Last updated on 21/10/2024

Chapter 1 The adventure begins.

Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.

Go to the home page for The Road to Ancona.

The two-hour journey to London seemed to take all day. On the train, Michael sat opposite Richard, writing in his notebook. He scribbled away, determined to record every minute of the journey. Michael did not know why he had developed a compulsion to write. Neither of his parents were particularly well-educated and they kept very few books in the house. The only things they read were newspapers and that was mainly for the sports news. Michael knew no one who had written anything other than a letter to a relative or a complaint to some company or the Council. Writing was not something that people – in his world – ever did, other than when they had to. For Michael, however, writing was instinctive, a compulsion. He could not explain why he did it; he knew only that he had to. Michael had packed a supply of notebooks and ballpoint pens. Richard regarded the constant scribbling with disdain. He thought it was just one of Michael’s silly quirks. As far as Richard was concerned, people from their backgrounds did not become writers. It was just not done. Being a writer was reserved for posh people who lived in big houses in the countryside or in elegant flats in London. It was not an activity of working people.

‘I don’t know why you keep writing notes all the time,’ Richard commented, ‘we’ll remember everything about the trip easily enough. And, anyway what are you going to do with all these notes?’

‘I’ll keep them forever,’ Michael replied, ‘they will be a reminder of my first big adventure in life and I might even turn them into a book.’

Occasionally Michael would badger Richard into reading some of his notes. He sometimes wrote pieces of which he was particularly proud and wanted to hear Richard’s reactions but his friend’s usual response was to frown, wrinkle his nose and then comment, disdainfully, ‘Yes, Michael.’ Michael and Richard had been close friends since they were at secondary school. They were two very different people. Richard was good-looking, had a bright and bubbly personality and was very people-oriented. Michael, on the other hand, was a plain-looking teenager, somewhat shy and decidedly introverted; socially, he was inclined to be awkward.

Working-class boys

Both of them often displayed their working-class origins by being rather uncouth in their manners. They saw a lot of each other and their friendship worked because Michael admired Richard; he was everything that Michael was not. Richard had a habit of putting his friend down; secretly he thought Michael was a bit of an intellectual but he would never say anything good about him to others. He spent time with Michael because he was easily able to outwit him and he regarded him as being rather dim. But he knew how much Michael admired him and that was a bonus. They were complete opposites and that is what attracted them to each other.

As their train carried them through the countryside, Michael wrote a little thumbnail sketch of his best friend. Richard looked out of the window, watching the fields and trees glide past, with an expressionless look on his face. When Michael had finished the literary sketch, he handed the notepad to Richard, who read it quickly. This time, instead of the usual frown and raising of the eyebrows, a smile broke out on his face. His expression looked like that of someone who had just seen a rather bad sketch of himself. He handed the notepad back to Michael without saying anything. Michael had written:

he reads my lines in silence while his face
expresses what he feels about the words;
perplexities that corrugate his brow
give way to smiles that blossom from his lips.

Michael did not always write in iambic pentameters but it was something he was learning to do and used it for moments that were, to him, of special importance. He had been reading Wordsworth’s poems for an exam in English Literature and learned how to scan lines of poetry. With this short piece, he had correctly predicted Richard’s reaction and had portrayed his expression before it had happened; he was quite proud of that.

It was the middle of July and the sky was overcast, as the boys headed towards the sunshine of the Mediterranean. Having arrived at the London railway terminus, they made their way to the coach station and caught their connection to the airport. It was late in the afternoon when they arrived at Manston aerodrome, not far from the Kent coast. The ‘airport’ (as it was described in their travel brochure) was a large field with some rather crude buildings that formed the departure ‘lounge’, a rather shabby wooden hut laid out with square, Formica-topped tables and chairs with metal legs. It used to be an RAF station where fighter planes operated during the war. After a cold lunch, provided by the tour operator, the group, who had booked on to the package tour, walked across the wind-swept tarmac to the small Douglas DC4 with its four sets of propellers mounted on the wings. For the boys – who had seen huge, sleek jet airliners in the holiday brochure – it was something of a let down. It was raining. The aircraft creaked and rumbled as it taxied to its starting position, on the single runway, for take-off. It took ages to reach its starting position at the end of the runway. Richard remarked that it felt they had gone halfway back to London. Michael insisted on having the window seat. It was his first flight and he was determined to see as much as he could. The runway was wet and the sky overhead looked dark and ominous. The aircraft stood motionless for what seemed to be an eternity, its engines running but going nowhere. Michael was apprehensive. Richard was having a conversation with a woman across the aisle. He was chattering away merrily, his head turned away from his friend.

