Michael D.Heath-Caldwell M.Arch.

Joe Palmer Diary 1971  (Joe’s 2023 comments in italics)

June 1971
Trip Book
Finder please return to Joe Palmer, 13 Aveley St, Kahibah 2290, NSW, Australia

A week ago, on Sunday 6 June 1971 I left Australia on a Pan Am 747 jumbo jet. My final destination is Germany, where a job has been arranged for me to be secretary to the principal of Aukamm American Elementary school in the U.S. Air force base at Wiesbaden. 

    
    Saying goodbye to Mum and nieces at Sydney airport. In background my PanAm 747
  

As suggested in a letter from one of my Aussie friends, Eve Wright in Canada, the most important job after settling into my seat on the plane was to order a glass of bourbon, which I finished off nicely after the 747 took off in a wonderfully powerful surge. Just after take-off, my nerves had gone to pieces as the aircraft seemed to rattle and rumble - it was my first experience of wheels being retracted. 

The job in Germany has been arranged by Vivienne (Viv) Topp, who is now in that job, and is leaving it. Viv was originally from my home town of Newcastle and was a bridesmaid for my sister Primrose (Prim) a few years ago. They have kept in touch since then - and now that I think of it, I don’t know which one of them originally had the idea I might be interested in Viv’s job but anyway, here I go.

Since my letter to Viv that I would like to take on the job, I have been waiting to learn more about it from her, and I had already bought my plane ticket, resigned my job as an on-air coordinator at TV Station NBN Channel 3 Newcastle, gave up a 3 nights a week job playing my ‘Farfisa’ keyboard in a pub band at Pippi’s Hotel, sold my car, and had vaccinations - the smallpox jabs made me feel like death warmed up a few days later. I had also written to my Aussie friends Eve Wright and Dave Wilson in Canada, who offered to put me up while I wait for my German work visa and for Viv to send me info. Running out of time, on the last working day before I flew out, I did a crazy fast drive to Sydney and back in my brother in law’s borrowed Mini to fill out my German work visa forms. My ticket is marked Sydney to Los Angeles/ Cleveland/ Toronto/ Amsterdam/ London.

First stop was Fiji - after winter in Australia the heat and humidity of Fiji was hard to take. Even though it was 10 o’clock at night the temperature was 80deg.F (27C). We had just half an hour to do some duty free shopping - my hands soon became clammy and my clothes stuck to the skin - in the rush I bought a tiny Jap transistor radio at U.S.$9.30 for myself plus 200 cigarettes $2, bottle of rum $3 and perfume $4 all for Eve and Dave. I had to pay in U.S. dollars but didn’t have many U.S. dollars cash and was short by $1. Being pressured to pay immediately, an older American guy in the crowd at the counter handed me a dollar, I will always remember his kindness although I never saw him again. Glad to get back on the cooler plane but had a rough take-off compared to Sydney, the runway in Fiji must not be too good. 
 
After not much sleep spent sitting up more than lying down, I woke to an air hostess dangling something in a pair of tongs in front of my face. I finally understood her American accent as she repeated “hot towel”. That experience was followed by guava juice, a first for me and it tasted good. We landed in Honolulu and in U.S. territory. Things started nicely - we were all welcomed with a garland of tropical flowers placed around our necks as we left the plane, but it all went downhill from there. We had 2 hours at the airport while our luggage was temporarily dragged off the plane, opened and inspected.

We had been warned before getting off the plane of the intense search process as narcotics traffic had increased due they said to the war in Vietnam. After the first Honolulu check-point an immigration officer took my passport and ticket explaining that I would get them back when I entered Canada because I didn't have a visa for the U.S. - I wondered why my travel agent had not warned me about this. Naturally I was worried and so was another bloke whose ticket contained an authority for an overnight stay in Los Angeles - we went to the officials and complained and he was given that part of his ticket back but I received only my passport - the lack of ticket proved to be inconvenient as I had to explain to officials on the way the reason for not having it. 

What do I know about travel? I have not talked with anyone who has done it. In the 1920s my dad travelled to England by ship and spent a few years at Oxford Uni. A lot has changed since then, and apart from Dad’s experience, I am the first in the family to travel overseas, and by flying instead of by ship, thanks to the recent introduction of budget air tickets on Pan Am.

There was no chance to get an impression of Los Angeles (still 6 June 1971) as I only saw endless blocks of houses through a kind of haze from above. While I was waiting at LA airport to catch my next flight to Cleveland, another flight took off before mine and collided a few minutes later with a U.S. navy jet fighter. All on board that aircraft and the fighter pilot perished. (50 fatalities).  

At the time, we passengers were not told anything - only that there would be delays. I headed for the bar where the barman thought I was under aged but fortunately I had proof to show him. I learned that in U.S.A. you have to be 21 years old to buy a beer - I drank a few of them with an Irish guy waiting to fly on to Ireland. There was also a delay in getting myself and ticket transferred to American Airlines, made worse because they had taken my ticket. I had to wait at the airport for 7 hours and not allowed to leave the airport and see anything. 

I took a drink from a water bubbler in the airport and could smell the chemicals in the water, my first understanding of taking the pure water supply we have in Australia for granted. Someone was being paged repeatedly over the airport loudspeakers. I heard it a few times before I thought they might be asking for me, so I went to the counter and asked if they were paging me - he said “Are you Joe Pal-mer?” and it was then that I realised he was asking for Joe Pal-mer not Joe Palm-er. So I said I was indeed that person and he said “We’ve been paging you for half an hour, don’t you even know your own name?” Funny when I think of it now.

I was able to get some sleep on the American Airlines flight to Cleveland. I wondered if I would ever see my ticket again, but in a logistic miracle of unseen hands, it was handed to me during the next 1/2 hour flight to Toronto Canada, where it was great to see Eve there to meet me - she faithfully waited for me a long time. The immigration people have given me 5 weeks stay in Canada so hope this will be time enough for my visa for Germany to come through. 

 
                     Eve looks out on Toronto from her apartment
  
                     

The Monday I arrived was humid - I felt tired and exhausted after the trip. Eve and her Canadian partner Gordon had to work that evening so went with them to TV station CFTO Channel 9 and had a good look over their place of employment- I was impressed with the production of a teenage show being made at the time. It was hard to believe I was in Canada when not long before that I was in Australia on the other side of the world. 

It has been hard re-orienting myself - in fact it has taken the best part of a week to adjust to the climate and change of hours, for instance I've been staying up till 4 or 5 in the morning and sleeping in to 2 in the afternoon - I guess this has been made easier by the fact that the sun is setting at 9pm when back home it was going down at 5pm. Canada is on daylight saving time - a terrific idea.

Before getting here, I never even thought about the weather - just as well its summer, Eve has told me how fortunate I am not to have arrived in the freezing Canadian winter, more luck than skill on my part.  

                      The penthouse cocktail club Toronto

Tuesday evening (8 June 1971 - Toronto - fine, hot, windy, hazy) we had cocktails in an exclusive club on top of one of Toronto's highest buildings - it was luxurious with a fantastic view, but expensive. It was here that I gained my first experience at tipping - we only stayed one to two hours but the tip was $10 between the 4 of us. 

