A Hitchhiker's Triptych: Life on the road in the 1970s

By John Gardiner

John Gardiner worked as a journalist and media advisor for more than 40 years. He has travelled extensively across the world throughout his life. His book A Hitchhiker’s Triptych covers six months of his first journey into England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland during the turbulent days of the early 1970s. It was the time of the Troubles in Ireland. The Arabs also were holding the West to ransom with oil embargoes. John wanders head-on into these and other major world issues during his hitchhiking adventures.
His book is a superb exploration of life on the road during the 1970s. How easy it was to hitchhike in those days. Stick out a thumb and land a ride. A Hitchhiker’s Triptych is intriguing. It explores a wanderer’s life during far simpler times. Decades before the internet and instant news feeds. This is a journey pre-digital. A step back in time where adventure is achieved simply by standing beside a highway and sticking out a thumb. Wonders and wisdom found over that next hill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398418721

John Gardiner

John Gardiner has enjoyed a lifetime of travel and adventure. He has worked as a journalist and media adviser for more than 40 years, now dabbling as an author and screen writer. His book A Hitchhiker’s Triptych sets out the genesis of his wandering life. It explores in detail six months of hitchhiking through England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland during the early years of the 1970s. That journey set the scene for more than five decades of adventure across the globe. John’s life has been shaped by the journey he so brilliantly, and simply, outlines in his first major work, A Hitchhiker’s Triptych. It is a book that will appeal to all ages. To everyone with a yearning for adventure, an open mind, and a desire to learn. John, as well as being a writer, has been a committed surfer all his life. He currently lives in the pretty seaside village of Pottsville, in northern New South Wales, in Australia. He tells us he will never lose his love of the ocean. “Life is special. I am surrounded by love. Yet that insistent urge to explore is strong within. All travellers will know what I’m talking about. Even now, the call of the road remains ever so strong.”

Book preview

About the Author

John Gardiner has enjoyed a lifetime of travel and adventure. He has worked as a journalist and media adviser for more than 40 years, now dabbling as an author and screen writer. His book A Hitchhiker’s Triptych  sets out the genesis of his wandering life. It explores in detail six months of hitchhiking through England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland during the early years of the 1970s. That journey set the scene for more than five decades of adventure across the globe.

John’s life has been shaped by the journey he so brilliantly, and simply, outlines in his first major work, A Hitchhiker’s Triptych. It is a book that will appeal to all ages. To everyone with a yearning for adventure, an open mind, and a desire to learn.

John, as well as being a writer, has been a committed surfer all his life. He currently lives in the pretty seaside village of Pottsville, in northern New South Wales, in Australia. He tells us he will never lose his love of the ocean.

Life is special. I am surrounded by love. Yet that insistent urge to explore is strong within. All travellers will know what I’m talking about. Even now, the call of the road remains ever so strong.

Dedication

For my amazing wife, Yvonne, who is a journalist, writer, traveller. She is fun, funny, my constant companion. A proofreader for this book.

Life, with her, is joyous.

Copyright Information ©

John Gardiner 2022

The right of John Gardiner to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of the author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398407565 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398418721 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Cover photo by WOJCIECH THEN

In a trunk, beneath a lifetime of paperwork and photos, I came across three diaries. Handwritten. Fading ink on frayed paper. Notebooks from 50 years ago. A journey emerged from the pages. A hitchhiking journey. I was about to cast these words into oblivion. On a whim, I chose to let these stories live. This is A Hitchhiker’s Triptych.

1.Beginnings

For Gyda and Jordy

IT was 1974 – and it was time to see the world.

I’d just turned 21. Swimming and rugby league were my life. My father Lester my coach, and he was a fabulous, much-loved man. I had spent most of my life in Ipswich, a working-class city in Queensland, Australia.

We were battlers, never owned much. But Dad made life fun. He was a good coach. I’d represented Queensland in three sports by the time I was 20, in rugby league as a schoolboy, as a swimmer in the 1970 national titles and as a surf lifesaver, competing in Australian titles in 1970, 1971 and 1972.

I’d visited Geelong, Perth and Newcastle to compete in national competitions, and travelled throughout Queensland and to the beaches of northern New South Wales for sport and surfing events, but my first-hand knowledge of the wider world largely was limited to these adventures.

We did have an uncle who owned an island on the Great Barrier Reef.

For us, that simply was remarkable. Mum and Dad would drive their three boys up to this tropical paradise for glorious diving and swimming adventures.

Uncle Wally, bless him, always made sure we had the best of times. It was a poor family, rich uncle kind of thing. My two brothers and I treasured these holidays.

We also would visit Bundaberg, on the southern tip of the Great Barrier Reef.

My grandparents owned a lovely little house in Bundaberg, on Bargara Beach, back in the 1960s, when life was oh so very simple.

Bargara in those days was an undeveloped, quiet nirvana. Kids could wander about the dunes and foreshore, climb trees and explore rocky seashore waterholes from dawn to dusk.

It cost nothing and for three fit young boys, it was paradise.

So, in my formative, innocent years, these were the extent of my wanderings.

As a teenager, I’d finished high school, matriculated to the University of Queensland, and, while waiting for uni to start, was working as a professional lifeguard on Kirra Beach soaking up the sun.

I was keeping a close watch on the beautiful, young women in the surf, just to make sure they didn’t get into trouble, when I received a phone call.

An editor in Ipswich was offering me a job as a cadet journalist. It was November 1970 and he needed me to start immediately. I jumped on my Honda 750 motorbike, waved goodbye to Kirra and rode back into Ipswich.

Three years later, I’d finished my Ipswich journalism cadetship and was working as a sports reporter for the Telegraph newspaper in Brisbane, entertained every day. The newspaper full of old characters who belonged in some Hollywood movie.

Larger-than-life journalists. Their contacts, and the boozy, smoke-filled world the reporters lived in, fascinated me. Each and every day, I couldn’t wait to get to work.

More about not missing any of the crazy adventures of the journos as much as chasing good stories.

I’d been toiling at the Telegraph for three months when I turned 21.

My itch to see the world was intense.

Two days after my 21st birthday party, hung over, I boarded a QANTAS flight out of Brisbane bound for London. A one-way ticket and 300 English pounds in my wallet.

