ON THE ROAD
GETTING CLOSER W ell with a now cheery complement of travellers not really rested but much improved in temperament we journeyed without further complaint in our now speedy and trusty bus to reach the road border that joined France to Spain.
This was sited in a town named Perpignan at the foot of the Pyrenees Mountains; it comprised the usual pre - European Community era border crossing manned on the one side by French police (Le Flic) and on the Spanish side by the Guardia Civil, the paramilitary police organisation who were numerous at the time of our adventure. Generalissimo Franco the Fascist dictator still ruled the Peninsular at this time so things were still run in the 'old way'. The Guardia was armed, and not just with small pistols either; they wore dark coloured military uniforms with black leather 'Tricornio' hats, altogether a pretty intimidating presence. These Guardia men were certainly not your 'helpful' English Bobby types and you were wise to keep out of their way. When seated in your typical Spanish bar you could watch them enter, look around the place, sit and take a drink 68
and maybe cigarettes, but you seldom saw any payment offered or taken. They largely left tourists alone because we were a source of state income and valuable for that but you always felt wary when they were around. We did have a little run-in with them later in the trip but thankfully that situation was resolved. However, one of our party seemed particularly spooked whenever one of the Goons came close to the bus at the border post. You know the scene when someone tries to slide down in a seat to try to disappear. Didn't take too much notice at the time but it created a problem later. With the border crossed without incident, we powered on to Barcelona, the city of Las Ramblas, Gaudi architecture, the Sagrada Familia cathedral plus cheap local champagne, red wine and brandy. We came to know the bubbly and the cheap red quite well later. We frequented a particular local seaside bar. This place seemed to be run on the smell of an oily rag so much so that we would often quickly drink them out of bubbles so we got the idea of telling the barman to mix the bubbles with the cheap red to produce a hybrid we christened "Flying Dog"; so named because we reckoned that if a dog ever
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The Bribie Islander
PART 3
by David Horrocks
did drink the stuff then the critter would surely be able to fly. Years later when in Australia I discovered the drink called 'Cold Duck' which I'm sure was made using the same formula. When leaving the famed city to head south towards our rented villa we ran into trouble. Now if you look at the pics in the articles that show our Commer bus you will notice that from the side entrance door there is no step to assist entry but on our model, we had a substantial item of this type. It was far more heavily made than the sheet metal van side. Now as we left the city we got a bit lost in the narrow back streets that were lined with parked cars and, you guessed it, this 'stairway to heaven' collided with a parked car. Whoever was driving the bus didn't notice, or so he said and he kept going. It was early evening and the light was poor so maybe there was an excuse but we were seen to do the damage and a motorcycle gave chase. We stopped to see why the cyclist was in pursuit waving madly at us. When the situation was explained some international bonhomie was brought into play. We apologised and offered the details of our insurance to cover the damage costs. This was when our travel
companion, the one who had done the seat slide at the border seemed to lose it. He was against us talking to the guy and insisted that we just give him something that didn't identify us and that we drive off quickly. 'Just get his address and we can sort it when we get home' was his preference. 'Let's go, let's go before the Guardia get here', he raved. It was only much later when we had left the scene that it came out that on a previous trip to Spain this guy had had a run-in with the Black Hats over a matter concerning the dreaded weed and didn't want to face them again. Years later I was given advice which I have rated as being the wisest words ever uttered by a fool. The adviser, who I had no great admiration for spoke the words - 'When in doubt scream and shout, wave your arms and leap about'. He reckoned that if you ever met a performance like our drug fearful passenger was putting on then the performer was on very unsure ground, was well out of their comfort zone or was straight out telling porkies. This advice is given long after the Spanish trip has proved of great value in life ever since.
Next stop 'the Villa!'
