The Journey That Never Was

The Morris Mini-Minor, a British icon of the 1960s, was designed for BMC (the British Motor Corporation) by Sir Alec Issigonis in 1959. It had two doors, tiny wheels (the total diameter was eighteen and a half inches) and front wheel drive, which removed the need for a transmission tunnel and allowed 80% of the floor pan to be used for passengers and luggage. It had brilliant road holding and its revolutionary design took advantage of every inch of interior space.

My father, an electrical engineer, loved it and considered it ideal for the young: economic to buy and to run. And so, on my twenty-first birthday, I became the proud owner of a pale blue Mini. I christened her Honey and proudly wrote her name across the bonnet.

In many ways, she was my passport to freedom. Life in the first three years of the 1960s was still very restricted. Society expected offspring to conform to their parents’ wishes. Colour television did not exist; in fact few people had television at all. This meant no documentaries and stunning photos of the World’s Cultural Treasures to tempt you to go and see for yourself. Mass tourism had not yet been invented and few people could afford to travel overseas. My knowledge of geography beyond the confines of Western Europe was limited to the names of countries, oceans, mountain ranges and important rivers. Internet research was a dream somewhere out in the future and it never occurred to me to find out anything very much about any of the places I would eventually visit.

I had a dream; to go to Australia. Rather than go by ship I opted to go ‘overland’. I was lucky to have a father who extolled independence, as he himself had travelled widely as a young man. He understood my vision of adventure and rather than stand in the way, encouraged and helped me, even though I was ‘only a girl’.

Another English girl, Jane, who I had met briefly in Switzerland where we had been working, was also eager for adventure. She agreed to go with me, providing we included New Zealand and her extended family in our plans.

The Mini, Jane and I eventually reached Australia and New Zealand. After a year of trying to adapt to the culture and earn a living, we headed back home (which had not been the original intention), across the Pacific Ocean, through Mexico, the United States of America and Canada. Our expedition took two years to complete.

It was definitely a first for the indomitable Mini, to travel all the way round the world and home again. The achievement was never released to the press, as it never occurred to me to do so. Besides which, my family shunned publicity. So the story that follows has never been told before.

CHAPTER ONE

France, Switzerland and Italy

The airport at Lydd, in the south of England, was casual and friendly after the turmoil of preparation in the big city. Passengers sat around idly waiting, cups half-full of tasteless coffee on the bare tables in front of them.

The 12. 15 flight, No 206, was a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule and the early morning drizzle had finally cleared. With only eight other passengers and minimal fuss, we filed past the customs officer, who eyed us critically as he examined our passports. Three cars were lined up with their bonnets open so that the engine numbers could be checked before being driven, by the airport chauffeurs, up a wide ramp into the gaping mouth of the small plane. Once inside they were secured with heavy chains, the ramp was removed and the great doors were closed.

It was the 5th of September 1961, and at last Jane and I were on our way to Australia, overland in a blue Mini. I had met Jane earlier that year when she came out to Switzerland as a replacement for my job in a finishing school. She was a trained children’s nurse, tall, with short dark hair, twenty-eight years old, a no-nonsense sort of girl. I was only twenty-one, ripe for adventure, with a burning ambition to go to Australia.

In those days most people went by passenger liner via the Suez Canal, which took six weeks, but that meant that I would miss all those exciting places on the way. So slowly a plan took shape; to drive overland through Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and India. The RAC were extremely helpful providing me with a very rough map showing the principal, mostly dirt roads, crossing the region and the necessary triptych, containing all documents and a detailed passport for the car, which guaranteed I would not sell it on the way,

Initially I had planned the expedition with a cousin, but we soon fell out over whose car we should use. That was the first blow. I had already given up my job and preparations were well underway. It was not a journey I could undertake on my own, and no way did I want to back down and go by ship, so I wrote to a friend I had worked with in Switzerland. She suggested I ask Jane, who enthusiastically agreed, provided we postpone the departure date. She felt obliged to give her new employers six months’ notice. We also agreed to modify the route to include six months in New Zealand, where she had numerous relatives.