Fortified by our drinks, we went to what seemed to me an ordinary type of restaurant but the bill was $50 plus of course the tip!! Considering the fact that around $50 is the average minimum weekly wage in Australia it was an expensive meal. Gordon explained to me how tipping works and is a generous tipper himself because as he put it, he likes to get served when he comes back! It was also my first taste of snails and they were delicious!

Wednesday (9 June 1971 - Hamilton Fine, clear, warm) Eve and Gordon drove me to Hamilton and to Dave Wilson and wife Penny's place, which like Eve and Gordon's is at the top of an apartment building. Dave was at work till 2 in the morning - when he came home we talked to about 6am. 

Thursday (10 June 1971 - Hamilton) lazed around talking to Penny. From the balcony I could see the messy sight of lots of loose cables strung everywhere. So this is what Cable TV really looks like I thought, but it does mean that they have lots more channels in Canada than Australia.

Friday (11 June 1971 - Hamilton - Fine and warm) I went down to the shops here at Hamilton and generally had a look around downtown. Dave was at work again, but the following day on Saturday Dave, Penny, their little girl Karen and I went for a trip around this part of Canada as Dave has taken four days off. 

The first day we drove straight along this fantastic expressway to Montreal - a city that seemed like it has been lifted straight out of France and dropped into Canada.

(Sunday 13 June 1971 - Montreal - Fine, warm clear beautiful day) With all its French signs Montreal was like another country - there were embarrassing moments when I would speak to someone and could not be understood - or maybe they did understand me but wanted to give me the ‘French only’ message. We went to the old site of Expo '67 now called ‘Man and His World’ - the place was packed with people and futuristic buildings - a great day. 

On the Monday (Monday 14 June 1971 - Ottowa - FIne, warm, windy) we were in Ottawa, Canada’s capital, a small and old looking city of beautiful parliament buildings being guarded by ‘Mounties’ in their immaculate red uniforms - you cannot get more Canadian than being a Mountie. Unfortunately I wasn't allowed into the house where parliament was sitting as I had shorts on.

Tuesday 15 June 1971 - Visiting Algonquin Park - Fine, warm cloudy.                                         
Today we visited the beautiful Algonquin national park - just crammed with pine trees and blue lakes dotted with the occasional Indian style canoe - a truly picturesque setting if ever there was one. We stopped beside one of these many lakes for a picnic where I fed a cute chipmunk some peanuts and went for a swim in the lake’s clear fresh water.

                  
                              Feeding a chipmunk

The whole trip was a total of 1,150 miles and no effort in Dave's Ford Galaxie - an average type of car here in Canada. In fact you rarely see a car more than a few years old on these roads. Cars just a few years old rust out quickly because of the salt put on the roads to cut the snow and ice in the winter - there are actually cars with huge holes in the side and under the boot - it seems amazing that they don't fall part - the roads are all good so I guess it helps.

Wednesday 16 June 1971 - Hamilton - Fine Warm
Went shopping with Dave and Penny - there were many cuts of meat I had never seen before - most products seemed expensive to me, eggs just 34 cents a dozen. There wasn't much tea on the shelves and it was in tea bags. The bill was the usual for two weeks-worth of groceries - $50.

Hamilton is about the same size as Newcastle Australia but the pollution is bad - for example there are hills only a few miles distant but because of the haze they are difficult to see some days.

With Dave’s tape recorder, I have been able to record a message about my recent experiences to post home. It’s funny to hear my voice replayed, and the Canadian accent coming through in my voice, I had no idea it was happening.

Thursday 17 June 1971 - Hamilton - Fine Warm Hazy
It was great to see Niagara Falls after only seeing pictures of it before - what impressed me was the power of water pouring over the cliffs and the horror thinking of those dare-devils who dropped over the side in barrels. Unfortunately it was a hazy kind of day but that didn’t matter, the falls were another great experience, thanks to Dave and Penny.

        Reflection of Niagara Falls from the windows on the top of the lookout tower

Picnic at Niagara Falls - Dave disguises a beer - it’s illegal to drink alcohol in public places in Canada

Friday - 18 June 1971 - Hamilton to Toronto - Fine, warm
Friday evening went with Dave to see TV station CHCH Channel 11, Dave's place of employment - the station is run from old buildings scattered round the town but it all seems to work. Fascinating to see there a large coiled lump of electrical cable with all its outer plastic coating melted together - this was because it was left coiled while the power was on. Dave explained how this overheating happens because Canada has a different power system to Australia.

Saturday - 19 June 1971
Saturday said goodbye to Dave and Penny and went by Greyhound coach back to Toronto, and after two more buses found Eve's apartment. Saturday evening went with Eve and Gordon to CFTO TV and was invited into the control room to watch them work on their news broadcast - a smooth presentation.

Monday 21 June 1971 - Toronto
Sunday was quiet - I went to see a movie and had a walk around downtown Toronto. Thunderstorms brought welcome relief to the heat (90*F).

Monday beautiful weather - can see for miles - pollution must be right down - we went shopping to an interesting little store stocked with all kinds of fascinating food from meats to fruit - Gordon bought 3 fillet-mignon steaks plus fresh asparagus, strawberries, cherries etc. We had a great meal, Gordon doing the cooking - I really liked his fresh asparagus in hollandaise sauce, I have only eaten asparagus out of tins before. Also a bottle of white German wine - I hope to have more of that kind of vino in Germany.

I think this is the first time we really made full use of the kitchen since I have been here. I will always remember my very first meal in Canada - I had just arrived when Eve asked me what I would like to eat. She said just look at all the food brochures on the table, whatever you want just phone them and it will be delivered to the door within half an hour. I thought at the time this was special, but I soon found out that this is a fairly normal way to eat here - it just doesn’t happen in Australia…yet.
     
We went over to see a friend of Gordon, bringing some of Gordon’s classical music collection, Tchaikovsky 1812 overture and The Messiah - his friend then bored us with some dull bit of flute music that caused us to leave as politely as possible. Good news - received Mum's letter containing forms for the job in Germany. 

Tuesday 22 June 1971 - Toronto - Fine, warm. 
Tuesday we went to see the film ‘Mash’ - a sort of war send up - it’s a wonder it wasn't banned in the USA, but thankfully they can laugh at themselves. In the evening we planned to go out again but Gordon had an asthma attack so ordered pizza pie instead ($4 plus tip).

Wednesday 23 June 1971 - Toronto - Fine, warm, windy.
We went to the races - a beautiful track but 50c to get in, 50c to park, then $3 to enter the betting area and grandstand plus minimum bet $2. We all lost on the day - I had one win and bet on 7 races. Betting just isn’t my scene anyway, and right now I don’t have a job, so I can’t go wasting any more money.

Talking of wasting money, that evening we dined at what must be the fanciest place in Toronto called Sutton Place - smoked salmon, turtle soup and roast duck plus champagne cocktails, German wine, coffee and liquors - total cost of meal plus tip for the 3 or us - $70. That one fabulous meal has taken out about one tenth of my remaining travel money - need to get working soon.

