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Introduction The quotation on this site's home page is from a play by James Elroy Flecker, the final two lines of which I came across in a book by Fitzroy McClean, called Eastern Approaches. I found the book on a second-hand stall in the Charing Cross Road, as I was passing through London, and was looking for something to while away a wet afternoon. Once started, I couldn't put it down. The following day, bright and sunny, found me still huddled over the book, absorbed by the author's true-life tales of daring and adventure around the globe. In particular I was fascinated by his description of the mysterious pull of the East, that caused him to risk life and liberty to retrace the paths of Timerlane and Alexander the Great. I little thought then, as I re-created in my mind's eye the "Golden Horde" that crossed those distant plains, warriors and slaves and khans and grand-viziers in swirling clouds of dust and desert sand, that shortly afterwards I too would be wrapping myself up against the biting arid wind, on a rocky slope in the mountains of Afghanistan. A few chance meetings with returned travellers, late-night binges that evolved into planning sessions, frequent visits to the local library, and the thought became a dream became reality. The following excerpt is from "On the Road Again" by Simon Dring, on the journey to India, "along a route as old as time itself, humanity's greatest highway": "It's the classic journey, too. If you only ever make one trip in your life, then let it be this one. It's a voyage through some of the great European and Asian civilizations that formed our world, following in the footsteps of travellers like Marco Polo and the traders who carved out the Silk Road between China and Europe more than seven hundred years ago. Just imagine: turn left at Calais and keep going. There's an overwhelming sense of freedom when you finally take to the road. You're out on your own now with nowhere to go except forward --and you can forget everything else. There's nobody around to criticize or complain. The horizon is there, not to start at, but to cross. The black-top highway burns hot from the sun, but the breeze blows cool off emerald-blue seas as you follow the coastline of northern Greece towards Turkey. Istanbul rises out of a shimmering heat haze, a sprawling skyline of mosques and minarets: the gateway to Asia. And eastward, across the vast plains of central Anatolia that lead down through the mountains and sweet-smelling pine forests of southern Turkey, towards Syria and the labyrinthine bazaars of Aleppo and Damascus...Keep Dreaming!"
It was only a matter of time before I would be on my way again. The departure of friends and acquaintances to far-off places in Spring made up my mind: I would try to make it overland, via India, to Australia. Monday 2 June. After arriving back in my place on Monday morning I finished packing the items I wanted to store away. Bob said he would take care of them until my return. If I returned. I left a forwarding address--the first place I was going to stay in, Paul and Marie MacCarthy's place in Waterloo. Otherwise c/o American Express in any of several dozen cities that I planned to stop off in. I went back to bed for a nap before leaving, to restore some of the lost energy. Then Bob helped me with my bags and held the doors open to let me out. As I left the house, I heard an upper window open and Captain Beefheart blasted out. Then above the music Tony's voice: "So you're goin' at last, you wankah!" I knew I'd miss him!
Walking down King
Henry's Road, across the psychedelic railway bridge, off which Sean wanted to
jump when he was tripping, thinking he could fly--Tony saved his life that day.
Past the long wall with the 2-foot high graffiti: Phoned home and explained, slowly, so that she could take it all in, to Ma
that I was heading towards Australia, but may not make it, as I didn't have
quite enough money, but that I should make it as far as India. Yes, I would
write, at every opportunity. Otherwise everything OK. Mixed feelings about leaving.
Reality hasn't kicked in yet, but this trip is my karma, my fate. Insh'allah.
The sad boys of the afternoon Next, the long night, train, ferry, train, to Brussels. I can't sleep on boats.
Dozed off and on, watched the people move about. Thought of night work I had
done, and always hated, in Jefferson Smurfit, British Rail. One guy I met in
British Rail had been working nights for twenty four years. He was still living
with his mother. Tuesday 3 June, Brussels. Victor Hugo called
the Grand' Place in Brussels, with its ancient guild-halls and public buildings,
"the most beautiful square in the world", but at 6 o'clock in the
morning, after a sleepless night, it just looked cold and desolate. The large
square was empty save for groups of Japanese tourists, even at this hour, rushing
around taking pictures. I needed to cash
a traveller's check, but American Express wasn't yet open. I walked around,
trying to decide what to do, and almost tripped over a bunch of tramps asleep
outside the Central Station. That seemed like a good idea, so I picked a spot
beside them and tried to get some shut-eye. In vain. The city was coming to
life and the noise and activity around me kept increasing. Some railway police
eventually came and shifted us, but by then the shops were opening, so I headed
for American Express and changed some money. The menus in windows of the restaurants
I passed looked quite expensive, and I remembered the advice from the "alternative"
travel guide: don't spend your money in the West--keep it for the East where
it will go a lot further. The clouds overhead
were darkening as I walked along the streets looking for a supermarket. By the
time I had found one and bought some bread and cheese it had started to drizzle,
and soon it was a downpour. I made a dash for a large glass doorway, which provided
some shelter, and sat down to make some sandwiches with my Bowie knife, getting
some startled looks from passers-by. Then I noticed inside the glass doors was
a bearded figure with a rucksack beside him, doing something similar, and as
I always hated eating alone I went inside and asked him if he'd mind me joining
him for breakfast. He politely acquiesced, in the time-honoured traveller's
way. He told me he was "Joe", from Holland. We shared our crisp French
bread sitting at the bottom of an escalator in what seemed to be an exhibition
hall. Two hippies at peace with the world.
