Dad inherited the car. A white, or off-white, Morris traveller. You know. The one with the wooden trim. I don't remember how old it was but it was in immaculate condition. Grampa looked after it impeccably. I used to have to start it with the starting handle because he didn't want to use the battery. It used to annoy the hell out of him when nan scratched the windscreen with her diamond ring when she was wiping it.
Anyway. It was summer 1977 and me, dad and Neal (one of my brothers) were going to drive down to Amalfi. We were going to take our time and do the whole thing on spec. I don't remember much about the drive from north Devon to the port and I don't remember which port we went to. I figure that it must have been up on the south-east coast because we drove through Picardie when we got off at the other end.
It was in Picardie - in Reims to be precise - that the whole grand plan came crashing to a grinding halt. We were driving through Reims and were crossing a crossroads when a car hurtled into the side of us ... or was it the other way round. It must have been us who drove into his side. Why? The Morris was a write-off.
It was towed to a garage and with what French I'd learned in my five years at comprehensive school, I established that the fella reckoned that it would cost more to repair than it was worth.
What did we do? We got the train to Paris and decided to spend a few days there instead before heading home. We wandered around until we found a little boarding house in Rue Faubourg St Denis. It looked like a perfect city centre spot.
After we'd had a bit of a kip and freshened up, we stepped out for the evening. Get something to eat. My incredibly naive, 17 year old eyes were on stalks. The street was lined with extremely good-looking, provocatively dressed young ladies all asking me if I was interested in a little quality time. Made I smile, it did.
We did only stay a couple of days. Saw the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame and all that good stuff and lived on baguettes with whatever took our fancy to fill them. Then, dreams in tatters, we got the train back to Calais (I think it was) for the boat back to good ol' Blighty.
Now I'm starting to wonder if the odds - or the Gods - aren't stacked against me. We got home about three weeks before anyone was expecting us home and without grampa's precious car. He'd had it for years with ne'er a scratch on it. Dad had had it a couple of months and written it off.
Amalfi remained an unreachable mirage.
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