We discovered that their closest association with the United States was from a three-year stay in an American POW camp…The war is still pretty close to many here in Europe.

Monday, July 18: Hamburg, Germany
We rose by 5:15 this morning for an entire day of driving north toward Hamburg. We got on the Autobahn again and were making good time when we suddenly realized we were heading in the wrong direction. We had missed a key exit and were about 40 km up the road when we discovered our mistake. After looking at the map, we decided that it wouldn’t be too far out of our way to cut cross-country and get on the Autobahn again. It was a two-hour mistake, but it led us through some pretty country and quaint villages. Another 45-minute traffic jam due to a jack-knifed semi got us into Hamburg about 5:30 in the afternoon.

We had planned to meet Dan Pearson, the fourth member of our party, who was going to break away from his personal year-long, world tour to join us for a couple of weeks. We had planned to meet at the American Express Office in Hamburg. We called the office expecting that he had left us a message, but the receptionist had never heard of him.

We had also been invited to a party in Hamburg for Mads Friis, a Danish student who had studied in the U.S. The location of the party was sketchy, so after wandering around for a couple of hours, we gave up and settled for a good night’s sleep at a youth hostel.

Tuesday, July 19: Denmark
The next morning we received a message that Dan Pearson and Blair Anderson, another friend who was spending a year working at a pig farm in Denmark, had met up and were already in Denmark with the Friis family. We resumed our journey north and arrived at the Friss home around noon. Dan was there but Blair had returned to the pig farm. Dan had not left a message at the number we had called but waited around the American Express office all day before giving up on us and going on ahead. The party for Mads Friis was a different night, so we missed both the rendezvous and the celebration, (an unfortunate problem when traveling before cell phones and internet).

The Friis family had a rural estate on a Danish ocean bay. They offered us a fine reception and a pleasant afternoon while we waited for Mads to return from work. He arrived around 6:00 p.m., grilled sausages, and served ice cream for dessert. That evening, they entertained us with home movies of Mette, Mads’ sister’s wedding and Mads’ stay in the U.S. Mads’ girlfriend, Ingnar, charmed us with her bright smile and huge eyes—a real fireball. I doubt that it will be long before Mads departs from the brotherhood of bachelors.

Wednesday, July 20
It was raining this morning, so we delayed our departure to Rud’s Valley to visit Blair until late morning. We intended to take a ferry, but everything was booked until 8 p.m. so we drove farther along the coast and reserved another ferry for 4:00 p.m. After putting a car top carrier on our tiny Ford Fiesta, we arrived at “Norager,” the pig farm where Blair was working, around 6:30. He was not at home, but we were warmly received by co-workers, Peter Sorenson and his girlfriend, Hanna. I think they are engaged, but they are living together. It seems to be a common practice being that Mette lived with her husband for two years before they were married.

The four travelers and our Ford Fiesta: Left to right are Denny Hovelson, me, Danny Byron, and Dan Pearson. Dan Pearson roomed with me in an apartment my senior year of vet school. He graduated with a degree in Ag Economics and went on to chair the World Trade Commission.

Peter spoke fluent English and Hanna caught a word or two as we visited over coffee and then toured the farm. It was an impressive facility with a liquid feeding system and farrowing crates made of tubular steel for the sows. Blair arrived around 9:30 that evening and we talked until nearly three the next morning. The Danish are avid coffee drinkers and thrive on conversation. The coffee was pretty stout, so it wasn’t difficult to stay awake.

The Danish pig farm where Blair Anderson worked

Thursday, July 21
I followed Blair around while he did his chores in the morning, and that afternoon we snapped pictures of the farm. When we got to the end of the day, I wondered why I had gotten forty pictures on a roll of thirty-six. I found out that the film had not caught the sprocket on the take-up reel, so I had not exposed any of the roll. I went back to re-take the pictures again. (When I digitalized my slides a couple of years ago, not one of those pictures was good enough to be saved from the waste basket.) Blair’s employer, Gorm Hansen, politely invited our advice, as Denny and I were large animal veterinarians, but his body language made it clear that he had little interest in our suggestions.

That evening, we had supper at a restaurant in Rud’s Valley. The waiter spoke no English but patiently helped us order our meal of fish, potatoes, and several types of gravy. By the time we moved to the bar, we were stuffed, but we still made room for a bottle of the local Pils and a shot of bitter, a smooth, highly concentrated alcohol. After our evening’s splurge, we were left with only some worthless change in Danish Kroner.

On the way home, Blair stopped at a schoolteacher’s home to pick up a pack that he had left there the night before. They invited us in for coffee and more lunch. Again, family and friends crowded around the table and visited with us until midnight.