We discussed our plans for the day. Joe had just arrived
and was going to visit some friends before travelling on to Greece. I too was
going to visit some old friends, Paul and Marie MacCarthy, now living in Waterloo.
Marie had worked with my mother in Dublin airport, then gone as an au pair to
Brussels where she met Paul from Wexford, who was now teaching in St. John's
International School. We both had all day to kill, so as soon as the rain eased
we ventured out into the city streets. Brussels, with
its office blocks and administrative centres and corporate headquarters has
never appealed to me. Its grey business-like exterior cannot compare with the
colourful free-and-easy atmosphere of Amsterdam or Copenhagen. Its inhabitants
are polite rather than friendly. Still, here we were, so we made our way around
the town, taking in an art gallery along the way. Joe had never
been to Ireland, so he wanted to know all about the situation in Northern Ireland,
the war between Catholics and Protestants, as the crisis was presented in the
Continental press. I explained that it was an old conflict: the Irish didn't
know what they were fighting for, but they would fight anybody to get it! After I related
the usual complicated compressed version of Irish history over the past 800
years, Joe told me about the political activists in his own country. He said
the Dutch were a narrow-minded but tolerant people living in a socialist country
run by capitalists who hold some very liberal views in their own conservative
way. The left-wing militant Provos had been replaced by the Kabouters (dwarfs
or brownies), who gained some electoral success in Amsterdam. There was a new
Womens Lib group called Dolle Mina, who had been whistling at, ogling, even
pinching men in the streets, "just to let them know how it feels."
So far everyone reported that it felt just fine.
By late afternoon
we had exhausted our topics of conversation (and were feeling pretty exhausted
ourselves as well, having been up all night). Joe split, while I went in search
of Place Roupe, the terminus for the bus to Waterloo. I phoned Paul to get directions
to his house. It didn't do much good, because I still got off at the wrong stop,
and had a long walk in the pouring rain to the MacCarthy's house on the Rue
Napoleon. Once I got there, however, there was a cool beer waiting, then a hot
meal, and a warm comfortable bed--just what the doctor ordered! Wednesday 4 June, Waterloo.
After dozing for a little while I decided to get up. The sky had cleared and
the sun burst into the room when I pulled the curtains. Tried the bathroom,
but it was occupied by someone singing in Italian in the shower. I continued
downstairs, where I encountered the priest, an American. He told me a friend
of mine had arrived, and was in the bathroom. A friend of mine?! I was baffled--this
was the last thing I expected! The priest said he was Italian. And sure enough,
who walks into the room but Gigi Cornali, the usual broad grin, more a leer,
on his face. I was speechless, and for an instant thought I was dreaming. "Seeeenyore Deeene, my good
friend Seeeenyore Deeene. You are surprised to see me, no?" My speech returned
slowly. "Gigi! What on Earth are you
doing here? How did you get here? " The broad grin
disappeared from his face. He clenched one fist, and hammered it into the palm
of his other hand. His mouth went through the action of spitting. "These baaastards, these Yankee
baaaastards, they take my visa, and they give me a new visa, for only two weeks.