At last we were on our way, belted into rough canvas seats at the rear of the aircraft, which lumbered along the runway, creaking and shuddering as it gathered speed and then finally took off protesting, and oh, so slowly!

I didn’t think we’d make it! remarked one of the passengers. Neither had I. The sea below looked very close and rough and I began to wish we had crossed the Channel on an old-fashioned steamer instead; that is until only twenty minutes later, we circled over Le Touquet and glided gently down onto the runway in France.

Somehow we had managed to pack all our requirements into the compact and brilliantly-designed little Mini – cooking equipment, clothes, maps and spare parts for the car. A heavy-duty sump guard had been fitted underneath as a precaution on the unmade roads and tracks we would encounter; there was much less clearance than in a normal car, let alone a Jeep. I had had her name proudly painted on the bonnet - Honey.

Instead of a tent, we had a solid six-foot-long roof rack, to which at night we attached a semi-circular canvas top, not unlike those used on the covered wagons by early American explorers. It was an adaptation of something more elaborate exhibited at a recent car show. We slept in sleeping bags on a double air mattress which had to be blown up every night. Our clothes were tucked under the pillow in case someone disturbed us camping in the wild and we had to get up unexpectedly.

It was exhilarating to be on our way, and chatting happily we soon covered the first hundred miles along the then narrow poplar-lined roads of northern France. But just beyond Cambrai, Honey coughed, spluttered and stopped on a steep hill immediately in front of the lorry we had just overtaken. The driver leaned out angrily to swear and shake his fist at us. Dismayed, we got out and peered under the bonnet; nothing was loose. I could find no apparent reason for the breakdown.

What do we do now? asked Jane as I extracted a comprehensive car manual from one of the side pockets and started to leaf through the pages. As if on cue, an English couple, returning from their holiday in Italy, noticed our obvious helplessness and kindly stopped to give advice.

Why don’t you check the fuel pump? suggested the young man. So I produced the shiny new red jack from the boot. Too flimsy for the job, it buckled like cardboard under the weight of the loaded car. That was not a good start.

They laughed, in disbelief, when we explained that we were driving to Ceylon via Turkey and India.

Don’t worry. Do you have a rope? Good, then we’ll tow you back to the nearest garage.

The garage owner, a small, unpleasant man, waved his arms about furiously and refused to have anything to do with the British, whom he obviously disliked intensely. Apparently he had been unable to obtain parts for a baby Austin that had been dumped in the garage a week previously. Unperturbed, we refused to move; to no avail. He just pushed the car back out into the road and left us standing there. Fortunately the English couple had not left and they agreed to tow us back to Cambrai. It was second time lucky, for the charming patron himself changed the electric fuel pump and we were soon on our way.

Around four o’clock in the afternoon we started looking for somewhere to spend the night. The towpath of a nearby canal seemed far too remote for slightly nervous inexperienced campers, so we parked the car on the playing fields of Viller Franqueux, a farming community. As the village shop didn’t sell milk, we were sent to a farm hidden behind tall green doors in the main street. The picturesque courtyard was ablaze with flowers. A barn was piled high with straw and children played happily among the hens in the dust. A woman came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and took us into the dairy to fill our bottle with milk, still warm from the cow.

While Jane collected wood and built a roaring fire, I rummaged through our goods and chattels in search of cooking pots and camping equipment. Out came a first aid box including never-to-be used malaria tablets, desert rations, a large oil paint box, four suitcases of clothes, sleeping bags, a seemingly unending supply of paraphernalia and a typewriter. All had to be repacked methodically so that things would be easier to find and I wondered how often we would have to repeat this performance.

We feasted on cold chicken brought from England and washed down with hot coffee. I had never thought a picnic could taste so good or that camping could be such fun. Smoke from the fire kept the horrid little midges at bay and the camping light connected to the car battery completed the cosy feeling. Needlessly, I worried whether we would end up with no power.

Finally, after making sure the fire was out, tidying everything away and locking up, we clambered up onto the tented roof rack. This was easily reached by putting one foot on the rear bumper. It began to drizzle Far into the night we lay awake listening to the drops splashing on the canvas above us, to the leaves rustling in the trees, straining anxiously for any unfamiliar sound; an owl hooted, a hedgehog squealed, a scooter buzzed by.