Just me. A mate, who was going to come, bailed at the last minute, muttering something about being in love and needing to get married.

I was incredulous – but what about Paris, Rome, and Amsterdam? Particularly bloody Amsterdam!

A woman over adventure – are you crazy?

I was too busy trying to deal with my enormous 21st birthday hangover to worry about my foolish lovesick friend.

On the first day of my adventure, that hangover bought me unstuck. My London flight stopped to refuel in Singapore, Bahrain and Amsterdam. In Bahrain, we had an hour stopover.

I walked into the Bahrain terminal. For the first time in my life, I saw soldiers with powerful rifles patrolling about – lots of soldiers, lots of guns.

Too ill to bother, I flopped on to a couch and promptly fell into one of those sleeps only those who have known massive hangovers will appreciate.

An hour and 10 minutes later, I bolted awake to the sound of the public address system loudly calling my name announcing my flight was about to depart.

After a frantic dash back to the plane, I did my best to ignore glares from rows of angry passengers.

Bahrain to Amsterdam. Then the short hop to Heathrow.

My tour company picked me up and a little bus drove me into a world I’d only ever seen in pictures. I was instantly in love.

I remember walking into the foyer of my inner-city London hotel and feeling like I’d been struck by lightning.

A big COLOUR television was broadcasting a football match. Back in 1974 in Australia, there was no colour television. Black and white only.

The colour TV in this hotel foyer was massive, broadcasting an international football match between very black African players, wearing bright red, on a very green field playing England, in gleaming white.

Oh my goodness!

I couldn’t move. It was fabulous. I was rigid in the foyer with my giant backpack for 15 minutes, until I was politely asked if I wanted to check in. I just moved closer to the TV and watched that game to the end.

They must have thought I was a huge football fan. But it was the colour. I will never forget my first experience with colour television.

After I checked in, I floated out into the streets of London.

For two weeks, I wandered about touching buildings and monuments older than my country, or at least white Australia.

As long as I could stay awake, I soaked it up. Fifteen-hour days wandering in awe getting used to the London underground rail network, the history, the accents.

Seeing for the first time a totally cosmopolitan world – East Enders to Ethiopians, and everyone in between. People from every corner of the globe.

Just wandering was a treat. Every moment an experience, every sight and sound different and special.

After two long weeks of exploring, I thought I’d better find a bit of work. Not journalism. I wanted a couple of years where I could try different things.

Next stop London’s beat-up, old Kings Cross.

A plumbing factory needed a labourer. The battered factory was near the underground and beside an ancient languid canal running up to the Midlands. Far removed from a newsroom, but great stories moved slowly about in that dusty factory. Wizened workmates with their Andy Capp hats and thick London accents. Their eyes lit up when I told stories of home.

So, for the next two months, it was about bending and painting pipes by day, exploring English pubs by night and on weekends hanging out at Camden Markets, visiting museums, seeing West End shows, exploring history, viewing art, getting to know the Tower of London, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Cathedral, St James’s Park, Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, cruising down the Thames and exploring Greenwich, all pretty much in a constant state of wonder and awe.

Then the wander itch struck again.

What was outside huge, sprawling, wonderful, historic London? Only one way to find out.

I bade farewell to my old mates at the factory – touched by their genuine sadness that I was moving on. With the possessions from my tiny Maida Vale bedsit jammed into my giant backpack, I headed to London’s outskirts.

Plenty of work down south on the Isle of Wight, I’d been told. Big sailing regattas.

Beside a highway on the edge of London, I stuck out a thumb. A lorry driver pulled up. Isle of Wight? I asked hopefully.

Sorry, mate. Heading to Bath.

That’ll do. I climbed inside.

How wondrous was that day!

He left the motorway and travelled across England on narrow roads that passed through gorgeous little villages where we occasionally stopped to make deliveries.

We drove through tunnels of vegetation that covered the road, allowing speckled light beams to dance and sparkle all around us.

The first time I’d seen the English countryside. How absolutely delightful this country, England.

I realised then we are robbed of the full spectrum of green in Australia. We get the yellow end in Oz. In England, the green spectrum is well into the black, rich and dark.

This English countryside was a magic fairy tale world different to anything I’d seen. At its lush best, there is nothing more beautiful than England, with its tiny villages and gorgeous countryside.

A long, stop-start day in the lorry came to an end all too soon.

My driver pulled up at the edge of Bath. That’s it for today, he said.

I jumped out waved goodbye and trekked into this stunning Georgian town to find a hostel to settle for the night. I didn’t know it then, but this was establishing a routine I would follow for the next two years of my life.

After a night in a communal bunkroom, where chronic snoring from fellow tired travellers drove me almost insane, I set out early next day to explore the delightful wedding cake town of Bath, which I think is straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

I was the most ill-prepared traveller, thinking, as I stepped out of the hostel, why call a town Bath?

Just minutes later, I discovered why.

Roman bathhouses from 60AD, just as the Romans left them. Languid pools, statues, hard seats and old, cold floors, everything in stone. Weatherworn with just the right amount of green mould. Magnificent. My first contact with ancient Rome.

An earnest, young guide darted here and there caressing statues then pointing to the mineral-rich waters, dramatically explaining the pools were liquid gold in the ancient world.

Celts worshipped the waters here long before the Romans. The natural spa waters were central to Celtic healing ceremonies.

Then along came the Romans. Not long after Christ walked the earth, the Romans built this complex. Dedicated it to Minerva.

Beam the Romans back today and they would be at home.

I loved the hyperactive young guide entertaining our small group. He kept tossing up exotic tales of Roman times in Britain, bringing to life this amazing historic time warp we wandered through.

I found myself developing a great respect for the Brits. Everyone I had met since arriving in England had been kind. Their humour a delight.

There was one exception. An old lady. Just after I had arrived in England, I was trying to rent a bedsit in central London. Back in 1974, very basic bedsits were going for around 15 quid a week.

This crazy, old lady was asking 75. When I politely said I’d try somewhere a little less expensive, she exploded – screamed like a banshee. Mad old witch woman.

I fled, expecting at any moment for her to zoom past me on her broomstick.

