My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969. Анна Томкинс

available: portable toilets; shower tents; gas heaters – the list was endless. Our problem was one of space. There was never going to be enough .Dad would have to find a way to get everything for a family of six for two weeks, including luxury accommodation (ok, a tent) into a family sized saloon car.

      Oh yes, and the wife and kids.

      To help with this, dad bought a specially designed roof rack. It covered almost the full length of the car roof and could be packed high in a turtle shape, the contents being held in place by a tough waterproof covering and stretch cables. When taken off the car and re-assembled, the roof rack became a kitchen unit with storage shelves, wash basin and work surface.

      Even so, it was going to be very cramped inside the car indeed.

      We had another couple of weekends away to get the hang of all the equipment. This included a thoroughly miserable trip to a site in Rhyll in North Wales, when it rained cats and dogs from the minute we arrived and is probably still raining to this day. We got soaked putting the tent up, and never got either warm or dry the whole weekend. The site had only the barest of facilities and we had a thoroughly depressing time cooped up in the tent with some colouring books and puzzle books for entertainment. This, reasoned dad, was exactly why we should be going to Spain for our holidays, and some more predictable and reliable summer weather. At least he was right on that score.

      By the beginning of August final preparations were in hand for the assault on Southern Europe. Dad got permission from his employers to use the company car for the trip, and they helpfully arranged for a “Green Card” extension to the car insurance cover for driving in Europe.

      There was a major difference between our family and the happy travelers. Dad had read about in the newspaper article – they had six weeks to make the trip and we only had two.

      So reasoned my father, if we were going to be in Spain long enough to get a suntan, we would have to get there and back as fast as possible. Oh god.

      It is a long long way from Manchester to Barcelona. A bloody long way. Dad had it all worked out – He had contacted the automobile club to ask for advice. They provided him with a series of map cards detailing suggested routes, advising on road conditions and expected travel times between major towns. Thoughtfully they also provided a card with useful motoring phrases in French – later to be a source of endless amusement. We could tell somebody in French that we suspected the front wheel bearings needed inspection and possible replacement. We could not however order anything useful, like a cheese sandwich. Or chips.

      So, armed with the route cards, a Michelin road guide and a list of recommended campsites in France and Spain, Dad planned the trip in detail. Honest to god, Alexander the Great took less time planning the conquest of Xerxes and the Persian Empire.

      Like all great military disasters through the ages, the plan was simple to follow and practically foolproof. Leaving at midnight from Manchester to avoid traffic delays, we would reach Dover and the English coast in around six hours. Allow an hour for any possible delays (yes, you mother) and catch the seven am hovercraft to France, with time for Dad to grab a catnap on the 45 minute crossing. Then drive hell for leather down the fast autoroute to Paris and on to the South, stopping only for fuel. We would have to make our bathroom trips coincide with garage pit stops. A combination of caffeine tablets and witch hazel eye swabs would keep the driver awake and hopefully alert for nearly two days. There would be plenty of time to sleep on the beach when we arrived.

      At last the day arrived for our great adventure to begin. We all helped to pack the car. Most of the camping accessories, tent and poles went on the roof rack. We joked about it being stacked so high we would have to be careful going under low bridges – you know that line about many a true word said in jest? The car boot was full of clothes for six people for two weeks, pots and pans and the rest of the camping gear that we couldn’t put on the roof rack for fear of causing a hazard to low flying aircraft or upsetting the flight path of migrating geese.

      Mother was packed into the front passenger seat; sardine like, her legs hemmed in by tins of baked beans, packets of breakfast cereal and other essential items of food that we wrongly assumed might be unavailable in Spain. On her lap were perched the map and route cards. Before we left, I turned the map the right way up for her so at least she might get off to a good start.

      If mum had it bad sat in the front of the car, life in the back of the car was no picnic either. The foot wells were filled in with the inflatable airbeds, the rear seat covered in a thick layer of six sleeping bags. When the four children were shoehorned in for take off, we found ourselves packed in so tightly that we were sat with our knees up around our ears and next to no clearance between our heads and the car roof. In days to come it would be a constant battle between us to be last into the car and get a coveted window seat. For the two kids in the middle it was like the nightmare of being trapped in the rubble of an apartment block after a 7.5 Richter earthquake. No fresh air and no possible way out without outside intervention. It would have had Harry Houdini howling from claustrophobia. Animal rights campaigners insist on more space for battery hens. Still only for two days…

      So we were ready. At exactly midnight (we actually had to synchronize our watches would you believe), the family saloon started up and we set off on our great adventure. The poor car was so heavily laden it had the ground clearance of a lazy crocodile.

      It was just as well it was dark when we left – if the neighbours had been witnesses to conditions in the back of the vehicle they might have alerted the authorities. My father would have faced charges of causing unnecessary suffering to minors and we would probably have spent our summer holiday in council care. To keep us amused on the long trip, mother had thoughtfully bought us a magnetic travel chess and draughts set. Unfortunately it is well nigh impossible to play if your arms are pinned to your sides by the immediate proximity of your siblings.

      No matter! We were on our way to high adventure and nothing could dampen our spirits. With Radio Luxembourg blasting out the latest hits in the background we trucked south, the family singing along with all the musical harmony of a rusty nail trapped under a revolving door.

      We made good time all the way to London. Now the easy thing would be to go around London on the ring road. Yep.That would have been the easy thing to do, right enough.

      To save time dad decided he would drive straight through central London. He had lived and worked in the capital when he had first come to England in the 1950`s, and he was sure he could take us right through without a hitch. Mum abdicated all responsibility saying that the route cards recommended going around not through – if dad wanted to choose his own route, it was down to him.

      It did not prove to be a wise decision. As we got closer to the center, we became hopelessly lost in a maze of one way streets, all of which seemed to lead us round in circles. In the twenty years since dad had lived here the place had changed beyond recognition.

      Then a stroke of luck. We spotted a French refrigerated truck heading in what we took to be a southerly direction. We assumed that having delivered his load he was now heading back to France via the channel ports. It seemed a reasonable bet at least. So we followed him, glued to his taillights. At one point we even jumped a set of red traffic lights so as not to lose him. It was ok. It was 4.30 in the morning and there wasn’t another soul around.

      The French truckie certainly knew his way around London, throwing the big truck around the narrow city streets as if he did this trip every day. Then without warning he stopped. We waited some moments for him to start off again. Instead the truckie came to the back of his truck and began to gesture angrily at us to back up. We slowly obliged. Then the angry Frenchman opened the doors on the back of his truck and made preparations to offload his cargo.

      It was at this point that there were lots of men around dressed in white coats and hats, wheeling around stacks of boxes. There was also an all-pervading smell of fish.

      My father rolled down his window and hailed a white coated young man pushing a trolley loaded with boxes of what looked a lot like fresh haddock.

      “Excuse me mate, where are we exactly?” asked my father meekly.

      “Billingsgate fish market” answered the chirpy cockney as he sped past with his load.

      I could see