Next morning we were up at seven, having slept surprisingly well. After dismantling the camping equipment, we prepared coffee and porridge on a small butane gas cooker and were en route before nine o’clock.

The drizzle continued all day as we drove across France along straight, narrow, tree-lined roads and on through the picturesque Jura Mountains into Switzerland. Our route flanked the familiar shores of Lac Léman and climbed up into the mountains to Diablerets. Just beyond the village was a cluster of chalets belonging to the posh finishing school, Mon Fertile.

The main building housed the office and dining room. The chalet where I had lived above the stable had never lost the strong smell of cattle. It was down a narrow, often icy path, facing the freezing air from the glacier tumbling down the mountain opposite. But this was rural Switzerland and I had loved my job. Nothing had changed. This was where we had met briefly eight months previously. Jane had arrived to replace me as secretary cum teacher.

The joint heads gave us a curt reception. What did we expect? We had unwittingly left them with a staffing problem.

No, you can’t possibly stay here overnight, but you may borrow the key to the empty chalet in the village. That was a great blessing as it was warm and dry! None of our former friends seemed to be around, so we treated ourselves to the most delicious croûte au fromage at La Couronne, in the village.

It was still drizzling in the morning. One of the tyres had a slow puncture and to make matters worse, the foot pump fell apart and had to be repaired at the local garage. Perhaps our equipment was not as new as it needed to be for the long journey ahead. After all, the Mini already had over 12,000 miles on the clock and had been my runabout in Switzerland the previous year. Unperturbed, we took it in our stride.

Honey managed the long, spectacular climb up a narrow, tortuous road to the top of the 2005-metre-high Simplon Pass without any problem. It was deserted. Trails of damp cloud hung over the surrounding peaks. We parked and raced uphill to look at a monument, a giant stone eagle commemorating the Second Mountain Brigade. They had been responsible for guarding the pass during the Second World War.

The road was built during Napoleonic times to transport artillery over the pass from Switzerland into Italy. Subsequently it was used by the postal carriages and later buses. Ten years previously I had come here with my father squashed in the back of his Bugatti together with the luggage. At that time a lone hospice run by monks had looked bleak looming out of the mist. A couple of friendly St Bernard dogs wandered around. They were used to rescue lost travellers caught in a snowstorm. Attached to their collar was a tiny barrel of supposedly reviving brandy.

On the southern side of the Alps, the road tumbled down a narrow gorge into Italy, where great fortresses, camouflaged by the rocky cliffs, must have daunted many an invading army. Patches of blue sky appeared and grew. The sun came out and at the frontier, the Italian customs greeted us with much playful banter, surprised by my fluency in their language - I had learnt it at school in Firenze.

The field, overlooking Lago Maggiore where we camped that night, was hemmed in by the curve of yet another steep zigzag road behind the town of Verbania. We asked for water at a nearby house and a woman dressed in black came to the door. She was a widow and it was still customary for all widows to be dressed in black whatever their age. She filled our two-gallon plastic can at the outside pump and chatted animatedly about her family; her three sons, one who had died accidentally, her daughter married to a farmer, her meagre pension and even the price of her house. Her life was a constant struggle. The property was extensive, with magnificent views over the lake, but very run down.

Later, when drifting off to sleep, a seductive voice reached us out of the darkness.

Come out so we can see you… Surely there is room for four up there. . . Look out of your tent… I am very beautiful.

Italian men are notoriously romantic. Nervous, yet with suppressed amusement, we held our breath and pretended to be asleep, hoping the two men would soon leave. Was I glad to hear their footsteps die away in the distance! Camping wild was such a new experience and without the protective walls of a house, little fears lurked in the mind. I was alert to every new sound, yet again it took me a long time to drift off to sleep.

A luxurious ferry plied across Lago Maggiore from Verbania to Laveno on the other side.

Let’s take the ferry, said Jane, keen to avoid the long slow drive around the lake. On board, perched on the roof rack, we had a grandstand view of the blue waters stretching away to north and south, framed by steep wooded hills. Hidden among the trees were the modern weekend villas of prosperous Milanese people.