Thursday 24 June 1971 - Toronto - Mild
Thursday I had a restless walk around downtown - at last wrote to Mum and Dad. Gordon had a bad asthma attack and still suffering - also Eve sick in the afternoon - could it be the result of that luxurious dinner we had the night before? I am not sick, and I seem to be stronger than I had previously given myself credit for. Eve and Gordon both didn’t go to work so we relaxed at home and had some Danish shrimps delivered for dinner (called scampi).

Sunday 27 June 1971 - Toronto - Warm - Hot and thunderstorm
Gordon has native North American heritage, and is interested in spiritual matters. We have conversations about religion and spiritual beliefs late into the night, but it’s not Eve’s thing, she goes to bed, but usually gets up asking Gordon when he will get some rest.

It is interesting dining out because Gordon is a food perfectionist, and he often finds something just not right with the meal. The waiter is called and the complaint made (I find it so embarrassing), and usually a completely new meal is finally put before him, accompanied by apologies from the waiter or chef. Gordon tells me he feels comfortable about doing this because he tips so well, and therefore expects and gets top service, something as an Australian I have never been exposed to before, and don’t wish to be again - having said that, Gordon and I get along no worries at all.

Woke up Friday to the sound of a tremendous thunderclap - for some reason it sounds different here - perhaps it is because we are so high up that the tops of our towers disappeared today into the swirling clouds, making things cool and misty - a contrast from the last 3 weeks.

Saturday was a work day - went to CFTO TV with Eve and Gordon and had a few hours practice on a type writer. Touch typing is a skill I practiced in Australia with a cheap manual typewriter I bought in preparation for the secretary job in Germany. Viv said I need to be able to type at least 30 words per minute at the school. Meanwhile at CFTO TV, Gordon showed me where to find a bottle of Scotch in a filing cabinet. Their TV station doesn’t have a canteen, just lots of food and drink vending machines.

Sunday back to CFTO TV news room - more practice on the typewriter - not an enjoyable day - bored and fed up waiting for word about my visa. I have always wanted to go to New York, and to the top of the Empire State Building, and we are so close to New York here, but my friends have told me I can’t go because I am too innocent, and I might wander into a wrong area as my friend here Dave once did and barely escaped alive. Finding out how my friends feel about my innocence - as they put it - has been a shock and a bit of a blow to my ego, but it’s something to think about. I won’t go to New York though.

Monday 28 June 1971 - Toronto to Quebec - Warm
This morning I left Toronto for Quebec City (safer they said than New York) in the ‘Rapido’ train - not really better than the trains back in Australia - travelled all day to Quebec City arriving about 9pm and settled in to this charming hotel called ‘The Old Homestead’. It has a view of the artists in the street below selling their paintings and an open air bar.

Tuesday 29 June 1971 - Quebec City - Cool.
I spent Tuesday walking around historic Quebec City with thousands of other tourists, mainly American. One of them was in fact so friendly that he invited me up to his hotel room but I told him I wasn’t interested in doing that. I felt disturbed when he started to beg me to go with him, so I said goodbye and walked away.

From a vantage point I could see the St Lawrence River widening in the direction of the North Atlantic Ocean, the river looks to be kilometers wide just north of here.

I had no idea Quebec City would be so completely French - everyone speaks French and the old part of town (inside the old city walls) looks like a part of old France. I was spoken to in French even though the same people would speak to other tourists in English - guess it must be my French looking beard. 

The town is full of historic churches and is the most tourist oriented town I've ever seen. I had sore feet by the end of the day but was revived beyond all belief when I phoned Eve who told me the visa for Germany had come through. Tomorrow I will be glad to leave this lonely old Quebec City.

 
                         Joe on Quebec City promenade

Wednesday 30 June 1971 – Quebec to Toronto - Warm, humid
Today I travelled by train back to Toronto a lot happier than when I left and phoned Mum reverse charge to tell her about the visa - she certainly sounded Australian - without knowing it I've become accustomed to the Canadian accent and Mum now sounded different - I guess I'm getting a bit of a Canadian accent too. I didn’t speak with Dad - Mum has to do everything now. 3 minutes maximum call duration for minimum cost is hardly a conversation anyway because there is a long delay back and forth, but to hear Mum’s voice was the main thing.

Friday 2 July 1971 - Toronto - Cool to mild
Wednesday night was so hot and humid that I slept on the balcony instead of the couch - unfortunately it rained but was fairly well protected by the layer of blankets and a narrow awning. Today, Eve took me on a tour of some of the nicer homes and estates in Toronto, and more practice on an electric typewriter at CFTO TV. Gordon had more trouble with asthma. I booked my flight to Amsterdam.

Saturday 3rd July 1971 - Toronto - Mild
Today is not likely a day I'll forget in a while - I was driven to the airport by one of Eve's friends (Linda) but not allowed on the plane as my ticket was supposedly made out incorrectly - the difficulty was that the ticket was made out direct from Toronto to Amsterdam but unfortunately the airline did not fly direct to Amsterdam but to London first. 

I eventually found out about an airline which did fly direct but they wouldn't help me until I saw Pan Am on Monday and had the ticket changed over - I was upset and had some trouble phoning Eve. As it turns out Toronto is divided into certain areas, and to get Eve I should have been calling long-distance even though she was only a few suburbs away. I went looking for her at CFTO TV by taxi (which cost $12) - a very distressing night for us all. 

Sunday 4th July 1971 - Toronto - Mild
Spent Sunday trying to make a few phone calls to various airlines but it did no good being Sunday - I will have to wait until tomorrow - Eve stayed home sick and Gordon returned home from work with asthma. 

Wednesday 7 July 1971 - 36,000 feet up - Hot.
My travel agent in Australia refused my collect call when I tried to phone him after I found out that he had incorrectly marked my ticket flight with the code AC (Air Canada) when he should have written CP (Canadian Pacific). The hard reality dawned on me that agents are all very nice until they get your money, and after that, you are on your own. Pam Am in Toronto initially suggested I go to New York head office and get it changed, but I took a chance and went to the airport instead and met a kind person at the airline counter who gave me a standby seat on this flight. Yes I am now writing this in a Canadian Pacific jet leaving Canada and what a relief. 

Later…..It was nerve-wracking at Montreal airport because we had an unexpected (by me) stop there for an hour. I stayed in my seat while the plane totally filled up, wondering what I would do in Montreal and with an invalid ticket - luckily somebody must have missed the plane as I am still on it - I felt the kind of relief you feel when you arrive home from the dentist with the realisation that it didn’t really hurt at all. Just before I left Toronto I received a long waited for letter from Viv, who said she might not be there when I arrive, and gave me the phone number of her Australian friend De, who may be able to help me out with accommodation. I am not sure what this all means but guess it will all work out for the best. 

After a month in Canada I feel fortunate that I was invited to stay with friends Dave and Penny, Eve and Gordon, who have all been very good to me - however I can't say I'm sorry to leave Canada because I am looking forward to reaching my final destination and the job at the school. My friends in Canada have invited me back to work in Canada if things don’t work out in Germany, they are very kind people. As I write, I am looking out of the aircraft window towards the north-pole and watching the glow of sunlight on the horizon in the middle of the night, a hopeful sight.
 