In Bath, it is impossible not to enjoy the town. I stepped out of the Roman sanctuary in a great mood, an ever-so-thankful accidental tourist. Bless you, random truck driver, for this wonderful experience.

I tracked down the Bath visitor centre, walking out of that building with a ream of information on the town, and maps. Famous names tumbled from the guidebooks.

Young reporter and writer Charles Dickens once wandered these stunning streets. He arrived a few decades after much-loved novelist Jane Austen established herself here. I strolled past row after row of elegant all-joined-together Georgian townhouses from the 1700s. Dandy sumptuousness.

The gentle curve of the showpiece townhouses of Bath’s Royal Crescent instilled in me a love of architecture I have carried with me all my life.

I spent a long, long day exploring this wondrous city, walking the tourist trails, loving the charm Bath exudes. Landmarks like Pulteney Bridge, enclosed and built over by shops and rooms, Ponte Vecchio like, and street after street of Georgian magnificence.

Back in 1974, beautiful as Bath was, the bright sparkle people see today was hidden away.

The town was covered in black grime. Most of Bath’s buildings are constructed of local Bathstone, and in 1974, that stonework looked as if it had been collecting dust and dirt for centuries.

Out came the scrubbing brushes in 1987 when Bath was granted World Heritage status.

The city’s buildings quickly cleaned up showing off today’s sparkling golden sheen.

I wasn’t bothered by the grime back in 1974. Like a kid in a candy store, I was discovering a new world.

Back in Oz, for me, it was all wooden houses on stilts with tin roofs.

Here in Bath, street after street of grand stone buildings, each seemingly with an individual story. I loved every second of my exploring, but late in the day, reality set in. No plan. I wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring.

I’d left London with an idea of heading south to the Isle of Wight to find work. I had travelled instead due west, wandering almost all the way across England in the process.

A bit like Columbus. He was looking for a shortcut to the Orient, went the wrong way and discovered America. I’d gone the wrong way and stumbled into a treasure trove of history and architecture.

It was summer in England, when twilight goes on forever. The light starts to fade around 10 pm, so my Bath Day seemed endless.

I was completely exhausted when I stumbled back into the backpacker hostel just on dark. As I drifted off to sleep, ignoring the out-of-tune, deafening snoring coming from all corners of the bunkroom, I realised I needed a strategy.

I couldn’t just aimlessly drift about like this. Work down on the Isle of Wight seemed, still, to be my best option.

Just after sunrise next morning, I walked out and positioned myself on a road heading south-east, dropped my pack and stuck out a thumb. Which way today?

An elderly man stopped. He was heading to Salisbury.

Kind of on the way to the Isle of Wight I thought, so I jumped in.

I was working my way zigzag across southern England.

In the early 1970s, hitchhiking was easy and commonplace.

Rarely seen these days, but back then, motorists were happy to pull over and give young travellers a lift.

The old man who stopped early that morning was brilliant. He was kind and couldn’t do enough for me.

Loved hearing stories about Australia. He was fascinated I was just out and about, more-or-less going where cars and lorries took me.

He asked if I might be interested in seeing a big white horse carved into a chalk hill near the town of Westbury, in the general direction of Salisbury.

Absolutely, I told him eagerly. I’d seen pictures of these white steeds in magazines.

My new driver friend ventured well out of his way. He delighted in playing the tour guide. A true gentleman. He drove me down to have a look at the hillside horse.

No one, he told me, really knows how long this particular figure has been around.

Turf had been chipped away on a sloping hillside to expose the colossal white chalk horse.

Regular maintenance had kept the image fresh, until the giant chalk carving had been filled with concrete in the 1950s and painted white.

Some academics believe the horse, or a version of it, has been around for centuries.

The habit of carving white horses on hillsides in this area may have dated back to the times of Alfred the Great. In 878, he defeated, in this area, a great Viking army roaming around creating havoc.

Alfred was born in the Vale of the White Horse.

There are a number of hillside horses. The old man told me this magnificent Westbury horse had been mentioned in documents in the early 1770s. So, historians knew the horse had been around from at least that time.

I stood looking in awe at a fantastic symbol that had been on this hillside from at least the time Captain Cook had sailed along in his Endeavour, charting the east coast of Australia.

I loved this sort of thing. Looking at objects that had existed before our country, at least our white country, had been established.

While the King Alfred story, my old gentleman mate told me, held some support among scholars, there were many other theories about the origins of this white horse. Ranging from Saxon symbolism to a loyalty pledge to the British Royal family in the early 1700s.

There were also tales about local farmers having a bit of fun and even strange theories about pagan sects.

We walked across empty fields for a closer look at the big steed dominating the sloping hillside.

The old man chuckled away as, professor-like, he told his stories. I was greatly enjoying his company.

He told me there was some evidence there had been an earlier carving of a smaller white horse here, facing in the opposite direction. Obliterated when this new horse was carved over the older symbol.

He also told me about the Uffington White Horse, 80km to the north. That horse had been carved a metre-deep into a chalk hillside during the Iron Age. Possibly as early as the late Bronze Age.

That stylised steed features on Iron Age coins and in art from that time. The Uffington White Horse is well-recorded across medieval literature.

Plenty to consider when discussing ancient white hillside steeds in England, my old professor friend told me.

I was feeling ever so grateful this kind old man had been decent enough to stop and pick me up, then drive well out of his way to show me this fabulous landmark.

With the old professor gradually running out of stories on these steeds, we turned our back on the magnificent Westbury carving and re-joined the road to Salisbury.

By this time, the old professor had become the total tour guide, showing me this and that. Explaining village customs, local traditions, slowing down as we glided past landmarks.

He was an absolute treasure. Like he’d taken responsibility for me learning as much as possible that morning on our drive. The road trip from Bath to Salisbury should take 90 minutes. With the extended tour, we meandered for four hours.

My wonderful new friend eventually dropped me off directly in front of Salisbury Cathedral. He gave me firm instructions to spend at least the rest of the day soaking up the history inside.

Then he enthusiastically shook my hand, wished me well and motored off with a huge wave.

The Poms are wonderful people. That drive greatly lifted my spirits. I was warming to this hitchhiking, gypsy life. It had a lot going for it.