Lunch with fellow travelers, Dan Pearson, Dan Byron, Dennis Hovelson, and Blair Anderson

Friday, July 22: Germany
This morning we went into town to get a few more Kroner and to wash clothes. We couldn’t read the directions at the laundromat but were saved by the woman who owned the place and patiently helped us get the job done.

After lunch, we said goodbye to Blair and took off toward Germany. It wasn’t until after our ferry ride (costing 160 Kroner) that we found our next destination on the map. We had written to Jo von Redin, an exchange student who lived with us at our fraternity. We affectionately called him “Jo Germany” and hoped to include him on our European tour. We had not gotten a return letter but were confident we would be welcomed.

After driving the backroads of Germany in the dark with less than an eighth of a tank of gas, we finally found ourselves in front of a huge old castle surrounded on three sides by a moat. There was not a light on anywhere. Either nobody was at home, or everyone was asleep, so we agreed not to disturb the household.

What to do but find our way to a nearby pub to discuss our latest dilemma. As we walked into the local establishment, we were greeted with nothing but silent stares. We ordered a round of beers and walked back to the castle. Having nowhere else to go, we decided to take the liberty of putting up our tent in the front yard and greeting the consequences of us being squatters in the morning.

We had the nerve to pitch our tent, without an invitation, on the front yard of the von Redin castle

Saturday, July 23
After hearing and the clop, clop of horse hooves and a few people mulling about outside the tent, I went to the door to introduce ourselves. I was greeted by a smiling woman who, we found out later, was the bookkeeper. She laughed and invited us in for breakfast. We were served breakfast alone in a formal dining room while we waited uncomfortably for Jo’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. von Redin.

The welcome we received from them was not nearly so warm as the bookkeeper’s. They didn’t speak English, so we had difficulty explaining that we were Jo’s friends who hosted him in the U.S. and that we had attempted to write to Jo about our visit a month ago. Mrs. von Redin was particularly upset because her kitchen maid was absent, and we’d be too much of a bother to host. I’m sure it didn’t help when she noticed that we had used her silver teaspoons to scoop a hard-boiled egg from its shell. I guess eggs tarnish silver—a major faux pas!

We whispered among ourselves and agreed it was time to beat a hasty retreat. We planned to pack up and leave after breakfast when we were unexpectedly invited to stay for lunch. Since we felt it would be impolite to turn down this hospitality, we changed our plans again. We hiked in the woods behind the castle where we stepped over trenches that were still evident from World War I. The wars in Germany were still recent history.

When we met the family for lunch, their whole attitude had changed. We met Jo’s sister, Kristina and Linetta, an energetic young woman who was doing her agricultural practical at the von Redin farm. Kristina, who spoke excellent English, explained that Jo was away serving in the military, so no one had seen our letter. Even Jo’s mother had softened her attitude and suggested that the girls show us the farm that afternoon. Kristina also encouraged us to sleep upstairs instead of in the tent and car. It had been a former ballroom and was similar in size to the one in Neuschwanstein Castle. I imagined Richard Wagner directing a concert there.

We were able to return to our original schedule where we planned to leave for Utrecht, Netherlands in the morning. The von Redins’ hosted a barbeque for us that evening with Jo’s father managing the brats on the grill, followed by a visit to a pub later in the evening. All in all, it made for a fun and memorable visit despite our unannounced and somewhat rude arrival.

The von Redin’s castle home. Notice the stains below the shingled boxes extending from the wall where the toilets used to empty into the moat.

Sunday, July 24: Utrecht, Netherlands
Good fortune has followed us once again as the “Green Weenie” (a nod to Li’l Abner’s comic book curse) must be on an extended vacation.

We left von Redin’s after breakfast and arrived in Utrecht, Netherlands mid-afternoon. The drive through the Bilthoven neighborhood suggested it was quite affluent. An American car dealership, the first we had seen in Europe, confirmed it.

We were searching for the home of Dr. Wim von Leeuen, Dennis’s and my theriogenology (obstetrics) professor, who was on sabbatical at the Minnesota College of Veterinary Medicine the last two years. Once again, we had reached out by mail to request a visit and had not heard back before we left the country.

We found Dr. von Leeuen’s home and knocked at his door. No answer. We left a note on his door and toured a bit more of Utrecht before returning. Utrecht was a lovely city with cobblestone streets, cluttered shops, and canals dividing the town into tidy sections. The shops were closed on Sunday, and we had no Danish Gilders, so we weren’t tempted to buy anything, but the storefronts made for great window shopping.