Friday 9 July 1971 - Amsterdam - Hot, humid.
I’m writing this from the Hotel Beethoven after 2 days in Holland. Amsterdam is a wonderful city and certainly prepared for the tourists - crammed with interesting little shops and street-cafes and of course the canals. It surely is different here for me - the food is great - such a change from Canadian food - I'm sure it’s more fattening here. I just can't resist all the Dutch cakes - they're delicious - the beer here is better too so I've had a few because the weather has been hot and sticky - I just heard on my Fiji bought transistor radio that some workers in England have been sent home because of the heat. There was also news about the death of American Jim Morrison, composer and lead singer of The Doors. He has died in Paris, not so far from here, aged 27. Somehow I always imagined him in America, but then again, here I am in Amsterdam. I used to play some of his music in a band.  

       Americans in Amsterdam selling their tickets home

Everything here seems to be so cheap after Canada but guess prices compare with home. I visited Anne Frank's house which had pictures of the persecution of the Jews. As I stood where she wrote her diary hiding away from the Nazis, it was hard to believe how terrible things were here only 26 years ago.

There was no mail at the post office, not that I really expected any. A church has been converted into a place for the homeless - it seemed to be full of hippies, who also spend their days sitting around one of Amsterdam’s public squares - people are strange. I visited Rembrandt house - full of etchings, and enjoyed a canal ride - there is plenty of photographic interest, and tomorrow I'm going on a bus tour of the Old Dutch windmills. 

Saturday 10 July 1971 - Wiesbaden, Germany - Hot, humid.
Well, I can hardly believe that I'm actually in Wiesbaden at last. Last night at a restaurant I got to talking with a young American guy who has already been a few months in Europe - his name is Peter and decided to come to Wiesbaden with me today - I sure am glad to the company and I think he was looking for someone to talk to as well. 

The train trip to Wiesbaden passed through beautiful countryside softened by a blue haze - we talked to 2 U.S. army guys from Frankfurt on the train - booked in to the Luisenhof Hotel then walked around the town by night - it really is an attractive town and sure hope I still like it when Peter goes on his way - it really makes a difference having someone to talk to and generally look around with.

Tuesday 13 July 1971 - Wiesbaden - Hot, humid.
The last 3 days have been busy - but unfortunately ending in some disappointment. Sunday Peter and I walked around the town and phoned Viv's friend De, she has proved to be very kind. I phoned her from a public phone box and she asked me where I was. I looked outside and told her I was in Einbahnstrasse, she laughed and said Einbahnstrasse means in English ‘one way street’. 

De eventually found us and took us with her two American friends (Jack and Gwen) swimming, and was a good day at the local pool, surrounded with tall trees on one side and a view down to the city on the other. Some kids were running and jumping into the water, so when I first heard the public-address system warnings, the strident German language voice made me feel like I was living in a war movie. That night there was a barbeque at Jack and Gwen's place at the Air Force base. They let me know that in Germany I must dress in good clothes if I want to go walking around in public places on Sundays. 

Monday I went down to the C.P.O. to find they hadn't received my application forms so had to type them - this took up the morning - in the afternoon they gave me the address of a job at a nearby Air Base (Kastel) so I took a bus (1/2 an hour's trip) and had a look - it must be the worst looking Air Base the U.S. owns, and the job entails checking in and out all the Air Force surplus domestic material (junk), collecting some in a huge yard and the rest piled outside for auction - the boss of the section (a Pole) seemed an agreeable sort of bloke but the place was certainly depressing.
 
That night I called De and she invited us out to talk it over - apparently she knew a guy who worked at Kastel for a short while and didn't like it at all. De is staying in her U.S. boyfriend's apartment - it is fitted out with every luxury - De gave us a great dinner. 

Today I went back to C.P.O. and told them I would prefer if they could offer me another alternative so they have this job at a receiving depot - I haven't seen it yet but it sounds the same as the other job except for handling the stuff coming in instead of out. I suggested the American T.V. station in Frankfurt so they gave me the address and Peter and I made the trip this afternoon. Unfortunately they have no positions at the moment but were interested in me and like the reference I had. They suggested I go next door to the German T.V. station but they weren't interested unless I learnt German. 

The language barrier is more of a problem than I thought it would be but guess I thought I would be stepping straight into the job I was originally told about at Aukamm School. Also it is difficult to make any decision as Viv is in France or Spain somewhere, and now I am beginning to understand that she has not given any indication of when she is leaving the job at the school. I will have to do something soon as I noticed my money is going down now I am staying in hotels. 

Friday 16 July 1971 - Wiesbaden - Warm, fine, cloudy.
It has been three days since my last diary entry - fortunately things have improved since the initial disappointment and I have been busy having medicals, visas, bank accounts etc. The C.P.O. ended up offering me a temporary position at the depressing Kastel Air Base - will stick this one out as I hope to get into the school when Viv returns. 

The pay is pretty ordinary - Aus $232 per month but fortunately they will give me a room in the barracks which will be very cheap and so will the meals - I have been assured the meals are good - also I will be able to catch the air-force bus to work. Naturally the accommodation and tax has to come out of the $232 so I don’t like to think what I'll end up getting. I believe the money will improve when I get into the school job, (it sure would need to). I'm beginning to wonder just how I will live on the money, let alone afford a car.
 
Peter went on his way this morning - he was company, and I liked him, but I must say I wasn't sorry to see him go as he wasn't really so cheerful and saw so much wrong with everything - anyhow he has promised to help me if I ever want an entry permit for the U.S. 

His experiences in Vietnam were very bad, shot twice at close range. He showed me his body which had suffered deep folds in the skin that look too bad to be repairable - shocking to look at but I didn’t say it was shocking, I couldn’t say anything. 

When I left Australia I had to get a permission to leave card from the government because although I didn’t get called up in the Vietnam draft, I was later sent a letter to remind me that I could still be called up - I won’t go back to Australia if I have to go to Vietnam. I have not yet had to be a ‘draft dodger’, but I will be if I have to because I don’t want to die in a war that has no benefit for anyone, is that so bad? Naturally I keep that information secret from my U.S. Air Force employer and in fact everyone.

Wednesday 21 July 1971 - Wiesbaden - Barracks. Warm, overcast.
On Tuesday night went to the movies at the Air Base with De, Jack and Gwen - they’re great company. The film was ‘Easy Rider’, which I had seen in Australia, but it was like watching a different movie because movies seen by U.S. armed forces are not censored. Easy Rider is a movie showing drug use, but as all those scenes were cut by the Aussie government censor, I had no idea what it was all about until now.

When I originally walked into the breakfast room back on my first day at the Luisenhof Hotel, I was wished a “Guten morgen” but there was nobody in the room. In the bay window was a large parrot in a cage that continued talking and sang well too. Each morning I noticed the parrot had dragged more of the surrounding plush curtains into the cage and played with them, finally reducing them to shreds. On my last morning in the hotel the parrot still wished me a muffled “Guten morgen” from within a thick hessian bag that they had tied over its cage.