And in this time I must go to Florida and back again, because if I am not come
back, I never get a visa for America again. " "But how did you get here? " "Yesterday I arrive back in
London, and I go to King Henry's road, and Bob say you are gone, and he give
me this address, so I take a boat and come here, because I want to see my good
friend seeeeenyore Deeeene. " The broad grin
was back. The priest watched
this conversation with a look of amusement on his face, then went into the kitchen
to make some coffee before going back to work. Gigi and I went into the back
garden to drink our coffee, Gigi complaining all the while of his treatment
at the hands of the US border officials, my mind struggling to deal with this
new development. Over the next several hours Gigi described in detail his brief
stay in the US. Peggy wasn't particularly welcoming, she had a boyfriend, and
Gigi felt like an interloper. He was trying to decide what to do next. We both went back
to bed for a few hours, rising again in the late afternoon. I had to explain
to Paul and Marie who Gigi was, but they took it very well and there was even
room in the house for him. I planned to stay about one more day in Belgium before
heading South. We went into Waterloo itself for a couple of beers, to the Joli
Bois pub, which was certainly not jolly, the only punter being a jockey from
Surrey, based at the nearby stables, who was homesick and intent on getting
extremely drunk. We walked back home slowly, trying to remember the words of the
ABBA song Thursday 5 June, Waterloo.
Rose early to hitch
into Brussels with Gigi. It was his first visit to the city, so I thought I'd
do the tourist thing and take him around whatever sights there were to see there.
We made the acquaintance of a student who told us about the conflicts between
the Dutch-speaking Flemish and the French-speaking Walloons. The had led to street
demonstrations and riots in recent years. Brussels was really in the Flemish-speaking
area, but because the whole of the aristocracy and the whole political, official
and professional world in Brussels talked French as a matter of course, French
had taken over, he complained. Formerly Flemish was looked upon as the dialect
of the servants and of the poorer and more ignorant among the peasants.
Afterwards we relaxed over a beer and a joint in the Grand' Place, discussing
our plans for the future. Gigi wanted to go to Amsterdam, I wanted to head down
south ASAP. Gigi could be very insistent--he kept it up until finally I agreed
to go, but only for the week-end. I reckoned it wouldn't cost very much if we
hitched there and stayed in a youth hotel. And anyway, Amsterdam was the freaks'
mecca, rated as high as London and higher than Copenhagen or the Greek islands,
and clubs like the Paradisio, Kosmos and the Milky Way were legendary. I had
been to Amsterdam a few years before, had met up with Paddy Farelly there, and
subsequently hitch-hiked alone to Stockholm (my budget on that trip, when I
was 17, was £2 per country). Stayed in Brussels all day but for some silly reason didn't keep enough for the bus fare to Waterloo. I assumed Gigi would take care of it, while he thought I was loaded. Fortunately we got enough bread from a student whom we asked for directions. It saved us hitching back at eleven o'clock at night. Friday 6 June, Waterloo/Amsterdam. The weather held--the sky was cloudy but bright, little wind, sunny intervals, as they say on the weather forecast. Ideal conditions for hitch-hiking. We took the motorway, had no trouble getting as far as the Dutch border, and were making good time. But the first spot we were left off at after the border was tough. We walked from the exit to the next entry point, but there was no place for a car to pull in. Decided to continue on to the next slip road, and walked for what seemed like miles along the motorway. We were beginning to dispair of finding a spot, when a small car suddenly skidded to a halt right in front of us on the motorway, and the young driver, with a joint in his hand, waved to us to get in, quick! We threw ourselves in the car, choking on the joint fumes that filled it. The driver kept up a non-stop patter of pidgin English and he was as high as a kite. The first of many flying Dutchmen we were to meet that week! Every square inch of the interior of the car, including the dashboard and steering wheel, was covered with fake orange sheepskin fur. He wasn't going far, but we were so grateful for getting away from our bad position that we didn't care. After he left us off we were picked up by two mad young Dutch girls in a brightly-coloured VW beetle. Encouraged by Gigi, they never stopped talking and giggling. They recommended some bars in Amsterdam, around Leidseplein and Prinsengracht. Again, we didn't get very far, but were getting closer to our destination. Our next ride was from a mild-mannered bespectacled university professor. He was on his way to Leiden, where he lived, and before we left the motorway invited us to his house for some refreshments. It was still early afternoon, so we accepted the invitation, hoping for some food. We drove to Leiden. He lived alone in a small house with small rooms and a small front garden. He called the whole thing his study. We sat drinking beer in his front room while he played his favourite music--Leonard Cohen and Dory Previn--and he showed us the books he had written on classical Greek philosophy. A large crucifix was prominent on the wall, and he also had some books on religion, and for some reason this reassured me somewhat. I had heard the usual horror stories from fellow-hitchers, and this guy did appear to be eyeing Gigi just a little too much. We could have stayed there all day, and maybe he wanted us to, but I was watching the time, and eventually hinted that we had to be on our way. He kindly gave us a lift as far as the motorway to Amsterdam, from where our next ride took us into the city. ;)
We booked in at the Sleep-in. It wasn't quite what I had expected. I had heard of this place from heads in London, and had envisioned a totally laid back freaks' scene, whereas in fact it was tightly regimented, with anti-drug posters on every wall. But it was clean and cheap, and I thought, what the hell, it's only for the week-end. Afterwards we rambled around the city. As expected, lots of freaks on Dam Square, lots of foreigners, lots of tall leggy blonds. A thin bearded Italian approached us and asked us if we knew where he could get heroin. He accompanied us, chatting with Gigi. Along Damstraat every ten yards a passerby would glance furtively at us with a hissed "Hashish, drugs?". Our acquaintance chose a Dutch guy who said he could fix him up for 100 guilders--this was all the money the Italian had in the world. Gigi went with them when they went to get the gear. I waited around for them but they didn't return, so I took a stroll around the Red Light District. Spots before my eyes from the fluorescent lights, mind awash with images of low-cut cleavages, high-hemmed skirts, theatrically made-up faces, I returned to the Sleep-in, wondering whether I had landed in a nation of perverts. I argued out this topic over a night-cap with some of the other residents. The consensus was that the Dutch are probably no more perverse than anyone else on the planet, but the incidence of sex, prostitution and homosexuality appear to be higher here than elsewhere, because so much that is forbidden by law in other countries is quite legal or at least tolerated here and therefore right out in the open. Gigi arrived in to say that the Italian
head had been T.O.'d, that is, ripped off.
