Fifteen and hitching around France with Foss – the planning and execution

It was 1964. Every day was bathed in the bright sunshine of possibility. There were no clouds in the sky and none on the horizon. I could do anything.

Foss was a fellow rugby player. He was a year older than me and was leaving school that year. I was fourteen and was up for adventure. We planned an adventure. It was meticulously worked out. It went like this:

We would hitch-hike down to the coast.

We would board a boat bound for France.

We would hitch-hike around France for the summer.

We would hitch-hike back, board a boat, hitch back home and reminisce.

What could possibly go wrong?

Our meticulous planning paid off. My parents were convinced that it was watertight. Foss, who was coming up sixteen, was so mature he would look after me. They were satisfied.

In hindsight it was probably more that they didn’t think we’d ever get it together. But we did.

The reality hit home. The ferries unreasonably demanded money for the fare. We were unable to hitch a ride on a boat. Then there was the small matter of food and shelter. We would no longer have access to the fridge and my bed.

It was OK. We could work it out. I had a sleeping bag and a rucksack. Foss had a tent. Admittedly it didn’t actually have a front to it but it would keep the rain off.

All we needed was a bit of cash. Neither of us was a musician so busking was out of the question. We set about delivering leaflets. That was fun. We ran down roads leaping over fences and hedges and stuffing leaflets through letterboxes. Apartment blocks were best. You could stuff a whole series of boxes with leaflets.

By the end of the first day we could see that we were not going to make a lot of money at this. No matter how fast you ran, stuffed, leapt and deposited we could not possibly deliver sufficient leaflets to make enough money. Not only that but we were knackered.

We came up with a solution. We would deliver to every other door and put three through each of the letterboxes. We’d miss out the odd street or two and dump half of the leaflets in the bin. That seemed to work.

We did this for three months and had amassed some cash. My parents were obviously impressed with my tenacity and subsidised my efforts.

We were all set.

I packed my big rucksack with essentials – a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush and the Rolling Stones first album and latest single. The Stones had just released it and I splashed some of my money on purchasing it. It could mean that we starved but at least we’d have good music while we starved (even if we had no means of playing it). When the sleeping bag was tied on the top the rucksack was nearly as big as me. Foss’s was even bigger. He had the tent.

We waved goodbye and set off cheerfully down the road. This was long before mobile phones. We would be out of contact for nearly two months. It was OK. We had a map, some rudimentary French, a bit of cash and a booklet about Youth Hostels in France. We were heading for the far south.

The sun was shining. Everything was good in the world.

I felt like Bilbo Baggins.