I am writing now from the barracks in Biebrich. This particular cage has turned out to be worse than I could have possibly imagined. The U.S. guys live on one end and the civilians (that’s me) live the other - unfortunately I think they are almost all Italians and Spaniards living in my section, so communication is hopeless, also we are not allowed to enter the other end of the barracks where the Yanks are, so I am stuck in a room with 3 old men - I don't know what they are talking about, so I have a life separate from them. One of them kindly showed me a photograph of what I think is his daughter, a beautiful looking young woman, but I don’t know the story, there is something tragic there, or perhaps he just misses her. 

I stay in the room only to sleep. But I have made friends with a disabled older Englishman (a victim of polio he told me) who also has a job at the Base as a cleaner. I spend time with him in his room playing chess, he doesn’t come to my room, no one would want to. He is a nice man, and has given me a lot of valuable information regarding the life of a disabled person, and how they like to be treated. 

I have been at the barracks 5 days now and am just so glad that I have been able through my new friend De to arrange 4 weeks accommodation in the flat next to her in Richard Wagner Strasse - a beautiful area - Aus$70 per month which won’t leave me much for food, but as long as I can make it I would prefer it to the place I'm in now. Here it is impossible to really live a normal life. For a start you can't leave anything outside your locker or it will be stolen, the floors and windows are dirty and the toilets leak onto the floor. I get embarrassed using the communal showers, but have overcome it by showering at odd times. But for the fact that we change our bed linen once a week and it is clean, I couldn't continue on here - as it is I am moving out tomorrow night and it can't come soon enough. 

Saturday I felt disillusioned with the whole deal and felt like walking out on it all and maybe trying for work in England but knowing their problems with unemployment made me realize I could be worse off than before. I was walking through town that night when I came across a huge hall where a big wrestling match was about to take place - I never imagined that I would ever actually pay to go and see a wrestling match but went inside and all the noise and excitement cheered me up. It was a match between a German and English guy. A guy near me said something and I stupidly told him I don’t speak German. Pretty soon the crowd around me accused me of being English and began pushing me around. I was about to be beaten up, so I got out of there in a hurry.

On Sunday I went for a river trip up the famous Rhine river valley, it was a nice change. The water looked dirty brown and the shores were mainly rock-covered to prevent erosion - there were a huge number of vessels, barges, and the like using it as a water highway.

                                Rhine river cruise

The further down we travelled the prettier it became as the grape vines began to appear, and old castles began to dot the landscape. I went as far as the tourist town of Rüdesheim, and because of it being a Sunday, was packed with tourists (even though I am a kind of tourist I guess). 

There is something about a professional tourist that is just so special - sometimes loaded with camera, sunglasses, binoculars, coat, ice-cream, pop bottle and souvenirs they can be an awesome sight, especially when massed together pushing and shoving to be the first to get on or off or in or out of wherever.

After taking a cable car trip over the vineyards to a hill-top monument with nice views over the Rhine river valley, I found a little church back in a quiet part of Rüdesheim. I was alone in there and feeling it, so I knelt in the pews and thought for the first time about the meaning of suicide. I knew then, that this was never going to be ever on my radar. Not that I for one moment considered it, but I understood for the first time how some people find themselves in such a sad situation, that they lose all understanding of how their final action will hurt so many other people. I try not to hurt other people - although I do sometimes, but I hope I never throw away the gift of my once and only once chance at life.

On Monday there were more papers to sign and on Tuesday I actually started my temporary job at Kastel air-station. It has turned out to be as boring as anticipated - writing numbers and figures on bits of paper that all don't mean a thing to me. I'm sure the air-force will suffer as long as I remain there. 

I had some time off today to get my visa authorised in town and used the time also to pay a visit to the local T.V. station, only to find the language barrier stopping employment once more. However, the interviewer suggested writing to the British embassy and finding out about employment in British T.V.

Friday 23 July 1971 - Wiesbaden - Warm, overcast.
It’s just so great to have my own place at last - it really is beautiful here just as long as I can afford it. I have my own bathroom and kitchen bench, bed, lounge, cupboard space and coffee table plus a large picture window to the garden making life almost complete. All I have to do now is get some food for the cupboards plus a few cheap cooking utensils and I should be set up for a while anyway. 

I have had time here to think about why living in the Biebrich barracks was such a trauma to me, and I think it was because it brought back memories of my teenage life living in boarding houses. I was brought up in the protective cocoon of a strongly religious household, my father was a fearless but impoverished Anglican minister of religion who never lost his faith. His was a Jesus who “knew for certain only drowning men could see Him”. My loving mother worked tirelessly for church and family. I was safe and happy, I loved my parents and all my five sisters deeply. 

I moved to Sydney aged 17, and worked as a clerk in the city, living out of my locked suitcase in Strathfield, because I didn’t trust anyone in that boarding house of older men. One of them shared my room, a room he regarded as his. He smelt of beer, and never spoke to me but to be rude. There was nothing to do at night, so I would go to bed and read. He would arrive for sleep in the evenings, and saying nothing switch off the light, ending my reading. 

I left there for a room I found in Earlwood. The landlady there discovered an ‘Excess Fare Ticket’, which I had stupidly left in my room. I had come back on the train from Shellharbour late at night, and there had been no-one at the station to sell me a ticket, so the ticket inspector wrote out an excess fare ticket, and I paid him on the train. Soon after this seemingly innocent event, I returned from work and was eating dinner when the landlady held up the evidence, the excess fare ticket she had found in my room. Her husband joined in by telling me that they didn’t like fare evaders in their home, and I would have to leave. I tried to explain, but they reminded me that I was not only a thief, but obviously a liar as well.

Their performance was also for the benefit of their new boarder, already there eating and listening, but saying nothing - their new little pet. Distressed, I caught the train to Maitland, where my parents and my younger sister Primrose now survived on my dad’s pension in a rented old rectory deemed surplus to church requirements. “The Lord will provide”. My Mum came back to Sydney on the train with me, after phoning the Anglican Minister of Chatswood to make an appointment for advice on my future lodgings, because I had just taken on a new job in nearby Willoughby as a junior stage hand at TCN Channel 9 TV. 

The good priest there at Chatswood encouraged me to join his youth group, and arranged an interview for Mum and me with one of his flock, described as a retired and respectable Christian lady of quality. Indeed she was only a short walk away. During our interview with her, she said she could possibly take me in today, even though she normally only took in girls, but my mum assured her that I would be no trouble. However this turned out to be not the case, because the landlady didn’t like my habit of arriving home late, after walking home from working on various evening shows at TCN9, and also arriving home late on the train after doing my TV tech course in the city some week nights. She told me of her dissatisfaction several times, but I didn’t take the hint. 

I came home one night at the correct dinner time to find my landlady and a girl eating what normally would have been my dinner. I was introduced to this girl as being my replacement, and indeed I needed to leave by a certain date. She did however heat me up some baked beans which she promised she would do after they had finished their dinner. I had now been forced out of every place I tried to live.

When I think back to that life with her, I can see that my lonely landlady was really seeking pretty company, something I was not, I was in the TV industry. A greater contrast between her gentile world and the brutal but exciting world at Channel 9 in 1964 cannot be imagined, especially by her. My other adventure was to join the youth group as advised by the local priest. He did his best to save me, but after just one session, I left them to their conservative superiority. Yes I may have left them too hastily, but I gave them a go, and I hope I always give others the chance to prove their humanity, because I need to find out if they are with me, not on some other planet.