The only disagreeable note to the city was the abundance of dog dung. It must be a small animal vet’s delight because everyone is walking a dog distributing puppy poo across every sidewalk.

When we returned to Dr. von Leeuen’s home, we were disappointed to find that no one was home again. As we stood despondently at the door, their neighbor came home and told us that the von Leeuens were on holiday for two more weeks. We asked them for information about the area—university, campgrounds, and other areas of interest. They ended up inviting us in.

Although the family was Dutch, they had been living in Indonesia for some time and now were in Liberia. Mrs. Dick de Voy, her son, Bart, and her niece occupied the house in Utrecht while her husband was a rubber dealer in Liberia. Mrs. de Voy was just home for the summer while Bart was on summer break from college in Montreal, Canada. One thing led to the next, and we were invited to stay the night—first one night, and then another. They even provided beds for all of us. It’s hard to believe the hospitality we’ve had.

Monday, July 25
Mrs. de Voy recommended that we spend the day like she did with her niece yesterday.  We first toured the University of Utrecht where Dr. von Leeuen was on staff. You’d be surprised how far a professional degree and dropping a name will get you.

We then drove through the Polders—land being reclaimed from the sea. It was the prettiest farmland with the neatest houses, lawns and gardens that I have ever seen. As we drove on top of the dikes, it was fascinating to think that this was once all ocean. We had to use our imagination to see the future of the areas presently being pumped. I guess if it worked once, it will work again.

Here are some statistics that I gathered about the Polders:
1 hectare=2.5 acres
32,000 hectares recovered from the sea
20-90 hectares per farm (average, 43 hectares)
It takes seven years to empty one polder and another five years after the water has been removed to plant wheat, which tolerates saline soil. Later, other crops like sugar beets, rape, potatoes, peas, and onions can be planted.
Half the land goes to farmers who have scattered bits of land so they can consolidate; a quarter to farmers who gave up their land for public roads; and the remaining quarter to anyone.

The ocean on the left of the dike, the polder on the right

A portable milking parlor on a polder

A tidy home in the Netherlands

A polder with a windmill in the distance

We wrapped up the day in Amsterdam. I couldn’t resist seeing the Red Light District that everyone talked about. The rumors were true! There were prostitutes in the windows for inspection, and the “lady” of your choice could be yours for 30 Gilders. Amazing…We were also offered hashish and cocaine at what I suppose, if supply and demand applied to drugs, would have been a reasonable price. The center square, which was really a circle, was where most of the trading was done. A set of circular steps surrounding a monument was filled with freaks of all nationalities. It was cleared and hosed off once a day when the city officials cleaned it.

The streets of Amsterdam were quieter than the City Center

Hovel was worn out with Amsterdam within thirty minutes of our arrival. He walked out of the restroom in the train station without paying the twenty-five cents demanded by the female attendant. She gave him a brutal tongue-lashing, a nasty stare, and was about to chase him down the street before she gave up. Since I had all the Gilders, I had a good laugh at Denny’s expense.

Amsterdam was a fun place to visit for a few hours, but I’m happy we didn’t need to find a place to stay that evening. We returned to a clean home, friendly people, a cold beer, and a warm bed.

Tuesday, July 26: Ramsgate, England
Today we drove from Utrecht to Calais, France where we were to return our rental car. I don’t know what got the French customs officials so excited, but I’m blaming it on Pearson’s beard. He looked more like a hippie than any of the rest of us. They had us pull over and remove two of our packs from the rear of the car. Then they brought us into the office where we emptied our pockets and were thoroughly frisked. They tore the packs apart and examined every film container. Confident that they would find nothing illegal, I found it amusing as they examined, sniffed and questioned Dan Pearson’s extensive medical supplies—aspirin, cold capsules, and first aid products for any anticipated illness.

The customs officials were finally satisfied so that we could enter France, find the Hoverport in Calais, and return the car. As we waited for the Hovercraft to depart at 8:30 p.m., we settled up our accounts. We rounded to the nearest dollar—or sometimes to the nearest five. I don’t think I got a bad deal in the reckoning, and if I know Dan Pearson, he didn’t either. As an economics major and our former squeaky fraternity business manager, his numbers would be accurate.

By the time we arrived in Ramsgate, England, about 25 miles north of Dover and 75 miles from London, it was nearly 9:30 in the evening. We weren’t too keen about taking the train into London and having to look for a place to stay after midnight. Since it was late in the day and in the middle of the tourist season, there wasn’t much hope of finding a hotel or bed and breakfast, so we were left trying to find a campsite.