I stepped into Salisbury Cathedral, and all thoughts from that morning were instantly blown away.

This stunning house of God is end-to-end history. Ornate stonework, stained glass, crypts, vaults, tombs. Nothing remotely like this back home. At least not where I was from.

The cathedral’s towering interior has the most ornate, filigree, ribbed-vault ceilings that seem to go on forever, hovering above, drawing all gazes to heaven. Tall stone arches wave down the centre of the nave.

While staring up at the ceiling, I remember bumping into a raised tomb, centuries old. There, resting on top in chain mail and complete battle armour, was a full-sized knight.

Six dragon-like lions danced off his massive shield. Everything in highly polished stone.

Raised burial monuments like this were scattered about this cavernous treasure house.

Throughout the church, stories of Genesis, Exodus and Noah told in stunning artwork.

Construction work started here in 1220. I was taking in the scale of this amazing building when I stumbled across a priceless treasure from the ages.

My jaw dropped as I peered down at a Magna Carta.

Here in Latin text was a rare original survivor from 1215. The first document to challenge a king’s absolute rule. This charter could hold rulers to account.

Monarchs no longer able to avoid the due process of law, snap fingers, have someone’s head chopped off.

The Magna Carta took away that total power. This great covenant has guided fundamental principles of common law for centuries.

The Americans, when they developed and refined their constitution, consulted the Magna Carta. A copy of this famous document sold some years back at auction for $21.3 million.

I was completely blown away by the treasures inside Salisbury Cathedral. With my huge backpack, I was like some pilgrim wandering about.

Cathedral staff nodded, smiled, made me feel welcome.

After hours of fascination, I forced myself to travel on, hunching my shoulders, adjusting the weight of my pack, before striding off for the centre of Salisbury town.

My one constant companion over the next two years would be my trusty backpack.

It held everything I owned. A sleeping bag for a night in a field if needed and all things for survival in my transient world.

I was easing into the life of a drifter. I’d only been on the road a couple of days, but I was quickly warming to this vagabond existence.

It seemed to have a lot going for it. Something different around every corner.

Down in Salisbury town, I strolled by half-timbered buildings, then walked through a giant stone gate. This opening was once linked to high walls that for centuries had surrounded medieval Salisbury. Everywhere I looked, stunning relics. To me, a picture book from the past.

I reached out and touched that centuries-old survivor, Salisbury’s stone gate.

The Brits around me were just getting on with life, strolling about doing their shopping, chatting, having a coffee, giving me funny looks as I gently caressed an old stone wall.

I’d stepped from Australian white heritage only 200 years old. Here was built history that had been crumbling away well before white sailors first cruised along the coastlines of my country.

I explored around Salisbury’s centre until very late in the day when exhaustion finally became too much. I found a hostel and collapsed.

Next morning, I was up with the roosters and wandered out to a road at the edge of town.

Stonehenge was not far away. Where would this next driver take me?

A car pulled up. Winchester? the driver asked.

Why not.

As I jumped in, I thought I would never get to the Isle of Wight at this rate. But hey, I was enjoying this crazy adventure.

What’s in Winchester? Yep. Another cathedral – probably bigger and better than Salisbury.

More ancient buildings. More incredible history. England. It’s full of it. I was hooked, soaking it up like a sponge.

Another day of wandering about following the brochure trails, reading the detail, listening to expert tour guides, taking in the landmarks, mingling with tourists from all parts of the globe.

At the end of that day, I was feeling quite chuffed about everything I’d seen and experienced since leaving London. But a nagging little man had climbed up on to my shoulder. Stop farting about, he whispered. Make some effort. Get down to the Isle of Wight.

I did need to find work. I’d been told there was plenty of casual work servicing weeks of yachting regattas on the Isle of Wight. I just needed to make it down there.

If ever you do visit Winchester, the cathedral really is stunning. Religious buildings have been on the site since 642, torn down, rebuilt, altered, built again. Today’s Winchester Cathedral is the longest Gothic cathedral in Europe. Step into another world if you want to feel blessed at viewing work by the finest artists, artisans and craftsmen of their time. Ceilings tower above.

There is a twelfth-century wall painting of Christ as he is taken down from the cross, fourteenth-century carved oak choir stalls, an eleventh-century crypt, medieval floor tiles, an endless array of chapels, gorgeous with their beaming stained glass.

The Fisherman’s Chapel my favourite. Fishermen from across the globe travel here on serious pilgrimage.

Saxon kings and old-world saints are buried in hallowed ground in and around this glorious God house. At every step, history leaps out. I wandered absorbed for hours, eventually forcing myself to trek through Winchester City itself.

Winchester was once England’s capital. A sprawling place.

Visit a castle showing off King Arthur’s Round Table. Painted around the edge are the names of Arthur’s knights.

The table existed certainly in King Henry VIII’s time. He ordered his portrait included on the surface, along with a Tudor rose.

As early as 1522, this relic features in the written record. Some documents suggest the table could have been created to celebrate a tournament of knights, and a wedding, as far back as the 1200s. Just one more treasure of the ages briefly glimpsed before soldiering on to explore Winchester’s fabulous medieval streets.

That night, I slept in a relic of the ages. My lopsided youth hostel was once a very old watermill stretching across Winchester’s River Itchen. This little hostel building had existed in some form for centuries.

William the Conqueror, after he stormed into England with his Norman armies in 1066, ordered an audit of his kingdom.

Everything that stood in England was meticulously recorded in a massive register – the Domesday Book. This duly lists in 1086 a corn mill working away at the location of my hostel on the River Itchen.

As the centuries ticked by, that corn mill was rebuilt again and again, changing shape and purpose, but always functioning in a way that harnessed the rushing Itchen waters.

During the 1900s, the building was converted into a laundry.

Some decades before I was lucky enough to venture through Winchester, this wonderful old building had been converted again, this time into a functional, if somewhat rustic and basic, youth hostel.

That night, with river waters gurgling away beneath us, I tucked myself into my top bunk bed and resolved, no more detours. Tomorrow, I’d reach the Isle of Wight.

No more meandering.

I must say it was bloody disconcerting that water running under the youth hostel.

I was up and down half a dozen times during the night. Rushing off to the loo.