I found a great place to live in Chatswood, where I never saw any other boarders, because I had the room behind the first door in the corridor, and I never encountered anyone in the bathroom or kitchen, where my visits were brief. I only saw the landlady once a week when I would knock at her door and give her my rent money - she always seemed to me to be a little under the weather. I spent just over a year there, but most of the time I was out and about. The only rule the landlady gave me when I first arrived at her establishment was that there were to be no lady visitors after 10pm. Haha.

Saturday 31 July 1971 - Wiesbaden - Warm, humid.
Well it’s been a week since my last diary entry. I spent last weekend with Jack and Gwen - it was very pleasant - we had a barbeque, listened to music, read Rod McKuen’s poems, went swimming, driving and the pictures - I don't really know how I'll begin to repay them for their generosity. 

Last week was the longest I've ever worked. After television, sorting and filing papers sure is dull - I've developed into a real clock-watcher, and it has helped me realise the importance of an interesting job. I start at 1/4 to 8 after getting up at 6.am, and 40 minutes ride in the bus peak hour. One hour for lunch at the U.S. canteen where I get a hamburger or a sandwich and a drink for 50 cents then work to 5pm. Luckily, the shops stay open here to 6.30 so have stocked up my fridge and cupboards with food and cheap local German wine.

I am learning more about German culture while travelling on the buses. Girls don’t shave. Blond legs and underarms are ok but I find black hair - in the normally private places of their armpits - a bit of a shock as they reach up for the handrail. Perhaps if I had grown up here I wouldn’t even notice. Something I do notice is how petite many girls are until they get to be about 30 years or older, at which stage most women seem to swell in size, perhaps it’s too much bratwurst and beer? Sometimes a middle aged or older man will get on the bus with an arm or leg missing, disabled in some way. When this happens women give him their seat, even if they are older women. I guess this is a mark of respect for those who fought for their homeland in WW2. I have never seen a woman in Australia give her seat to a man yet, but it was rare for me to use public transport in Australia.

Thursday De's parents, Mr and Mrs Nicholls arrived from Australia - they hadn't slept for 2 days and had misplaced one of their small bags. I brought some food across (as they are with De next door at the moment) and with some help from Mrs Nicholls cooked dinner for them. It was great to talk to someone from home. Viv arrived, back from her holidays. She was difficult to recognise at first with her blonded white streaked hair and her pale and thin appearance - certainly different from when I knew her some four years ago. Naturally she has become very independent and self-assured. We couldn't talk much about the job at the school as De, Mr and Mrs Nicholls, Jack and Gwen were all there. Viv said she was surprised to see me, as she thought I would be travelling around Europe for the summer, which was news to me, although I didn’t say it was news. I was too surprised to say anything.

Later when I thought about what Viv said, I took it as a hint to go away, but I will not go. I have spent most of this year lining up the job at the school, giving up a secure job, and travelling to the other side of the world to get this job. I have done everything right, and Viv will have to honour her promise, and let me work at the school. Phillys, her boss, arrives back from the States this weekend so hope we will sort something out soon as things are still up in the air as far as I can see.

Saturday 7 August 1971 - Wiesbaden - Overcast - rain.
It’s a week since my last diary entry and I'm still unsure what is likely to happen on Monday when I'm going to try to convince about 5 different officials scattered all over the area that I would like to transfer to Viv's job at the school. The latest is that I should continue on at Kastel until my temporary appointment time expires which is rubbish as far as I'm concerned. If they don't come my way on Monday then I'm telling them I'll have to resign because I could be spending my time more profitably than in having to spend my days buried at Kastel. 

Viv's boss Phillys was married during her holidays, both she and her husband are very nice people and I know I'd like working for her. Viv has apparently been sick and confined to bed for the last 3 days. She has low blood pressure and her heart rate is too fast - I guess it’s a reaction from her trip - she sure didn't look too well when she got back. I have been told through her friend De that she doesn't want to leave ‘till October, and that she has been very good to me, and by continuing to work at the school, give me the chance to have a break away for a while. I suppose this should work out ok. For much of this year, my whole focus has been trying to get the school job organised, and I feel that I am just about there.

De's boyfriend Ridge, who is a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot living next door has returned - we get on well and have been to the pictures and had a night playing his electric piano, it sure is a fantastic instrument. I have also made friends with a young German guy. He lives in a room in the middle of town, where we spend time drinking beer and sitting near his window where we can see an occasional old German guy going into the brothel across the road.

Saturday 14 August 1971 - Wiesbaden, Germany - Fine, warm.
Last weekend I hitch-hiked to Koblenz on the Rhine and Mosel rivers - it took 5 rides to get there and back - a ride with some German bloke in a Mercedes was very fast, no speed restriction on the Autobahn - atmospheric scenery alongside the Rhine past old castles and vineyards. It was interesting to talk with young travellers and stay in my first youth hostel - located in an old fortress. I looked around the town of Koblenz, between the junction of the Rhine and Mosel rivers.

 
                           Joe taking in the view at Koblenz

This week I completed my job at Kastel air-station after almost a month - I couldn't really say I am sorry to leave as the work sure didn't appeal to me. About the only thing that gave me pleasure at Kastel was stamping ‘APPROVED’ on requests by any General for a new fridge - I don’t know if they deserved their new appliances, but perhaps the Air Force didn’t deserve me there. Anyway, there is no better feeling that stamping a piece of paper with the word ‘APPROVED’, when you feel powerless yourself.

I'm hitch-hiking to England on Monday for 3 weeks - I hope to see a friend Susan (Ridley) in London, and also see my second cousin Pat (Patricia Heath-Caldwell) and her parents at the ‘Pound House’ in Dorset. Pat used to stay with my family in Australia sometimes. I may even be able to see what the job situation is like. After three weeks I'll return to the job in the school. 

Monday 16 August 1971 - Heidesheim Youth Hostel - Warm, sunny.
I am on my way to England - writing from Heidesheim youth hostel just out of Mainz - it is beautiful here just off the main road set in a thick forest alive with rabbits. There are 28 beds in my room but I'm the only one here - it certainly is a beautiful change to be out of the city and all the problems associated with it. I went for a walk through the forest as the sun was setting and through groves of plum trees laden with fruit - then I just sat down and watched the sun go down over the Rhine valley.

Friday 20th August 1971 - London - Overcast, raining.
I am now staying at a flat in Eastham London after some hectic days. It took 10 rides to get to Oostende on the Belgium coast - I stayed the second night at Antwerp Youth Hostel - that day sure was a hectic one trying to get as close to the coast as possible. 

Before getting to Antwerp, I was stopped from hitch-hiking twice by the German police who kick you off the autobahns but turn a blind eye to you if you're on one of the approaches. After the second time I was stopped, I started walking towards the next town when I came across this Belgian couple whose car had broken down - I helped push start the car and we headed down the road - it wasn't long before we could smell something burning - it seemed we were out of oil and water.