We hiked about a half hour from the Hoverport to a campground on the outskirts of Ramsgate. The place looked crowded, but we had stayed in places more jam-packed than that. When we trooped up to the small lady who ran the place, our hearts took a plunge. She greeted us with the shake of her head and said, “Sorry, lads. You’ve go’ a long walk ahead.”

At that news, we could do little but drop our heads with a “Thanks, anyway” and turn around. As we started to walk away, she must have felt pity for us and suggested a field outside of town. Then she offered us a spot on the outskirts of the camp. A few moments later, she reconsidered again and finally offered us a spot between two other tents in the campground.

We graciously accepted the offer and set up our tent. Since we had returned the rental car, all four of us would have to crowd into a tent intended for two. We persuaded Hovel that he was more tired than hungry, so we should hit the sack and wait till morning for breakfast rather than find a place to eat that evening. With the clouds portending rain, we crammed into our tiny shelter. I took the spot farthest from the door, so I hoped my bladder would not fail me in the middle of the night. The two Dans climbed in next to me, and Denny took the spot closest to the door. We wanted to keep the fly open for ventilation but just then it started to sprinkle. Hovel sacrificed for the team. His feet got wet when he extended his legs under the mosquito netting and out the door.

Dan Pearson secures a place in our two-person Timberline Tent

Despite the discomfort, we all got a few hours of sleep. In the middle of the night, I woke up to an attack of claustrophobia. My head was crammed into the back corner of the tent, and I panicked. I couldn’t climb over my three buddies who were asleep, so I sat up and looked out the back window through a triangle of mosquito netting. I took a few deep breaths and told myself that claustrophobia is only a state of mind. Apparently, I was tired enough that I believed it and went back to sleep.

Wednesday, July 27: London, England
We made our way to London on the train and checked into a hotel on Princes Square. The facilities were barely okay, but for ten dollars a person what could we expect? The shower floor was dirty, and icy water ran out the shower head, but it was refreshing anyway.

Danny Byron chose to visit the Botanical Garden while the rest of us toured Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, followed by a program at the adjoining planetarium. It was a good place to rest after the bustle of the London crowds.

That night, we met up with Dan Byron again and took in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” performed by a troupe of young actors at the Old Vic Theater. It wasn’t as professional as the performance I attended at St. George’s, but it still whet my appetite for more Shakespeare.

We ended the evening at a pub near the hotel for beer and pizza. The sweet waitress talked me into gulping down a pint for another half-pint on the house. I did it but my eyes were watering.

Thursday, July 28: Bound for Home
Well, the day of departure has arrived. After breakfast, Dan Byron and I said goodbye to Dan Pearson and Denny Hovelson, who were staying together for another couple of days in London. We arrived at Gatwick Airport thinking we had loads of time to spare, but when we checked into our flight, we found that it was supposed to leave in thirty minutes—at 11:15 a.m. instead of 2:00 p.m. as it was originally scheduled. As we rushed to the gate, we were happy we hadn’t lollygagged around getting to the airport. I’m glad I didn’t know about the change in schedule earlier—less time for me to worry. As it turned out, we still didn’t leave until 1:30 while we waited for other passengers who didn’t get the message either.

I am writing this final entry in my journal on the plane bound for home. We are passing over Greenland—two hours until our gas stop in Labrador.

Sit back. Relax. And enjoy the ride.

****

At the beginning of this essay, I asked the question, “Who was I as a 23-year-old?” and “How did the travel experience change me?”

When Rick Steves returned from the “Hippie Trail,” he let go of his piano students and opened a travel business. When I returned from Europe, I began a rewarding career as a large animal veterinarian. We both returned from our travels depleted of dollars but rich in experience.

My travel journal portrays a gregarious young man, naïve and daring enough to rely on the benevolence of strangers. He was frugal, seeking out joyful experiences on a limited budget. He loved drinking beer and good conversation. He was oblivious to danger and exuded unbridled confidence. He rarely went to bed before midnight and eagerly embraced the future.

I came back a different man. My world view had expanded, as if I were looking through a wild-angle lens rather than a microscope—a view that is less constrictive and more inclusive. I look back with a certain amount of envy of that young man. Today I drink much less beer, but I still love engaging conversations—as long as they are before 10:00 pm. I still love to travel, but nowadays I need more comfort and predictability. I remain frugal and prefer inexpensive entertainment, but my frugality is flavored with balanced generosity. I don’t need to be penniless again, and I doubt I’ll ever sleep in an open field without a tent or an RV nearby, but I hope I have retained some of the youthful free spirit of the 23-year-old I had been nearly fifty years ago.