Next day, my hitchhiking was tedious. Short lifts along tiny roads through little villages and hamlets.

My first lift had taken me well out into quiet countryside. I’d accepted that ride thinking it might be fun to explore peaceful rural landscapes in this part of the world.

The scenery and the people could not be better. But it was taking forever to get anywhere.

A number of drivers stopped. Every lift was a short hop. That’s the thing about hitchhiking, your driver often turns left when you want to go straight ahead.

After several stop-start rides, I changed my strategy. Isle of Wight or nothing.

I remember several drivers stopping, but they were only going part of the way, turning off to locations just down the way.

I thanked them before politely declining, explaining I would wait for a ride that would take me directly across to the Isle of Wight. Or at least down into Southampton.

Finally! A driver heading to Southampton. He dropped me off in the centre of that big port city.

I tramped down to the Isle of Wight departure area. Talked my way there into a car, waiting to descend into the belly of a huge car ferry.

That was a great thing about hitchhiking back in the ’70s. We didn’t pay. A passenger in a car on a ferry, free.

Our big boat eventually cruised down the River Test, motored across the calm protected waters of the Solent, then dropped its metal vehicular ramp on to a wharf in the Isle of Wight port town of Cowes.

I thanked my driver, who was heading across to conduct business in central Cowes, then set off to explore this wonderful island.

The weather was fabulous. I stepped on to a bus that circumnavigated the coast. Passengers joining or leaving at any stop in the loop.

I remember looking out to scores of sailing boats racing around buoys in beautiful waters. A yachtsman’s paradise this Isle of Wight.

It wasn’t Cowes Week, when hundreds of yachts line up and race. But plenty of sails were making the best of it.

With sailing regattas planned in abundance over coming weeks, scads of casual work was all around to be found. Or so I’d been told.

My bus stopped in the towns of Ryde, Shanklin and Ventnor.

I asked about for work at employment agencies in each of these urban centres.

After all of the effort to get to this island of hope, nothing.

Backpackers and students had flocked in days before and had snaffled up all available jobs. Like seagulls swooping on chips.

I tried half a dozen employment agencies. The first one I had been told about in London.

A Ryde agency specialising in catering support.

Nothing. Every job taken. At least a week ago. It was the same response at every agency. No one could even suggest where I might try for work.

Bugger!

I had limited funds. Even leading this cheap-as-chips, gypsy life, I needed a few more shekels in my pocket.

I caught another bus up to Newport in the island’s centre, checked into a hostel, cleaned up, sorted myself out and asked fellow backpackers if anyone knew about work possibilities, anything at all.

Everyone came up with a big, fat nothing.

More and more despondent, I wandered off to do some exploring, just to take my mind off things.

I remember travelling to Osborne House, a grand estate built by two people, who, over the next year or so, I would come to totally loathe. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.

Their holiday retreat here on the Isle of Wight a vast, sprawling, Italian-style, renaissance palace indulgence.

I struggled to take in that something as grand could be an every-now-and-then plaything for one family.

The grounds sprawled over hectares. And there was this full-size Swiss cottage. Some sort of cubby house for the children. It was my first contact with royal elitism. In the times of Victoria and Albert, many tens of thousands lived in slums across Great Britain.

Osborne House, here on the Isle of Wight, made it obvious Victoria and Albert weren’t thinking much about that. Swanning away in their renaissance palace holiday get-away-home.

That kids’ cubby house. A full-size bloody Swiss cottage. Just to keep the kids amused.

As far as Victoria and Albert were concerned, the peasants were revolting. Out of sight and out of mind, while the royals enjoyed their dandy lives here in Osbourne House. A lavish Isle of Wight pleasure palace.

Next day, despondent, I was strolling along a beach in Shanklin, kicking out at pebbles, looking across to high, white-chalk, Dover-like cliffs on the mainland, when I ran into a young university student.

We started chatting. He asked about Australia. I asked about work.

He was an incredibly friendly guy, telling me plenty of jobs were available in Plymouth. His mother did the hiring and firing in a big, 24/7 bakery. He wrote down her name and phone number, and the name of the bakery. Said he would ring her. Put in a good word for me.

That was enough. I thanked him profusely. After exchanging pleasantries for an hour or so as we strolled along the beach, I bolted away. Off on a mission to get to Plymouth as quickly as possible.

I retrieved my pack from a locker in the hostel, hung about the ferry terminal until I could scrounge a lift back to the mainland, then started hitching west along the English coast.

I made it that night to Weymouth, checking into a waterfront hostel to bed down for the night.

I was in love with that southern English coastline. The fishing villages and little towns I’d been travelling through along this stretch of coast were quaint beyond belief.

I awoke in Weymouth to the sound of squawking seagulls, and boats rocking and gently knocking against each other. The hostel was right on the waterfront. The smell of the ocean strong.

Lovely little buildings in bright colours lined the harbour. Folk were quietly going about their business. As I joined the pedestrians, people smiled good morning in this friendly, boaty-marine world.

There were boaty shops showing off all sorts of seagoing bits, nautically themed restaurants offering huge English breakfasts and steaming coffee.

I expected a big yacht with giant sails to come gliding up the harbour at any minute in this relaxed salty realm. That morning, I realised you don’t have to travel far in England to slip into different worlds.

Roman baths one minute, chalky horses the next, cathedrals, medieval walls and ancient history all around, then little sail-away towns.

England is a grab bag of awesomeness.

I spent much of that day soaking up the relaxed Weymouth ambience.

Fish and chips sprinkled with vinegar shared with omnipresent seagulls.

Peaceful hours slowly strolling about.

Then that annoying little man climbed back on to my shoulder and began tugging at my ear.

You are skiving off. There’s a job waiting in Plymouth. Get on with it!

I trudged back to the hostel retrieved my backpack and found a road heading west, only to wait hours and hours for a lift.

Hundreds of cars cruised by. No one it seemed was interested in picking up a young gypsy hitchhiker with a giant backpack.

Eventually, as the twilight was fading, a car did stop.

Jackpot! All the way down along the coast into the heart of Plymouth.

It was late when I arrived. Dark.

I scouted about and found an isolated park high up at the back of the central Plymouth town area.

