Fifty Reminiscences

Merry Christmas to all my reader (sic). I have completed my usual pre-Christmas 36 hour fast and awoke on the second day with a clear head – and this is what popped into it. See how many of these reminiscences ring a bell. If you score more than forty then you are probably more than sixty. If you cannot remember any of this then… lucky you. 

Memories are factual (unless false) - not judgemental. Additions welcome, send to rob@satin.co.uk.

I remember when:

Pubs were pubs and thriving

And freedom of speech prevailed, mostly

And women were women

And men were men

And children were allowed to be children

And a national conscience was shared

And parenting was the responsibility of parents

And poverty was not the lack of a dishwasher

And women wore skirts and dresses, mostly

And there were less laws and less lawless

And drugs were things that pop stars did

And people thought the police were there for us

And swearing in front of the children was bad

And swearing was used sparingly and to express strong emotions

And people did not swear on the TV and radio

And there were only two sexes, plus homosexuality

And smoking was sometimes prescribed rather than proscribed

And fox hunting was unpopular, but thought necessary

And green belts were places that you could not build on

And old people’s homes were a rare thing

And Prozac and Viagra were unheard of

And racism, unfortunately, did exist

And footballers were paid a decent wage

And banks and bank managers were trusted

And it was possible to repair things that broke

And weather extremes were accounted to the weather

And snowdrops were nice little white flowers

And Christmas lasted for a week at the most

And wearing a seat belt or crash helmet were both optional

And almost everything except churches closed on Sundays

And collecting car registration numbers was practical – though odd

And bicycles had three gears or one

And women who acted were called actresses

And to be gay was to be happy

And air travel was for the wealthy

And there were markets, but no supermarkets

And vacuum cleaner, fridges and dishwashers were luxury goods

And mobile phones, the internet and personal computers were from science fiction

And the genome was an unknown

And crisps were plain with optional salt

And cancer was incurable

And human life began only in the womb

And sugar was OK

And coffee was a little exotic

And teachers could hit naughty kids

And global warming was undetected

And chemical contraception was unknown

And buses had conductors

And leaving school at 15 or 16 was the norm

And only 4% of people went to university

My role in the French revolution.

Travelling through France from Spain is never dull, but our latest journey in mid November 2018 was definitely special.  This time we travelled west across Spain from our village of La Fresneda in order to cross the Pyrenees in the Basque country just above the famous city of Pamplona. We spent the night in a vast deserted car park next to a (closed) nature and adventure park and I was, quite unusually, taken ill. I had to find a doctor’s next day or could not face the 1,000 mile drive to England. Dr Carlos put me right, but the treatment seemingly denied alcohol which, though not essential, does light up the nights of travel.

We stayed in the delightful Basque village of Lantz on the second night, it was small, but had both a restaurant and a shop. Only problem was both were closed.  The locals were very friendly so I approached a lady and asked in poor French if anyone raised hens in the village and might allow us to buy eggs. She said no, but told us to wait where we were and quickly rushed back with five eggs! She then wouldn’t take anything in payment for them! Aren’t some people generous? This enabled to have a decent meal in the van, and it was very good.

Later in the trip we left the lovely village of Beaumont Sarthe just north of Le Mans where we had dined in a warm, friendly place served by a shy but helpful fourteen-year-old young lady. The village had an excellent river, ancient chateau and delightful gardens. However, heading into Alencon the road was blocked: black smoke poured from the roundabout and there were many people there in yellow hi-vis jackets. It seemed to us that there had been a bad accident, but this was no accident. In fact it seemed more like a street party - at a roundabout! Cars and vans were parked any old way, tyres were burning smokily, wooden pallets were burning merrily, and music was playing loudly in competition with sirens, car horns and raucous singing. I found it all quite exciting; many years had passed since my own demo days.

We were allowed to weave the van around part of the roundabout, the yellow draped figures shouting merrily at us. They were all smiles for us, but there was something altogether more serious going on. Just beyond the roundabout I parked up and walked back to join in. The smoke, the noise, the friendliness, the bizarre spectacle itself really energised me. I learned that Macron was the problem. To quote from one ragged poster he was: pompier, dictateur, royaliste, menteur, arrogant, opportuniste, nuisible. You probably get the message. Motorcyclists were a central part of the protest: revving their machines to the point of near explosion, roaring up and down the traumatised roads, weaving around the crowds. The protestors told me that it was all about increased taxation, especially on fuel. I didn’t know what side I was on, but I certainly felt part of the crowd. We had to take the toll road to get away – that cost us nearly forty Euros Mr Macron.

Then we were blocked again at Rouen, both in and out of the city, this time with larger crowds and longer delays. Hey, this was not so much fun after all. We then travelled north to Abbeyville where we hoped to sleep for the night en route to Calais for our boat to England the next day. We could not get in! Yet another protest barrier greeted us as we came off the main road, Darkness was falling when we were finally allowed to pass that barrier and then we hit another! Someone told me that we probably would not get into Abbeyville at all, so I reversed back and headed out into the darkness.

Fortunately, after some twenty miles, we found Chez Natalie, a small pub cum restaurant. It was open and welcoming. We had a great French meal sitting next to a warming wood stove whilst watching the recollections of the revolution on TV – we did not see ourselves: our part in the revolution remains a secret.  However, the whole thing was an interesting experience giving an insight into both the French mentality and, perhaps, my own.