Travels With M

By Philip Foster

~Frank Philip Foster, A Memoir

The Adventure Begins

Where exactly does an adventure begin? Looking from forty odd years on it would have to be a
Saturday evening in early December 1966. I had been away and independent for five years. Now
twenty five, I had moved back home to Rotherham, an industrial town in the north of England, and
was four months into a job offered to me by one of my old high school teachers. Life at home was
becoming stifling.

I had never been good at `picking up' girls. Most of my girlfriends up to this point I had met while
working on the post at Christmas, friends of friends and girls my cousin had set me up with. This
particular Saturday in December a colleague from work had suggested we go dancing at the Nether
Edge dance hall on the south side of Sheffield. I rarely went dancing, but where else did you meet
girls in 1966?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Foster
• Release date: Jan 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463566398

Book preview

Part One

Rotherham to Singapore

The Adventure Begins

Where exactly does an adventure begin? Looking from forty odd years on it would have to be a Saturday evening in early December 1966. I had been away and independent for five years. Now twenty five, I had moved back home to Rotherham, an industrial town in the north of England, and was four months into a job offered to me by one of my old high school teachers. Life at home was becoming stifling.

I had never been good at `picking up' girls. Most of my girlfriends up to this point I had met while working on the post at Christmas, friends of friends and girls my cousin had set me up with. This particular Saturday in December a colleague from work had suggested we go dancing at the Nether Edge dance hall on the south side of Sheffield. I rarely went dancing, but where else did you meet girls in 1966?

I set out moderately confident in my sleek, if small, white Austin Healey Sprite sports car. The car had been my big splurge at the end of my first year teaching, bought in the hope that it would up my profile on the women front. All it had done, to this point, was attract unwanted approaches from my sixteen-year-old female students who wanted to go for a spin or introduce me to their older sister who could offer their services at a price.

At the dance hall my confidence dipped. For much of the night I hid in the bar with my male friend but time was running out. With a beer inside me I shuffled onto the dance floor. A couple of rejections later I spotted this petite, vivacious, popular blonde who was clearly having a great time dancing with lots of fellas. I manoeuvered myself within a few dancers, trying not to be too conspicuous. Not knowing to this day how I managed it, I sidled up to her, mustering as much apparent sophistication as I could and asked her to dance. To my surprise she did not reject me. Dancing in 1966 did not require close contact and we did our own thing much like one-year-olds on a play date. She later confessed she had had better dances with the mantelpiece but timing was everything. As the band played their last chord I asked if I could give her a ride home.

She said, `Alright, but I came with me friend. Can you take her home too?'

`Err, yes, I suppose so,' I spluttered as she moved away into the melee of departing dancers. It was an exit line I had heard before. That was the last I would see of her, I thought, as I stood in the emptying foyer.

Much to my surprise she did return, with Barbara, her five-foot-ten-inch friend. I tried to explain that I only had a small, two-seater sports car but it was clear that they came as a package. Michie, as I found out my pick up was called, was smallest and so squeezed behind in the rumble seat, while Barbara took over the front passenger seat. I was directed to Michie's house first. On arrival she extricated herself like a contortionist from the back shelf and as she was disappearing down the path to her front door I shouted and asked if I could see her again.

`Tuesday at 7 pm. Pick me up here and we can go for a drink,' she replied as she strode down the short path to the front door and quickly disappeared inside.

I proceeded to drive Barbara home to a constant chat about I know not what. My mind was on this petite, full-of-fun female that I might have picked up.

Tuesday came around and I was very excited. I cleaned and polished the car and bought a new shirt. With nervous anticipation I drove from Broom Crescent, on the north side of Rotherham, through the town centre, past my old neighbourhood in Masbro; Millmoor Football ground, the home of Rotherham United my life long passion; the Premier Cinema, where I had spent many Saturday mornings watching Hopalong Cassidy films; along Wincobank Road with the smoke stacks of Steel Peech and Tozer's belching out multi-coloured fumes and lighting up the night sky as the Bessemer furnace was tapped; under the bridge and Arthur Lees steel foundry where my dad had toiled during the war. I drove up the hill towards Concord Park and Hinde House School, where I was presently teaching. It was as if my life to this point was flashing by. Maybe this was an omen for the beginning of something new.

As I approached what I had thought to be Michie's neighbourhood I became very nervous. I panicked. I considered turning around. She was a very attractive girl but I was finding it difficult to recall her face. It had been dark in the dance hall and she had been hiding in the back of the car. I was also nervous about knocking on her door, hoping it was the right one. The street where she lived was very narrow. Parking was not possible. I cruised the neighbouring streets to find a parking spot becoming more anxious by the minute. Should I just forget the date and go home?