It was too late to wander about looking for a hostel, so I pulled out my sleeping bag and within minutes was snoring away beside a tree under the stars.

Very early next morning I awoke, aware of a presence beside me. A young lad was sitting there staring at me.

I introduced myself and we started chatting away. Hungry? he asked.

Off he dashes and brings back freshly made sandwiches. I love the Poms. We enjoyed our breakfast together, before the young boy headed off to school and I set out to find a job.

There’s a big hilltop park in Plymouth called the Hoe.

An open-air, waterfront swimming pool sits at its base fronting a big harbour.

I showered in the public facilities there, freshened up, then made my way along the old Barbican area, an historic precinct once a huge fish market. All ancient, smooth, curved cobblestones.

The bakery I was seeking wasn’t all that far away.

I eventually found it and asked for the HR manager, the mum of the guy I had bumped into on that Isle of Wight beach. In her office, she told me all jobs had been filled.

I just looked at her in disbelief and told her I was desperate. Actually, I had funds in the bank. Enough to fly home if I needed to. So I could have survived. But I was really keen to secure some sort of job.

She gave me a long, hard look. Eventually, she told me to return at 5 pm. Maybe I reminded her of her son. Her boy and I were about the same age.

She’d have a chat to the night production manager, she said. He would be the guy who would say yes or no.

Close enough. On that flicker of hope, I thought I might find myself a place to live. Down the road was a real estate office. I popped in and a very rich-looking well-dressed businessman, with lots of gold on his wrist and around his neck, asked me to take a seat.

I told him I needed a place to rent, as cheap as possible. This guy laughed out loud. He could have been a total arsehole.

But he turned out to be the nicest possible person. A wonderful rough diamond.

He looked at me with a big smile and asked how cheap did I want to go. He had cheap, cheap as chips, cheap and nasty. And so bloody cheap I would have to be really, really desperate.

I liked him. I’d been paying 17 quid a week for my bedsit in London. He was offering me a place for seven quid a week. I beamed at his offer.

You’d better see it first before you get carried away. He laughed. Come on. I’ll take you out and show you.

We walked out to his posh motor and drove down through Plymouth, up through the nightclub district and red-light area, up past the naval docks and on to one of the few pockets of Plymouth not rebuilt after Hitler had flattened the city with firebombs during World War Two.

In the early 1940s, the Nazis dropped wave after wave of incendiary bombs on cities all around Britain. Plymouth was badly hit. At least the buildings.

Nothing was going to destroy the stubborn spirit of the British people. They told Hitler to go and fuck himself. Then went on with daily life as best they could.

Take more than a wanker like Hitler to subdue the Brits.

Anyway, most of Plymouth back in 1974 was sparkly bright. Rebuilt after the war. Except for this little patch which was about to become my home.

All around me empty blocks where buildings had been demolished and cleared. Some blocks remained full of building rubble waiting to be taken away. Scattered about were faded, jaded, derelict buildings.

I was being shown half the bottom floor of one of these. Gas heating, gas hot water, gas cooking, all fed by a meter. Three big rooms, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. Wooden floors. Sheer luxury.

My neighbours were old, worn-out prostitutes, petty thieves, alcoholics and drug addicts. Over the next weeks, I came to love this place.

My gold-bedecked landlord was pleased I was pleased. He wanted a month’s rent in advance.

I asked him if he’d take my automatic Seiko diving watch, a 21st birthday present from my parents, as collateral, until I got paid. That brought on a big chuckle.

Where was I working, he asked. I told him I hoped to get a job at the bakery that night.

His eyes twinkled. He took my watch gave me the key and drove off.

I set to work unpacking all of my worldly goods from the bottomless pit of my backpack and spent most of the rest of that day setting up my new home as neatly as I could, exploring my new neighbourhood and buying a cheap alarm clock.

At 4 pm, fresh, clean and tidy, I strolled down past the naval docks through the red-light party area, then up through Plymouth shopping streets behind the Hoe, to arrive at the bakery for my 5 pm meeting.

The HR lady was there with the nightshift dispatch manager. He looked me up and down, asked a few questions, then invited me to start the following night at 6 pm. The work involved 12-hour shifts. I would be paid every Friday. I could work seven nights a week if I wanted to.

He smiled, I smiled, the HR lady smiled. I just love the Poms. The HR lady and I became great friends. She told me later that the 5 pm meeting on that first day was a test, just to see if I turned up. If I was sober, and half-presentable, the job was mine.

I settled into bakery life straight away. My workmates made every moment a joy. They spoke with that Devon twang, loved hearing about Australia, called me Bruce and kept introducing me to their daughters.

Bruce, I’d like you to meet me maid Helen. She’s never seen an Orstralian before. They called their daughters maids, told outrageous stories about sailors, criminals and rogues, told endless tales about nearby Dartmoor prison and spoke fondly about how every single one of them, at some point, was going to sail off to Australia to find a new life.

And did I know Lenny? He went to Orstralia some years back. Adelaide, I think. Ever run into him? I never knew when they were taking the piss. All the time, I think. When I wasn’t laughing at them and their tales they were in stitches at my clumsy antics. Is that really the way you do it in Orstralia?

We loaded orders into baker’s vans – hundreds of them. Different types of bread were made upstairs and came spiralling down to us on the ground floor via long conveyor belts. We’d bundle up thousands of loaves and stack them into vans. When the drivers came in at 6 am, they would step into fully laden trucks and drive off to complete deliveries all over Devon.

Our shift started at 6 pm and we walked home at 6 am. I was the only one in the bakery team living down in the seedy end of town. The guys couldn’t believe I enjoyed it down there.

After my first payday, I wandered down to retrieve my watch. The real estate agent chuckled when he saw me walk in. I was just getting used to wearing it around, he said. Nice watch.

He wished me all the best and asked if we could get together at some point. He was keen to learn about Australia. I liked this rough and tumble Plymouth character, but I never saw him again. Every time I went down to pay the rent, he was out and about doing his thing.

It was summer when I was in Plymouth. When the sun sparkles, the Hoe is an idyllic place.

The sprawling grassed ridge looks out over a broad sheltered bay called The Sound, where ships of all sizes can be seen each and every day.