The engines began to roar and the whole aircraft shuddered and then it moved. With increasing speed it accelerated along the runway; suddenly the sound of the engines increased to a frenetic whine and it left the ground. Michael was pressed back into his seat. It was some time before he realised that they were airborne. He looked out of the window and saw the roadway below him with tiny cars travelling along it. Villages, looking like models, passed by. Miniature cows were standing motionless in neat green fields. Suddenly everything went blank; the fields of England disappeared and they were climbing through the cloud base. The Earth had disappeared from view and they were in a strange white world in the sky; as they climbed, the fuselage of the aircraft was set at an upwards angle. Richard was still chatting happily to his new-found friend across the aisle and Michael was left to wonder at what he could see, or not see, from his window.

Up in the air

In the blink of an eye, the world outside changed to dazzling blue and the clouds below were a great billowing carpet of whiteness. Hot sunshine fell on Michael’s face through the little round porthole. A smartly dressed stewardess walked down the aisle with a tray of cigarettes. Michael purchased a packet of Rothmans for two shillings and sixpence. Everything seemed to be going well, so Michael took out his notepad and began to scribble; he was determined to capture as much detail as he could of this, the ‘first great adventure’ of his life. As the coast of France appeared, the aircraft hit some turbulence. Through his porthole Michael could see the wings bending and flexing and he felt like he was being lifted up and down as though he was on a roller-coaster. Over the intercom, the captain’s voice, in a rather matter-of-fact tone, requested passengers to fasten their seat belts. Michael was terrified and felt sure they were going to crash and lit a cigarette. Richard, on the other hand, was not bothered by any of this and just kept chatting amiably to the woman opposite.

Over France, the flight was steady and they were served a meal on a plastic tray that had compartments for each portion of food. In one compartment there were small pieces of chicken covered in a brown sauce, another held boiled potatoes the size of grapes and another held a portion of peas. The stewardesses served white wine in small plastic tumblers. Michael ate it all; he thought about what this trip had cost him and was determined to consume every last penny worth of it.

They landed at Basel at 6:15 p.m. local time (in his notebook, Michael noted it was spelt ‘Basel’, the same spelling used in the itinerary given to them by the tour operator.) After a smooth landing, the passengers alighted from the aircraft onto the concrete ready for their short walk to the terminal building. For the first time in his life, Michael stepped onto foreign ‘soil’; later in life he watched man setting foot on the moon for the first time and this was, for him, the same experience. It was raining when they had left England and it was still raining in Switzerland. It felt like the same rain and was falling at the same rate. The newly constructed terminal building was modern and spacious, more like the kind they had seen on the television, compared to the grim old shacks they had been through in Kent. After a brief passport check, the group boarded a smart coach for the short journey into the city.

Arrival in Switzerland

In Basel, they were given dinner at the Royal Hotel, a large, impressive-looking building. The boys commented how good the food was and were pleased when red wine was served with the meal. Michael had only ever tasted wine at a wedding reception; it was not something they ever drank at home. Michael admired the elegance of the hotel dining room, with its ornate gilded decor, vases of fresh flowers and large, glittering chandeliers.

Richard was gossiping to a couple of girls who shared the boys’ table. ‘Oh, Richard! Isn’t this wonderful!’ Michael exclaimed, determined to get in on their conversation. ‘It’s so exciting to be away from home and to be travelling in a foreign country. It’s like a dream,’ Michael said. The girls giggled. Richard pulled a face.

‘Yes Michael,’ Richard said with a note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Have some more wine. Say hello to Jane and Sandra.’ Michael nodded at the two girls.

‘Are you two staying in Cattolica?’ Richard asked them. Jane replied, ‘Yes, we are. Is that where you are headed? Are you with your parents?’

Richard said, ‘Yes, we are going to Cattolica but we are on our own. We left the parents at home.’

The girls giggled. Michael had turned his attention to the menu; he was trying to figure out what was printed on it, having never learnt any foreign language. Richard was a gregarious person; he could easily start a conversation with anyone. Two girls, of his own age, were an easy target for him. He was the kind of young man who appealed to everyone – good-looking, gregarious, bright and cheerful, eager to please and good at chit chat about anything. Michael was the complete opposite – shy, reserved, with a somewhat serious disposition and not accustomed to banter or gossip. It was an odd friendship but somehow it worked. Michael was convinced that Richard talked in his sleep, while he was dreaming about people.

The party boarded the awaiting coach and by 7 pm they had driven over the Rhine. Michael noticed with interest that the traffic lights were the same colours as they were in England. His main concern was that they were travelling on the wrong side of the road. He noticed that the road markings were painted in orange, unlike the white lines he was used to at home. As he watched the world outside pass by, Michael noticed that the windows of most of the houses had neat wooden shutters. Switzerland, he thought, was a country that was incredibly clean and well-kept, compared to his grubby home town in the Midlands where the streets were full of litter. As he watched the world go by, he felt very strange; it was like being in a dream and yet he knew he was awake but it did not feel like the reality he had been used to in England.

Next: In Frohsinn’s Gasthaus.