I hitched into the next town but couldn't make that driver understand that I wanted to go to a garage to get oil. He drove me back but only with water. When we got back to the Belgians, the rescue guy saw what I had meant, so he suggested they drive their car to a garage in the nearby town and from there he took us all to Antwerp for D.M.50, which the owner of the busted car paid for.
 
The rescue guy was a German who took full advantage of no speed restrictions on the autobahn - we were flying along full pelt in the fog when the wreckage of a multi vehicle accident came into view right in front of us, and then then all around us, and the next moment it was gone, just as if it had never happened at all. 

At Antwerp the driver of the busted car bought us all beers - he and his wife are very nice people - a funny time trying to understand each other, as he and his wife were Flemish speaking, the driver German and me English. It was about 10.30 at night when they put me in a taxi asking the driver to take me to the Jugendherbergen. (German for Youth Hostel) 

I arrived just in time before closing and must have got the last bed. The next day I hitched with an Irish guy to Oostende - we walked round the town and stretched out on the beach - the sand and water no comparison to the naturalness of an Australian beach, but I felt alive again seeing and smelling the sea after such a long time.

                            Oostende and the sea at last

I really enjoyed the ferry crossing, there was a strong wind blowing fresh off the channel and so exciting to be getting to England for the first time. I met up with an American college student - we took each other’s pictures with the white cliffs of Dover mistily in the background. 

     
                            My first sight of England

At British Immigration Control, I was surprised that I had to enter the ‘Aliens’ queue. My passport is titled British Passport, and the British Queen is also Queen of Australia, but all that makes no difference if you are not born in Britain. So I joined the other Martians in the Aliens queue. What’s in a name anyway as long as they let you in, which they did.

From there a quick trip to Victoria Street station London, passing through green fields and grazing sheep. I rang my friend Sue Ridley as soon as I arrived but found she had left for Australia last month. I was having trouble using the phone so asked this young guy if he could help me - I couldn’t believe it when he said he was Italian, because I thought my language barrier problems were over - but the next thing he and some girls he was with were ringing up the youth hostels and YMCA's for me - they were all full up and it was getting late so Lorenzo, the Italian, offered a bed at his friends place - they have been wonderful. 

The next day I rang my second cousin Pat and said I would like to go down to her place, known as the Pound House, at Cattistock in Dorset in a few days, and spent the rest of the morning making phone calls to record companies and T.V. stations only to receive the same answer every time - they have a waiting list a mile long and wouldn't even consider interviewing me or allowing me to fill in an application form - however some said I could write in my qualifications but not to hope for anything. 

I went into the city and visited an employment agency - apparently these agencies mainly handle clerical jobs and I want to try to avoid them if possible - they said specialised work like that which I'm qualified for would be hard to get. Australia House had the same attitude - they said university graduates were after the same jobs I would be going for (clerical assistant) worth 18 pounds per week.

Spent hours looking over the massive St. Paul’s Cathedral crowded with tourists. I visited the crypt and saw architect Sir Christopher Wren's insignificant memorial with the inscription in Latin that Dad has told me about so often, “Reader, if you seek a monument - look around you”, and what a magnificent place to lie amongst some of England's finest - it makes you realise what a wonderful heritage the English have - it’s all made me feel very small, especially Wellingtons funeral chariot which weighs 18 tons, completed in 18 days by 100 men and made from guns captured at the battle of Waterloo - awe inspiring! In the whispering gallery - couldn't hear anyone whispering, and then to the top of St. Paul’s. My knees were giving way coming down - quite a distance, must have been about 400 steps. I stayed for the service but any atmosphere was spoilt by the noise of other tourists shuffling around. 

I walked down Fleet Street, the Strand, Trafalgar Square, Whitehall and Victoria Street, caught the tube back to Eastham and watched T.V. - on the news they said the unemployment was the worst in Great Britain since 1939 so it was not surprising to me after all the cold shoulders I received. 

It rained all day Friday so Lorenzo and I talked all day and listened to Hank's records. Hank owns the house, and is away on a holiday. Friday night we had Lorenzo’s friends Anne, Tina and Wendy plus and Indonesian friend (Swanny) over for dinner. Lorenzo showed me how to make spaghetti the Italian way. Swanny suggested me getting employment in a hospital as a porter - she is a nurse. 

Monday 23 August 1971 - Cattistock, Dorset, England. - Fine, overcast.
We all had a great day in London on Saturday although it was cold and dark all day. We visited the Tower of London - the Crown Jewels were more spectacular than I could ever have imagined - they almost had a hypnotic effect on me as I gazed into those dazzling diamonds. The Star of India (or was it Africa) must be worth a fortune - let alone the Koh-I-Noor and all the rest of the jewels. 

The huge size of the legendary Tower of London ravens impressed me - Lorenzo began teasing one of them until he was stopped by an irate German tourist.

   Anne, Tina, Wendy and Lorenzo on the Tower Bridge London

We all walked over the old Tower Bridge and back and then had a meal in Regent Street. I had roast beef and baked potatoes which Anne insisted on paying for. We explored the noisy but surprisingly small Carnaby Street - I think there were more souvenir type shops than fashion shops. 

On Sunday Anne and I went for a walk through one of London's natural parks - it was beautiful, graceful trees meeting over the paths and lakes complete with children fishing - I ate some blackberries. Hank and male friend arrived home - he understood about me being there and invited me to stay there for a day or two on my next trip through London. We went to the theatre club to see ‘The Best Days of Our Lives’ (a 40's film). For a 25 year old film it was excellent. 

Today I caught the train from Waterloo Station to Dorchester and hitched out here to Cattistock and cousin's Pat's residence at the Pound House. Pat's mum Vi (Violet Heath-Caldwell), who had been ill for some time passed away yesterday, however Pat and her sister Ros (Rosamond Attwood) and Vi’s husband Cuthbert seem to be exceptionally cheerful - perhaps it hasn't hit them yet. 

The funeral is on Wednesday so will probably get to meet more of the family. Pat asked if I would play the organ but had to refuse. Pat thought that I could sight read music better than I can. Pat and I drove to see if this friend of hers would play which she was thankfully willing to do - the countryside of Dorset is incredibly beautiful - gentle hills broken up by winding hedges, clumps of trees and patterned fields - it’s like living inside that fun English film ‘Tom Jones’, scenes of which were apparently shot here. 

Wednesday 25 August 1971 - Cattistock, Dorset - Fine, warm, clear.
After a week in England, today was warm with clear blue sky. It was Vi's funeral today. If there is such a thing it was a wonderful funeral - just as Vi would have wished it seems - everyone was quite cheerful - no one wore somber clothes and the service was short and sweet with really bright hymns. Pat and Cuthbert were determined to carry out Vi's request that there should be a minimum of fuss and unhappiness. Vi must have been a wonderful person. I haven't yet seen an actual tear shed. 

Vi was my father’s cousin. Pat's sisters and their children have been here so it has been interesting for me to see this faraway side of the family. I feel really at home here and for the first time in months. 