When the wind is up, hundreds of sails zigzag their way across the waters.

On fine weekends, the good people of Plymouth come out in their droves to promenade and mingle on the Hoe. They soak up the sun and buy ice creams from vendors who push about busy little ice cream carts.

Down by the sea at the base of the Hoe is a public swimming pool, which, when the sun shines, is always packed.

I loved every second I spent in Plymouth. Everything about it. The place, its people and its history.

Drake played bowls on the Hoe as the Spanish Armada sailed in to attack England in 1588. Drake insisted, so the story goes, on finishing his game before heading out to engage the enemy in battle.

In 1620, the Pilgrims bravely sailed out of Plymouth Sound for a new life in the New World.

In August 1966, Sir Francis Chichester sailed out of Plymouth in his little yacht Gipsy Moth IV to single-handedly circumnavigate the world. Nine months later, Chichester sailed back into Plymouth, job done. This plucky, amazing man died in Plymouth in 1972.

Back in the derelict slum area of Plymouth, where I was living, there was a different set of stories.

I was dealing with scallywags. Some good, some not so good.

Old prostitutes had taken me under their wing. Beryl had a ground floor room in a bashed-up building two up from mine.

I brought her loaves of sliced bread every morning from the bakery. In return, she had breakfast ready and waiting for me as I stepped across her threshold at 7 am – every morning. Never missed.

Lovely old woman. Loved a chat and she made thick gooey English breakfasts that I was fairly certain were totally clogging and blocking all of my arteries.

There was a great kindness and a tenderness among many of the people in our down-and-out precinct. On the other hand, there were also pathetic, whining ne’er-do-wells.

You wouldn’t trust most of these with a sixpence, especially the drug addicts. Our gas and electricity boxes constantly were being jemmied open; the coins stolen.

I caught one young guy red handed. A Scottish lad from Glasgow, Davey. He had a jemmy prying open a metre box in Beryl’s house. He also had some of my mail that had been dropped off into the little foyer area at the front of my house.

I clipped him over the ear and gave him a kick up the bum. He left our neighbourhood that day. We never saw him again. Following that incident, I had my mail held at the post office. I popped in and collected it once a week.

I was earning good money, saving most of it, living as cheaply as I could. I was intent on getting back on the road as soon as possible with the hope of travelling for several months. Cornwall, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, maybe even across to Europe.

After a few weeks of working 12-hour shifts, six nights a week, I started to enjoy three- and four-day weekends – treasured time off to enjoy hitchhiking forays. For my first trip, I went up to Stonehenge to soak up the magic. I spent a day there wandering about in total fascination.

I arrived at Stonehenge late in the day after hitchhiking from Plymouth, checked into a nearby hostel, and next morning was up before the sun to watch the giant stones emerge out of the darkness, a totally amazing experience.

In those days, you could touch the 5000-year-old stones. The big ring of standing stones is part of a much broader complex stretching for kilometres.

I clambered over ditches and banks and gently stroked the basalt giants enjoying, fleetingly, the solitude.

It wasn’t long before scores of buses descended on the site, disgorging armies of chattering tourists from all over the world.

Noisy clusters eagerly following tour leaders waving fluttering little coloured flags above their heads.

I understand why eventually they banned most visitors from directly interacting with the ancient monoliths. That day was noisy, controlled chaos.

It wasn’t until twilight before most of the eager, excited bands of tourists were rounded up. As the dust settled, and their buses faded into the distance, I joined a small group of quiet backpackers and we sat soundlessly watching those ancient stones fade slowly with their secrets back into another night.

Stonehenge and its riddles travelled with me for a long time. In the months ahead, I kept coming across other standing stones and similar, if smaller, prehistoric monuments.

Some were alone in remote fields, others grouped in ancient ceremonial sites.

Far flung, but I saw them throughout Ireland, across Scotland, on the islands above Scotland, throughout England, and later in my travels throughout Europe. So many similarities.

These tough survivors suggested that throughout the ancient world, knowledge and skills could have travelled widely. Some of the links between these sites were so obvious, to me at least, that it seemed, millennia ago, scattered communities separated by thousands of kilometres were sharing knowledge. Interacting.

In Ireland and on the Orkney Islands just above Scotland, there are sites where solstice sunlight streams along tiny corridors to brighten dark internal spaces of burial chambers.

These sites are so far apart. Yet an identical process is at work. As if builders of these prehistoric monuments shared a construction template. From the time I visited Stonehenge, through to current times, I have been intrigued by the mysteries of our ancient world.

The morning after my Stonehenge experience, in drizzly rain, I hitched back to Plymouth in a series of short, steady rides.

I greatly enjoyed English rain.

Sometimes so fine, you could simply brush it away.

I remember afternoons back in Plymouth walking to work in a drizzly wisp so flyaway it was a micro-mist. I would walk for an hour. The footpaths and streets all glistening damp.

Down through my derelict neighbourhood, past the docks, up through the red-light strip, down through the shopping precinct behind the Hoe, then curve around to the bakery.

An hour of steady walking through mist. I’d step into work covered in a water film so light it would brush off. Like brushing away dust in Australia. Just gently flick it away.

No rain like that back home. In Queensland, where I come from, downpours wash you away.

Plymouth was settling into an easy routine for me. Stress-free doddle.

Finish work at six in the morning, stroll home, have breakfast with Beryl, catch up with some of the young and old characters around the neighbourhood, crash out in my dark room, sleep through until about four in the afternoon, maybe wash some clothes at the laundromat, post some letters, or do a bit of writing.

Then set out for work around 5 pm.

Or I might set out for work early and, if it was a really fine day, hang out on the Hoe, catch some sunshine, or wander the historic Barbican waterfront area.

There were a few people I was starting to get to know really well.

Ice cream sellers on the Hoe, some of the characters around my neighbourhood, some of the guys from work. I was invited for dinner and lunch at the family homes of several of the young guys at work, experiences I enjoyed enormously.

But it was mainly work. Head down bum up. There wasn’t a lot of time for much else. I was squirrelling away money, saving to enable a few months of travelling out on the road.

I did manage to sneak away for the odd extended weekend of adventure. The bakery crew didn’t mind. They knew I was in England to explore. Were happy enough for me to have the occasional long weekend.