From my parking spot, some hundred yards away from the house, I walked down the dark street rehearsing my opening line. `How was your week?' `The weather is warm for this time of year.' ` Do you go dancing often?' `What are you doing for Christmas?' No, that was too personal. I didn't even know what pub we were going to go to for a drink. Is it customary to ask the girl which pub she liked? It was her neighbourhood, maybe she didn't want to be seen in these parts. My mind was racing along with my heartbeat.

I nervously tapped at the door. No answer. I rapped a little harder and I could hear footsteps approaching the other side of the door. The door opened. To my surprise a young man, my age, stood looking at me.

`Is Michie home?' I stammered.

`No. You're too late. Our Margaret's just left with another fella. Sorry mate,' Came his terse reply.

I just stood there like King Polydectes who was turned to stone by the gaze of Medusa.

The young man stared back and repeated, `She's not here mate, sorry,' and closed the door leaving me stranded and dazed on the unlit doorstep.

I slowly returned to the car, through the dimly lit streets, and found a pen and a piece of paper in the glove compartment. I scribbled a pompous, indignant note, by the light of street lamp, leaving my telephone number and inviting her to give me a call if she wanted to have that drink some other time, not ever thinking for a moment that I would hear from her again. I walked back to the house, and not wishing to encounter the gruff young man, I stuffed the note through the letterbox. I sloped off to have a consolatory drink on my own.

On the following Wednesday evening the phone rang.

`Is that Philip?' came the female voice at the other end of the line.

`Yes,' I replied trying to connect the voice with a face.

`This is Michie. Meg Michie. You took me and Barbara home from Nether Edge at the weekend. I am so sorry about Tuesday. I get confused. I hope you will forgive me. I am free on Friday night if you would like to go out for that drink. Why don't you pick me up at seven?' She was speaking at a hundred miles an hour. `You know where I live. You can park outside the house. I will come out to meet you. See you on Friday at 7.'

She had a beautiful voice on the telephone, I just listened. I quickly overcame my pompous indignation and agreed to pick her up on Friday night. I was also very pleased to have another chance to be with the most attractive woman that had ever agreed to go out with me. I could wear my new shirt -- again.

Friday evening went well. This time when I knocked at the door, to my great relief, it was the petite blonde with the lovely voice that appeared at the open door. I had decided on a country pub that I knew well for our first encounter. She was not a drinker -- Bitter Lemon was her tipple. She chatted and I listened. I found out that she worked at the tax offices in Sheffield. She liked to read and go to the theatre. Barbara was her best friend from school. At the end of the evening I think we both thought that this was something we wanted to pursue but we both had things we had to sort out with other relationships so we agreed to see each other again after Christmas.

In the New Year we did see each other again and that was the beginning of an adventure now fifty years long. It was the beginning of the journey described in these pages with the M in the title who was called Margaret in her family, and Michie by her old school friends; she started the journey as Meg and ended it as Maggie.

Departure

It was a winter's night when the tale begins a night to freeze your bones

with a choice for dreams of burning sun or frightening house purchase loans.

The loans could wait till the fires burn low the urge would not last forever.

So the dice was cast for around the world, 'twas now or never.

The wedding came first with a radiant bride and even with beautiful weather.

So Philip and Meg had now tied the knot, which proclaimed a journey together.

The choice of travel and what to take sounds easy in front of the fire,

hitch-hiking is cheap and sounds lots of fun but leaves much to desire.

Land Rover sounds good, both sturdy and strong, and this was decided the winner.

The purchase was made the price was agreed, but the purse was a mighty lot thinner.

The armchair critics gave plenty of advice, most of it not very new --

venomous snakes, yellow fever and bandits to mention a few.

Visas and permits were duly acquired and jabs for the bugs one and all,

a gross of rolls, toilet of course, for needs must you must answer the call.

What to eat on the way was debated in full for the journey was bound to be long --

plenty of vitamins, calories for you have to be fit and strong.

It had to be light and easy to pack, no room for the whole sack of spuds,

it was goodbye to trifles for many a day and also to large Yorkshire puds.

Iced cakes were baked by Sylvia and Pru, one was just like the Rover.

Hands were shaken, with kisses all around and they are off to embark for Dover.

For all in the group the parting was sad and some wistfully shed a few tears,

but the group of well-wishers waved them goodbye and gave them three mighty cheers.