"Stronzo! Eez stoopid. Now he have no money, no food and no place to stay." "He's a junk-monkey, Gigi," I replied. "What can you do?" "Niente, my friend! They say, only way to cure a junkie is to put in a new brain." Saturday 7 June, Amsterdam. It's amazing how some seemingly ordinary events can have such far-reaching consequences. Had I not gone out with that Ballyfermot girl that I met in the Pembroke, with her upbeat descriptions of her experiences in London, I would probably never have gone there. Had I not bumped into Ultan O'Raghallaigh in Bolton Street, who gave me the address in Somerstown, I would never have reached Desolation Row. Had Sean Whelan, all of whose family I co-incidentally knew in Dublin, not opened the door on my arrival, I would never have gotten to stay there, and heard the traveller's tales that motivated me to make this trip. And had we not taken the only window table in the Mensa cafeteria at lunch-time, I would never have seen Mark McKenna and Harry Perkins strolling below on the Damrak. Mark and Harry lived around the corner from us in Dublin, and we knew each other since we were kids. I hadn't seen Harry for well over a year, since he had gone to Spain for the Summer. Mark I had last seen at Christmas in Dublin. I made a mad dash down the stairs and along the street until I caught up with them. They were just as astonished as I was. They had been in the 'Dam for about several months and were staying and working in a hotel called Fat City. They took us there, and we checked in for the following night.
Harry left us talking with Chris, and when he returned said he had fixed up a deal with Zef, the hotel manager, a Russian Jew. We could stay at the hotel for free if we handed out leaflets at the Centraal Station--this activity was called "publicity". Half of the people staying there were doing that already, and it appeared that most of the rest, like Harry, Mark, Cindy and Coco, were working there. The paying guests appeared to be few and far between.
Later, as we were getting into bed in our dorm, Chico, a South American, staggered in, drunk or stoned (or both). Supporting himself against a bunk, he tried to open a match-box, but held it the wrong way round, so that a multi-coloured stream of pills spilled across the floor. He didn't find all of them that night, so for the next couple of days anyone who wanted acid, uppers or downers only had to search under the bunks in our room. Some come to remember A laid-back day, described in The Concert.
Monday 9 June, Amsterdam.
Tuesday 10 June, Amsterdam. Again up early with Chris, this time to visit the Van Gogh Museum. Chris was fanatic about Van Gogh. The museum was very big and interesting, but I had to get out after 3 hours. Chris must have stayed there all day. Wednesday 11 June, Amsterdam.
Mark had a day off today, so we had breakfast together. He said he had had enough of Fat City. There were some problems with Zef, and I got the impression he was scared of him. He had heard there were jobs going at the Hilton. I couldn't imagine a greater contrast between two hotels than between those two, but Mark was intent on trying to get a job there. It was a really sunny day, so we took a leisurely walk through the City to the Hilton, but the personnel manager wasn't in. We had a coffee and discussed our travel plans. Harry had been talking of returning to Spain, where he had spent the previous Summer, whereas Mark wanted to head for Greece, and thought he would head off in a couple of weeks. That sounded OK to me. I reckoned that if I made leisurely progress down through Europe, I could be in Greece around the same time, so we agreed to meet on 12 July at the American Express office in Athens. That afternoon went swimming with Gigi and got sunburned. On our return we got caught without a ticket by the inspectors, who threatened to take us to the police. They wanted to fine us 25 guilders, but took the 11 guilders which we had on us. This left us late for publicity. The sunburn was getting gradually sorer as the evening progressed, so I returned early to the hotel. The head at reception told me the manager wanted to see me, but I couldn't find him when I went looking. Didn't get much sleep that night.
