CHAPTER 3 Holidays in Grasse

During my teenage years, for our summer holidays we made two family trips to Grasse on the French Riviera, where we stayed at the villa of one of my father’s cousins. I will only recount the first of these trips since our itinerie was similar on both occasions.

About a week before this holiday we had visited Birchington for a few days. We had made an excursion to Manston aerodrome to look over an old Spitfire aeroplane which stood at the entrance. The visit to the Spitfire was a short one, because somehow Dick managed to slam the car door closed, while his thumb was still inside the car. He then spent a considerable time howling in agony. We immediately drove to a doctors surgery, where the thumb was checked for broken bones and was duly bandaged and forgotten by all except Dick.

As well as clothing we packed a large green canvas tent, sleeping bags, Calor Gas stove, pots, pans and a kettle into the back of the family car, which was a yellow and white, Morris Oxford estate.

The day before our departure the family dog and cat were taken to the local kennels. The only thing I always hated about family holidays abroad was leaving the dog whining and looking forlorn as we said our good-byes. It wasn’t a case of the French not liking dogs; in fact the French themselves had many dogs, and even took them to top restaurants for dinner. But Britain’s quarantine laws would require six months of solitary confinement, for any animal trying to enter or return from abroad.

We started early. Mother drove us all to Dover and we took the morning car ferry to Dunkirk. I had been put in charge of map reading and had already made a list of the major towns we should be passing through. Once at Calais, father clipped large round plastic amber lenses over the top of the headlights and attached a GB sticker to the rear hatch door.

Mother moved to the back seat with Dick and Barbara. As map reader I was promoted to the front passenger seat and father drove.

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