I loved shopping in the local markets and the one in Gavirate presented us with a good excuse to buy provisions – spaghetti, oil, tomatoes, aubergines, parmesan cheese and some mortadella. We certainly weren’t going to starve. It all looked so good and colourful.

"Prova, Signorina" (try it), insisted a beaming Italian, his large paunch barely concealed behind a copious apron as he handed Jane a slither of parmesan to taste.

Come buy my fruit, my vegetables, my baskets. . . called the vendors. The baskets were decorated with patterns of flowers and birds worked in raffia. But alas, we had no room for souvenirs in our tiny car.

On through undulating, sparsely treed countryside, stopping briefly for lunch by the lake in Como and again to look at the uninspiring Lago di Garda. Jane bought her first-ever bikini, the very latest daring and revealing fashion. Even recently, in Spain, you were expected to wear a short skirt over your swimsuit. Fearful of the slimy weeds she imagined lurked beneath the surface, Jane could not be cajoled into the murky water to christen it. That didn’t deter me from having a dip.

It had been a fairly oppressive day but torrential rain soon cleared the air, making the remainder of the journey to Venice hazardous, especially as it was already dark when we joined the new, fast autostrada. Italy’s link roads were innovative, wide and engineered for speed, but even with comparatively light traffic they had their drawbacks. Skidding was always a possibility on a wet surface. Two motor scooter accidents happened before our very eyes, causing several long delays.

On the Venice camp site, we met the King’s College ‘Expedition to Greece in search of the lost city of Thrace’. The young men volunteered to help change the tyre that had a slow puncture. Their jack, made for an antiquated Austin shooting brake, was too large and ours was beyond repair. Amid much laughter, these five hefty chaps attempted, working as one, to lift the front end of the Mini off the ground. She was far too heavy. They had not bargained for the solid sump guard.

I then asked a bearded Israeli if he had a jack to lend us, but he misunderstood and pointed to the bank across the road. Realizing that we were talking at cross purposes, he produced a book of ‘useless’ phrases and we found the word for jack. I ended up borrowing one from the local garage and with the help of the expedition members, we managed to get it under the sump guard and jack up the car. At least the puncture repair outfit came in handy and the tyre was soon as good as new.

The day in Venice, the city of my ancestors, was unforgettable and I was quite convinced that I should return again at a later date. Leaving Honey on the camp site, we took the number 6 bus to the terminus and boarded the steamer ferry to Piazza San Marco. The Gran Canale was like Oxford Street in the rush hour. Instead of buses, private cars and taxis, steamers, launches and gondolas jostled for space. Palatial buildings, their foundations reaching deep below the surface, with Moorish windows, mushroom shaped and heavily barred, reflected in the sunlit waters of the canal. In the Piazza pigeons mingled with the tourists.

The Cathedral appeared more breathtakingly beautiful than we had imagined; its façade of multicoloured marbles and the biblical scenes, depicted in mosaic above the great arches, framed ornately carved doors. An army of marble saints, soldiers and lions strode across the domes. In the cold, dark interior, candles flickered on the altar of the Madonna, throwing patterns of light up into the gold mosaic dome above.

The Doge’s Palace, once the centre of Venice’s political, social and economic life as well as the residence of the Doge, was equally magnificent; a maze of richly-painted rooms with gilded ceilings, priceless murals, glistening marble walls and floors and heavily ornate marble fireplaces. Reading through the engraved list of incumbents, we found the Doge Sebastiano Ziani, my illustrious and perhaps notorious ancestor, who had enlarged and embellished the Palace in 1173.

Back out in the bustling Piazza, the numerous cafés were packed with tourists enjoying gelati and pasta. A newspaper vendor wove his way between the tables. On the quayside tourists bargained with gondoliers, clad in red and white striped shirts and boater, for a trip across the lagoon. The slim, highly-polished craft rode gracefully on the choppy water.

Venice was such a fascinating and vibrant city, full of unexpected vistas and history. I had expected to find it marred by a putrid smell of heat, pollution and crowds, but in September with the main tourist season over, the days were cool and the atmosphere surprisingly pleasant.

