Post 6 PARTYGOERS

The Party Conference season is upon us. I intend to keep this blog as apolitical as possible; and the following poem, written in the eighties, sticks to that general premise.

KEEP OFF THE GRASS?

I’ll do it for the party
A noble dream I’ll follow till my death
A way that’s right; a way that’s bright with vision
A path of stone cut straight
Uncluttered; clear right to Olympiad.

I’ll do it for the party
I’ll trust the words of those that shape my life
Whose stern ideals make reason of the pain
The necessary hardship for the gain.

I’ll do it for the party
The true reality outside my prison cell
I’ll tell the lies they say I have to tell
To keep the structure sound;
Perjurious sacrifice
For all who walk the path of slippery stone.

I’ll do it for the party.
It’s kept me and my closest safe and sure
Born into it’s gifts; above the hurly burly of the pack
Financially secure
I’ll take it’s prizes. . and protect it’s back.

I’ll do it for the party.
I’ll faithfully walk the road to rainbow’s end.
I’ll heed the clarion call
I’ll reach the mystics’ promise through the mist
It will be shown to all
Who tread with faithful step around the bend.

I’ll do it for the party.
I’ll do it for the wine, the food, the dance
I’ll watch the people pass
Along that hard stone road
I’ll party with the revellers on the grass.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Another topical subject to follow; lorry drivers. They have always had a hard road to hoe; even when paid appropriately. The little bit of travelling that we have done in past years revealed to us, in sharp relief, the conditions that these ‘kings’ of the road are expected to put up with; especially in the UK. No proper overnight park ups; laybys being the default; and meagre facilities for catering and basic hygiene.

Sur le Continent their daily lives are made easier. We saw proper overnight stops, with showers, toilets and, in this internet age, access to wifi was ubiquitous.

And now, a ‘Forward to the past’ excerpt from the first journey that Pete and I made in 1968-69; and a memorable encounter with a lorry driver. The background: we were hitching home from a life changing journey in Algeria and Morocco. We had travelled through Franco’s Spain in a VW van with two Vietnam veterans; both damaged by the horrors of war.

Our ways had parted in the South of France. They went on to Italy. We had to get back to Calais, and the ferry; before our extremely limited funds ran out completely. It was February 1969; and the snow lay thick through France. . . .

TRAVELLING IN 1969

As  the little VW  van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home. 

Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley, from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies.  The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.

With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.

As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.

At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilized version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.

Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realized that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

For those of you who are reading these blogs, could you let me know if you are? Either by leaving a comment or via email. I’m enjoying revisiting my past; and I’d really like to know if you are!