Everyone who had loved and nurtured me through the first twenty years of my life was there to see us off from 48 Broom Crescent on September 29, 1968. Joan and Frank Foster, my parents, we would see again in Athens about a month later. My Dad wrote the poem that started this chapter and continued to write further verses as our journey progressed.

My mother's sister Sybil and her husband Uncle Horace were there. They would be the first people, after my parents, to visit us in Canada in 1975. I had spent every summer with them from age 8 to 16 at their `caravan' at Coates Farm, Flamborough, on the east coast of Yorkshire. They were both schoolteachers; my parents ran a shop and a bookie business, so they were pleased that I had somewhere to go for the summers. Uncle Horace also ran lots of school trips and I was always included. In some ways I can blame him for giving me a taste for travel.

My first cousins, Tony, and Sylvia and her new husband Lol, Ian, with whom I had spent those many summers, at Coates Farm, were there. Ian would accompany us for the first stage of the journey as we took him to London, where he was studying mathematics at University College. My other cousin, Peter, who was studying modern languages at Surrey University, was sharing a flat with Ian in London, so we said goodbye outside their place in Tooting Bec. Tony's wife Pru and their two children, Andrew (who was four at the time) and Richard, who was a small baby, were among the seeing-off party in Broom Crescent. My father's younger brother Roy and his new wife Jeanette, who would visit us several times in Victoria, were also there. Grandma Ethel, whom I would never see again, completed the party.

There were no emotional goodbyes. All my family were seasoned travellers and often went away on trips. They all thought that we would be back within a month or so. The main feeling, on my part, was that we needed to get going. It was already noon and we had to drive to London, one hundred and sixty miles away and then on to Dover. We had a reservation for a cross-Channel ferry the following day.

Meg and I had only finished work on the Friday so we did not have any time to have doubts. We were off on our great adventure.

We made it to Dover by about 9 pm and found a most eccentric B&B. The whole place had the feeling of a junk shop, every shelf, ledge, and surface was covered in bric-a-brac from every decade of the last century. The landlady was a widow, in her fifties. She must have been beautiful in her youth, with curly auburn hair pushed on top her head, imprisoned with hairgrips with two ringlets dangling from the bun over her shoulder. We did not sleep a wink on our last night in England as our Victorian bed sloped from head to foot causing both of us to slide out of the end of the bed every few hours.

We had our last supper at a local Bernie Inn. These steakhouses were franchised and could be found everywhere in England in the sixties. They were the first restaurants, after the war, which offered an affordable steak dinner. We „thoroughly enjoyed our steak and we even splurged on a glass of red wine. It was hard to believe that we were actually on our way.

Tomorrow we would sail the seas to great adventures. We would not return to England for another three years, and then only as visitors.

Stranded off Liros in the Aegean Sea

In the summer of 1967 Maggie and I had travelled across Europe by train to Greece. This journey had been the making and almost the breaking of our relationship. On the long rail journey through what was then Yugoslavia we had a running game of cards. Around Skopje in Macedonia the following conversation took place.

Philip: `You have three hundred points and I have two thousand two hundred and fifty points.'

Meg: `I don't ****** care if you have a million points!' She proceeded to throw the suitcase, on which the cards and the score sheet were resting, across the carriage -- much to the dismay of a local lady dressed in black who looked as if she had recently lost her husband.

Meg has a short fuse, although I have to admit this fuse was burning for a couple of days, but fortunately we had another full day on this train and two weeks in Greece to recover the situation. Meg, I discovered, blows up quickly but fortunately, does not hold a grudge for long. By the time we reached the Greek border we were talking again. Like many arguments we may have had on our travels, there was no way out. She nor I could not go back to mum.

The two weeks in Greece were magical and laid the foundation of the way we would travel and be together on this journey a year later.

We were to meet my parents in Piraeus, Athens, in late October. We did, and had a wonderful few days on their cruise ship. Afterwards we met up with our Canadian friends John and Carol Dawson for a trip to Mykonos. While we were there we took a boat trip to Delos to visit the ruined temples. On the way back the weather changed dramatically causing the sea and wind to create massive waves. We should not have embarked on the return voyage but the crew knew that if they did not make the trip home that night we would be stranded for days. In 1968 there was no accommodation or food on Delos.

Half way across, the swells were at least fifteen feet. The small boat would surf down into the well of the wave and be thrown violently up the other side and over the next crest. In the well all we could see was a wall of froth and grey. Passengers hung on