Towards evening we made our way back along narrow streets lined with shops specializing in blown glass and hand-embroidered linen, along alleyways rarely reached by the burning sun, over delicate hump-backed bridges, through a market and across the Gran Canale back to the mainland.

A far cry from the speedy autostrada, the road south from Venice was narrow, full of potholes and diversions, crossing flat monotonous country. Long queues of cars built up at the numerous railway crossings and at bridges that had to be opened for the passage of laden barges using the canal system.

Somewhere we managed to lose the front number plate and were subsequently stopped several times. Because of all the fuss, we reported the loss at a police station. A lone official, sitting behind a desk at the far end of a large bare room, meticulously recorded all the details in a hefty tome. A letter, in Italian, with all the relevant details was handed to us in case of further questioning, but it was never required even though we travelled across several continents.

South of Ravenna, the road climbed steadily to 900 metres through picturesque countryside. It was Sunday and again progress was slow. It must have been a feast day as the village streets were choked with religious processions. One was the funeral of a child escorted by young children clad in their best, weaving and wobbling all over the road on their bicycles. On the corners of a cart, drawn by two white ponies, sat four little girls with flowing hair and long white dresses holding bouquets of flowers and in the centre lay a white coffin decorated with gold; a touching farewell to a young life.

The road improved and we had a flat-out run into Florence, chasing a nippy little red car which eventually disappeared into the thickening traffic. The campsite, on the banks of the river Arno with a view of the town, was expensive, overcrowded and a hive of activity. But it was a veritable camper’s paradise with everything imaginable laid on for civilized comfort. Though we drove round and round we couldn’t find flat parking for the Mini. When finally Jane spotted one, someone else nipped in. Luckily there was just room for us behind a tree, as it was already 10 pm when two very tired girls pitched camp.

At six in the morning, the bells rang out from all the city churches and two hours later a loudspeaker greeted all campers to a good morning in countless languages. So much for a lie in!

Just to make things worse we were a mere 45 lire (the equivalent of a few shillings) short for paying the bill. The campsite wouldn’t change a pound note, nor would a nearby hotel. Fortunately some Australians came to our rescue. Now we just had to find a bank.

Florence had long been a centre of European trade and finance and was considered to be the birthplace of the Renaissance. Even in September, it was seething with tourists and traffic; invisible policemen with shrill whistles kept the jaywalker in his place, should he unwittingly venture across the road on the ‘Alto’ sign. Famous churches stood on every corner; the Church of the Santa Croce with its Dome painted by Donatello and Luca della Robbia and inside the Pietà, a breathtakingly beautiful sculpture by Michelangelo. The Duomo with its striped marble façade, a massive building conveying grandeur and awe, the magnificent murals of the Baptistery and the Gates of Paradise intricately worked in bronze. The Church of Santa Maria Novela… all, so ornate and different from English places of worship.

Surely not another church, complained Jane, Italy is nothing but churches! But they fascinated me, and I wanted to see them all.

Typically two Italian students tried to pick us up, but by this time we were too overwhelmed with sightseeing to be able to cope with them. Zigzagging through the crowd to throw them off our tracks we found ourselves on the Ponte Vecchio. The original stone pillars supporting the three arches dated from Roman era, though the bridge had been rebuilt several times due to flooding. It spanned the sluggish brown waters of the River Arno at its narrowest point. Jewellery was on sale in the open air shops which have always been a structural part of the bridge. Legend has it that the concept of bankruptcy originated here. When the merchant couldn’t pay his debts, his banco or table was physically broken or rotto by the soldiers. Bancorotto meant that he no longer had a table and he couldn’t sell his wares– hence the English word ‘bankrupt’.

As a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl, I had been sent to live with a family in Florence to learn Italian. Through the years I had lost touch and felt I should like to meet them again. The Viale dei Mille along which I had trudged each day to school was still the same tree-lined avenue I remembered. The corner café where the coffee beans were ground was still there, but Via Marchetti, the street where we had lived, was transformed. The road was up, the apartment building was covered in scaffolding and under repair and nobody remembered the family who strangely bore the same name as the street.