Just after my visit to Stonehenge, I took several days off and hitched up to the Midlands.

With money in my bank account now rising to healthy levels, I was relaxed and determined to get out and about and explore as much as possible. For my four-day foray up into the Midlands, I left Plymouth early on a week day morning, determined to cover as much ground as possible.

I set out carrying my small travel pack, giving my massive backpack a rest. No real objective this trip. Just the Midlands.

I’ll see where cars take me, I thought.

Nice to have, that freedom. To just take off. See what unfolds. It was an uncomplicated life.

After five hours and four separate lifts that morning, I found myself in the ancient Midlands town of Warwick. When I was dropped off in Warwick, I made a beeline for the information centre.

Everything is there. The history, tips on where to go, what to see, how to get there. Lazy man’s research really. Just call in and pick it up.

The books I snaffled up told me Warwick had been around forever.

There was evidence of settlement from Neolithic times. Traces of a Saxon village from the ninth century. Then William the Conqueror’s men came through and established a fort in 1068. His troops were heading north to deal with rebellions in York.

In 1974, for me, Warwick was all about a defiant, sprawling, stone castle from medieval times.

A majestic landmark towering above the town.

I strode up to the castle and immediately set about walking fortified walls and battlements.

I admired glorious views, out over the River Avon, and across rural countryside.

A few years after my 1974 visit, Warwick Castle was purchased by leading entertainment company Tussauds.

Tussauds invested millions to bring history back to life, establishing the castle as one of England’s top 10 tourist attractions.

My English wife Yvonne and I visited Warwick Castle in 1996. Some 22 years after my first visit in 1974.

In 1996, Warwick Castle was a full interactive experience. Life down through the ages. History, art, costumes, actors, digital wizardry, magnificent rooms.

These days hundreds of thousands of visitors each year enjoy pageantry and wonderful stories presented across the complex.

Back in 1974, it was much harder work. There was nothing digital or interactive then.

I explored about, head buried in a book, trying to discover how this stunning ancient castle had evolved.

Defences had existed, the brochures told me, on this hilltop vantage point since 914.

In that year, the daughter of King Alfred the Great constructed a fort on this Warwick high ground, as the people of Mercia set about building defences against Viking invaders.

The Vikings had been raiding, roaming and settling across England since 793, influencing English culture, language and law.

The footprints of the Vikings only began to diminish after William the Conqueror’s 1066 subjugation of England.

I remember sitting in 1974 in a protected spot high up in the battlements of Warwick Castle, scanning through an awesome history which tumbled back through centuries.

How different here the stories were to our infant white history back in Australia, just 200 years old.

In Australia in January 1788, 11 ships carrying some 1500 convicts, soldiers and officials arrived from England to carve out a settlement in a new land. Up until then, Australia had been brilliantly managed for millennia by independent hunter-gatherer tribes of Aboriginal people.

We white Australians didn’t know much about Aboriginal history when I was exploring Warwick Castle in 1974.

The stories then of Australia’s white settlement were all jingoistic. Determined white men and women defying odds, pushing inland, settling a hard, harsh land. Gallant stockmen on tough ponies, brave explorers battling the outback, pioneers carving life from an unrelenting bush.

Absolutely no mention of destroying a proud indigenous people. Poisoning them. Murdering them. Genocide as white Australia rode in to steal Aboriginal land.

Australian historians shied away from all of that detail.

In England in 1974, I was being introduced to that country’s incredible history.

Detailed accounts tumbling back through scores of centuries.

Such a quantum leap from Australia, where the oldest, white built-history is just 200 years old.

Here, I sat on walls erected in medieval times.

I settled deeper into my enclave high up on the stone curtain walls of Warwick Castle to read more about William the Conqueror.

William was brooding away in Normandy in 1066. He believed he had been promised the English throne.

William’s Viking heritage, and the fact he had blood links to English king, Edward the Confessor, who had just passed away, convinced the Duke of Normandy he had more right to the English throne than the man who had assumed power, King Harold.

After Edward the Confessor’s death, Harold had been chosen to rule England by an elite coterie of powerful English noblemen.

Petulant William was outraged. He sailed across the channel, with an army, determined to put the English in their place.

Poor King Harold. Depending on what version of history you read, he was shot in the eye with an arrow, or hacked to pieces at Hastings.

The conqueror William established himself in England and gradually consolidated power.

Norman customs language and religion flowed into his new country. From 1066, for a time, change across England was relentless.

William’s armies rode out to deal with anyone who caused trouble. England’s North initially thumbed its nose at the new ruler.

In 1068, William sent his men into Warwick to construct a powerful stockade on a rise overlooking the River Avon. The stockade would become a link in a chain of defences across the English Midlands, and in the North.

Over centuries, this Warwick fortification grew. By medieval times, a towering castle of stone dominated the high Warwick rise.

It was a much-talked-about landmark. For hundreds of years Warwick Castle was recognised as a centre of enormous power.

Then, in the 17th and 18th, centuries, a different world emerged. More sophisticated times.

Aristocrats across England and Europe set about building opulent palaces, where fantasy fashions were flaunted in and around ornate, beautiful gardens.

The Grevilles paraded, in these times, through the halls of Warwick Castle.

These Earls of Warwick were not to be outdone by anything in Europe. They spent a fortune introducing style, grace and comfort within the imposing battlements of their fortress in the Midlands.

The thick, stone walls at Warwick Castle soon wrapped around luxury living, rivalling anything England and Europe could offer. Elegance had arrived at Warwick Castle.

The powerful Greville family remained associated with their castle for centuries, through until the 1970s, when they sold their holdings to Tussauds.

That incredibly successful entertainment company then went about its magic, turning Warwick Castle into one of England’s most sought out tourist attractions.

While there is no doubt Warwick Castle is totally brilliant, I did have one bone to pick back in 1974. The entry fee to that ancient showpiece was exorbitant.

Backpackers, Scottish in their ways, watch every penny. Handing over notes to gain entry to attractions cut deeply every time.

Even to historic landmarks as magnificent as Warwick Castle.

My pain was eased somewhat by the assistance of the underground backpacker network.