Thursday 12 June, Amsterdam/Waterloo. After breakfast I was told by the head at reception that Zef said I'd have to pay for the Wednesday night--if I refused they would keep the traveller's check deposit on the lock. Zef said I hadn't done the publicity. I was raging because I had gone out every day, and the time we were delayed had stayed later to make up up for the lost time. I smuggled out my luggage and reported the cheque stolen to American Express. By the time I had returned to the hotel some heads who had seen me doing the publicity had spoken to Zef and he had relented. I got my cheque back, but I decided to head back to Brussels anyway. I thought that if I stayed much longer I would get caught up in the scene there and maybe never get away. I had to split from Gigi too. I knew he would have wanted to return to Brussels with me, and perhaps travel further together, but I didn't want the complications--this was my trip. So I was on the road again! A smooth ride back to Brussels, but got let out on the North side of the city, which meant a long walk through the city to the bus-stop. Arrived back at the MacCarthy household after 10 PM. Friday 13 June, Waterloo. Friday 13th! Better rest up--don't want to tempt fate! Had a long rest in the morning, reading some of Paul's books and listening to his records. I was reminded that 220 years previously another Irishman had travelled on foot through these lands--Oliver Goldsmith. After a stay in Leiden he had gone to Louvain, then Paris, Switzerland, Germany and Italy, playing the flute to pay his way. As he travelled he wrote poetry and sent the drafts back to his brother Henry in Ireland. These were later to become some of his most famous pieces. A brief account of his journeyings can be found in his best-known novel, The Vicar of Wakefield. That afternoon I changed money in preparation for going through Luxembourg and Germany, and packed my gear. After dinner Paul and I chatted over a few beers, I related my London experiences while he talked about life in Belgium, and told me about the Battle of Waterloo. Saturday 14 June, Waterloo/Southern Belgium. The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to Europe that I took with me usually had easy-to-follow directions on the best places to start hitching from, but for some reason I had great difficulty finding the right road this time. I wasted a lot of time trekking around Brussels before I finally got on the right road for Luxembourg. Once there however, I got a lift immediately. My second lift was from a young bearded psychologist. He spoke good English, and we talked about travelling and books. He asked me whether I was in a hurry, and when I said no, invited me to come with him to his house in in the Ardennes near the border with Luxembourg. Paul was 27, and lived in a small farming community of fourteen families with his wife, three sons and two horses. His wife was small, blond and harassed-looking, and couldn't speak English. They had met as students, got married shortly afterwards and this was the result. After introductions he offered me the loan of his bike, which I accepted, along with a map of the area, and I went on a tour of the local villages for the afternoon. That evening Paul's wife prepared a hearty meal, which was something I was beginning to miss while on the road. We watched TV for a bit and then ended up the evening with glasses of whiskey. After his wife said she was hitting the sack I too decided to do so, and got into bed in the spare room. After a few minutes there was a tap on the door and Paul came into the room. He was holding the remains of my whiskey, which I hadn't wanted to finish, and said he thought I had forgotten it. I thanked him, but instead of leaving the room he came closer and sat down on a corner of the bed. He said he just wanted to make sure I was OK for the following day, whether there was anything I needed. From there we went on to talk about books, and he wanted to know what books I read, and I mentioned my favourites. He asked me about my relationship with my father, how I felt when he died, then my relationship with my mother, whom I had rejected. I resisted the probing but only with difficulty. The questions were stirring up fears and doubts. He wanted to know about my problems in life. I said I was lacking in confidence. I wanted to overcome this with experience, to drink the cup of life dry. He only nodded, and I felt trapped in the bed. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, and maybe he noticed my disquiet, because he eventually, none too soon, got up and left the room. Sunday 15 June, Arlon/Luxembourg.
Sunday is not a good day for hitching, but with all the heads I saw knocking about I thought that if I waited until Monday I might be up against some competition, so I decided to head off on late Sunday afternoon, and at least get part of the way to Munich covered.
How many thoughts and memories crowd upon the mind! How many ghosts and
phantoms start up from the brain--the shreds of hopes destroyed and of
aims made futile; of ends accomplished and prizes won; the failures and the
successes alike half forgotten! How many loves and friendships have waxed
cold in the presence of new ties! |
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