Travelling through Italy was more like a holiday than the beginning of a long journey into the unknown. It was easy to cover the two to three hundred miles a day planned into our schedule. We had time to get to know one another and get used to life on the road. Little did we realize what lay ahead.

After a morning spent in a quiet spot among the olive trees lazing in the sunshine, sketching, talking, writing letters and enjoying doing nothing, we stopped off briefly in Siena to look at the cathedral. It was similar in style to the Duomo in Florence, yet smaller and richer in design, built in the form of a Greek cross, its façade and interior striped with horizontal black and white marble. The sun on its daily round lit up, one by one, the heads of the eight saints that embellished the inside of the main dome. Amethysts and rubies adorned the countless crosses and shields of the warrior statues and parts of the marble floor. Normally hidden beneath protective wooden boards, these were uncovered and allowing glimpses of the vibrant Italian marble used to portray some sixty Biblical scenes.

Looking for a suitable place to camp wild where we would remain undisturbed was never easy. After a couple of disappointing attempts, we headed wearily south towards Rome, finally turning off near the town of Ansedonia. Here at last was the perfect spot near an abandoned primitive restaurant, overlooking a stony beach and the sea. We parked Honey under the palm trees, collected driftwood and made use of the fireplace left by previous campers. It was a wonderfully balmy night and so good to be out of the turmoil of cities; to sit under the stars, watching the twinkling lights of the fishing boats, with the rich scent of burning pine from the thin curl of smoke rising lazily from the wood fire, teasing our nostrils.

Awake early, I inched myself out of my sleeping bag and without disturbing Jane, who was still asleep, I climbed down from our roof top tent. Seeing no one about, I undressed, leaving my clothes in a neat pile on the beach, and slipped into the soft, caressing sea water. This was bliss. I could have gone on swimming forever, towards the distant horizon savouring the solitude of the dawn.

Suddenly, the spell was broken. A man was standing near my discarded clothes, his arms folded, waiting. For nearly half an hour I swam backwards and forwards until at last Jane, still half asleep and disapproving, appeared with a towel. After threatening to leave me to my own devices, she condescended to walk some way up the beach so as to shield me from that odious Italian. As I emerged from the sea, he turned and walked away, but managed to startle us by reappearing, to explain in sign language and a torrent of words that it was not customary to swim in the altogether. I pretended not to understand and silently we continued to eat our breakfast bowl of porridge.

One night we tried to camp in among the macchia, a prickly scrub found on the sand dunes. Just as we had found a suitable flat place for the car, an enormous woman appeared on the dune above us.

You can’t stay there she called out. "The carabinieri [the police] will come and move you. Oh no! That meant we’d have to move on and find somewhere else. But then she surprised us. Come into my garden she said. You can park under the lean-to. Here, it has a corrugated roof for shelter."

Jane looked at me dubiously. Do you think we ought to? What about rats? We could be badly bitten by mosquitoes during the night.

Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.

It was, except for the oppressive heat given off by the tin roof that kept us awake most of the night and as from daybreak, the endless pitter-patter of pigeon’s feet just above. At least we felt quite safe.

Grandma turned out to be quite a character with her large brown eyes, loud cheerful voice and a generous heart. She shared her home with her son and daughter-in-law and their tiny child. They stood watching in amazement as the roof-rack tent was prepared for the night, with a light, connected to the car battery, hanging ready for use inside. They had no electricity and used candles to light the two small rooms they lived in at the back of a seaside villa, of which they were the guardians. There was a bedroom and kitchen-cum-sitting room; Grandma slept in a hut at the bottom of the garden. After supper we shared a chocolate bar with our new-found friends.

In the morning, the whole family insisted on changing into their best clothes and then stood rigidly to attention to have their photograph taken before we left. Mother presented us with two brown eggs, plucked all the flowers she could muster and burst into tears as she affectionately hugged us goodbye. They had so little, yet gave so much.

Travelling through Italy was great. We easily covered three hundred miles a day without feeling tired and spent the remaining daylight hours lazing on a beach or in the countryside somewhere. The weather was perfect and the temperature around 80° Fahrenheit.

Next day