The Land of Shakespeare
Age 12
The dockworker’s strike finally ended and at long last dad got the call that he could pick up our car. My father, my brother, and I took the Tube and then walked the last few blocks to the place where dad had, long distance, bought the vehicle. As always I had to almost run to keep up with dad as he strode with those long legs of his. Oregon already felt like it was a very long way away. The man that we met so that dad could sign the papers was bald, professional, but nice. As throughout the trip, everyone was impressed by a man such as my father that would dare to take a family of eight for a year long trip all over Europe and Africa. The vehicle merchant seemed to me to be a very precise person, but a man that could still laugh and be friendly. I was eager to see our new car, but I was not to be allowed until all paperwork was finished.
Finally the two-tone green Volkswagen microbus was pulled around to the side of the sales facility. There were none of these cars in America yet. I had no idea what to expect. My dad had told me that Volkswagen meant ‘adults car’. I was surprised to see that it contained three rows of seats. The front row seat was split in the middle, precluding a third person to sit in front. But one could walk from the front seat to the second row through the space between the two front seats. The second seat was not the full width of the car. The right side seat of the bench could be folded down, aiding anyone getting into the full width back seat. In the very back of the car was a luggage area with a flat floor that was above the four-cylinder engine compartment.
My brother got to sit in the front seat (always my favorite seat because you could see everything so well) with my father driving as we drove back to the hotel. That relegated me to the rest of the van. This was before the institution of seat belts.
I spent the drive back to the hotel playing in the rear luggage compartment. I could see through all of the side windows and through the front windows. It also put me as far away from the front of the car where dad was working hard at driving on the wrong side of the road. Decades of reflexes and driving habits invariably makes a driver that is used to driving on the right look the wrong direction at intersections, especially under the unexpected situations that always occur when in unfamiliar foreign countries.
The side door to the van was a slider on rails, and slid backwards, something I had never seen before. After being a bit uncertain, I was pleased to find that I was strong enough to work the weight of it.
Six kids of course had to find some way to decide where to sit. Where we sat was an ideal opportunity to have a catfight between siblings, which I of course was more than willing to start. And then there was our long suffering mother that quickly realized that a lot of conflict would be avoided if dad always drove and she always sat in the right rear seat. And that is the way it was for the next year and two months. My mother never complained about sitting in “the least of the seats”. My parents quickly instituted the discipline that all of us kids would rotate through the seating positions. The front passenger seat was position one. My oldest sister got to sit there on the first day of travel in the new van. Then on the next day, the person sitting there would move to the left position of the second row seat. The next day they would move to the center of the second row seat, and then the following day to the right, next to the sliding door and be responsible for opening and closing the door for everyone else. Even my youngest sister at the age of about five learned to open and close that big old door.
The back seat was the largest and allowed the three people sitting in it to have more freedom of movement.
My father found a roof top luggage rack built from metal tubes and painted a rust colored red, quite a clash with the green of the van’s roof. On that wrack was loaded everything we had brought along for the trip. Not knowing what we would find as time wore on, my parents had decided to bring all the clothing we would need for the whole trip. Needless to say, the luggage wrack was packed full. My father and brother then covered the huge wrack with a green canvas tarp that was tied down to the metal tube struts of the wrack.
Soon after we left London, we visited Stratford-on-Avon, made famous by William Shakespeare. We visited the house that claims to be the birth house of the famous bard (http://www.panoramio.com/photo/52795 ). That night we went to a Shakespeare play in the Royal Shakespeare Theater (http://www.panoramio.com/photo/52796 ). We sat way up in the balcony. We could hear what was said, and I could see some ants moving on a stage that seemed to be a quarter mile from me. I enjoyed the play however. All of the seats were plush red velour; great for bouncing up and down in when I got bored. I envied the two women to my right that had elegant little opera glasses they held in their white gloved hands as they watched the actors on the distant stage.
From Stratford on Avon we headed north. I found it amazing how many old castles, forts, and palaces there were in England. It seemed like every few miles we would stop and tour one. They all seemed to be loaded up with maces and armor and spears and swords. I was never allowed to even touch one of them. What a travesty! I had vivid fantasies of putting on the armor and having a great sword fight with the oddly dressed museum guards.
I think my parents were getting tired of us kids expanding restlessness; we were raised on a country farm where we were used to having free rein to play and do was we wished with our free time. It was not too long after Stratford that they stopped at an incredible English Country Estate for the night. Our family was the only people there, other than the owners and staff; I pity those poor people. We had been cooped up in a car, or a ship, or a hotel, or scurrying between museums for a month and a half by then.
At this elegant, butter-coloured, mini-palace of a Country Estate we could run and scream and climb trees and splash in the stream and play hide and seek, throw rocks, or fight to our hearts content. And we took full advantage of the respite from constant travel.
The British take High Tea about 4 to 5 PM each evening. High Tea of course includes tea, but is in reality the evening meal. Luckily by that time I had expended enough energy to fuel an atomic bomb and was ready to actually sit down and be somewhat civilized for a few brief moments. After Tea, I again headed out and played to my heart’s content until dark, then slept the sleep of the dead.
We arrived in Glasgow Scotland late in the afternoon a few days later. We stayed at the newest house in Glasgow. It had a lovely garden that was fragrant and had long paths that meandered throughout the truly a well kempt English Garden. During conversation between the owners of the house and my father I gleaned that this was definitely the newest house in the Scottish City of Glasgow, which, as it turns out, was still older than any house in the United States of America. The house at that time was 350 years old, so it would be well over 400 years old at the time of this writing.
From Glasgow we headed east to Edinburgh and there were loaded on a ship heading east across the North Sea to Bergen, Norway (http://www.panoramio.com/photo/25984723 ).