     
        My second cousin Pat (middle) at home with her visiting nieces and nephews

Wednesday 1 September 1971 - Cattistock, Dorset. Drizzle.
A relaxing week since my last entry - Pat's sister Danny (Diana Elizabeth) is here with her children, Amanda, Giles and Sophia - she left today - she is an exceptionally bright person but different in the way that she is very upright and serious and yet always ready for a hearty laugh - all the same I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of her. The children are very well behaved - her husband (John Chalton) has a friend in the BBC and could help me gain employment. 

I have gone for a few walks across the downs with Cuthbert, my dad’s cousin by marriage - his particular walk takes 1 1/2 hours so he must be fit as he is about 80. His mind is active also and delves into religious and political matters - no doubt at all he has a first-rate character - I admire him very much. 

Tonight Pat brought out an old but beautifully preserved leather drug case that belonged to Joseph Mansergh Palmer (J.M.P .was Pat’s grandfather and my grandfather's brother). J.M.P. was a well-respected doctor in Armargh, Ireland. His hospital presented it to Pat on her last visit to Ireland - also there was a plaque in the hospital to his memory for saving many lives in a train disaster (Gillingham Train Crash). Cuthbert tells me he was a man of outstanding character but very strict - definitely one of the ‘landed gentry’. He used to dress up in top hat and tails on Sundays, walk a fair distance to church and then return and conduct a service for the servants.

Interestingly J.M.P. (Cuthbert’s father in law) had no time for either of his daughters, perhaps he thought they were the responsibility of his wife. His sons, Alex, Edwin and Irving all did well in the Navy and Richard a Major in the Army. Alex became a Vice Admiral, and his brothers were Captains. Cuthbert criticises Irving for staying in the Navy when he could have retired and made some life for himself and his wife, but he must have been career conscious. 

I have yet to meet Alex's children, Joe Palmer in Kent and Shiela De Quincey (nee Palmer) in Ireland - both divorced and remarried. Jimmy (Pat's brother and their cousin) is going through a divorce case at the moment - Cuthbert doesn't like Jimmy's wife Dora. I think Pat gets upset when daddy says such things. It was funny when we were talking about the first moon landings in space on the television - Pat thought it all incredible and said that it ‘nearly sent us all quite mad watching it!’ 

I bought a £38 leather coat in Dorchester the other day so can't afford to lose it but don't mind paying so much because I'm such a fanatic about escaping the cold weather. It is very warm, made of real skins and imitation fur lining inside. I will leave it here to keep it in good condition until I can take it back to Australia.  (That coat was missing from the luggage that I shipped back to Australia in 1972. Moral of the story is “If you buy an expensive coat, wear it”.)

Both Cuthbert and Pat have an intense dislike for TV. - Cuthbert calls it “that damned infernal box”, and both of them criticise the programs which I must admit aren't as interesting or at least as varied as Australian programs - the news is really an ordeal to sit through as it is pretty gloomy at the moment, with all the senseless violence in Ireland and all the strikes and unemployment here in England which seem to predominate the news every night. They told me it was usually only Vi who watched TV.

Monday 6 September 1971 - Wiesbaden, Germany. Fine, warm.
Back now in Wiesbaden and in my own flat - trains from U.K. instead of hitching rides this time - it was surprising how everything here looked so modern and better quality after England - the Germans seem better off than the English - I seemed to get the impression that things are at a standstill in U.K. compared with all the development and action going on here. The news in U.K. was always depressing, with the same old problems being faced every day. Maybe I was unlucky but the food was definitely not as good as here in Germany and certainly not cheap - prices must have gone up in recent years. 

Looking back at my stay at Pat's home, every day I seemed to spend going from one meal to the next - I was 9st.12lb (62kg) when I first reached London but after 2 weeks at Pat's I put on a stone (now 68kg) but guess I was underweight. It certainly was relaxing, and Pat was so good to me. It was a real opportunity to unwind as I was getting a little anxious as to know what to do, but I see things in a much clearer perspective now. 

While at Pat’s I went to London for an interview, it was an audio recording job with ‘The British Council’. It seemed pretty boring but I would get the chance to be posted to other countries. If I want the job I have to go for another interview in a month, and even if I get it, would not start until next year. 

Spent the last few days in U.K. at Pat's sister Danny’s place (Diana) in Thame near Oxford - Thame is a beautiful quaint old town but I didn't get to see Oxford. They have a 17th century home - lovely garden and tennis court plus a piano which I bashed well and truly. Husband John owns a pub out front. 

So far the BBC T.V. job seems fairly distant, no further mention of the B.B.C. contact from Diana’s husband John. I start the job in Aukamm School tomorrow - today was an American holiday. 

         
My U.S. Air Force Base Identity card, front and back (they asked me to tie my hair back for the photo)

  

Sunday 12 September 1971 - Wiesbaden - Overcast mild.
As usual life is never dull - it has been a traumatic week for me in the school job, which ended in my resignation. By the end of the week I felt depressed and sort of pressured to resign as Viv handled the job so well, and I couldn’t do it to the standard Viv and Phyllis expected. All I could see that I was going to let everyone down anyway, so the sooner the better.

For example, one day during the week I was told there would be a fire drill at 11am. I just said “thank you” believing it was a curtesy message, but perhaps I should have said “Do I have to do anything?” When the alarm went off at 11am, there was pandemonium as kids and teachers rushed for the exits. An angry Phyllis told me later that I should have gone to the classrooms and let them know that there would be a drill at 11am.

On the Friday morning my landlady was upset because I had a friend with me the night before, and because her bedroom is above my flat, she said she could hear us and she couldn’t sleep, so I went to work feeling it was the last straw - all I felt was that things had built up so much that the only way was out no matter how much it hurt everyone.
 
On my walk to the school I sat on someone’s low front fence thinking things over. My mind was racing with fear of what I was about to do - kind of trying to delay the inevitable step which would kill off everything that I had worked for this year. My week at the school had been a series of blunders which displeased Viv and Phyllis, my landlady was not pleased with me - I was not wanted either at work or at home. 

I felt as if everything had been against me right from Viv’s very first letter about it all in Australia earlier this year. In the end it didn’t matter how long the useless struggle went on, what mattered was the decision the pull the pin and finish it for all time.

I told Viv and Phyllis I was leaving as soon as I got to work and naturally Viv was not pleased with me but she couldn't possibly know the strain I was under at the time. I don't have the strength or will-power to fight and impress others when I feel beaten to that extent - I would rather just walk away and leave them to it. All I know was by Friday I felt so numb from head to foot I was just useless. I know things have been building up for months and hope I can make a fresh start with a more open outlook. Now that it’s all over I can’t get over how dumb I was to spend so much time relocating to the other side of the world, and the intense effort that took away most of this year already, to finally secure a meaningless job that has nothing to do with the career I have been working on since the year after I left high school. What was I thinking? 

The useless struggles of this year are over as far as I am concerned, and from now on I hope I never get stuck with miserable people (including myself) again. 

BOOK TWO
Joe Palmer - September 1971
Tuesday 21 September 1971 - Wiesbaden, Germany
It’s more than a week since I wrote anything, and am writing in this new notebook as well as a new life I hope. It’s late at night and I'm just about to leave Germany 2 ½ months after I arrived - a hectic few months too - although there were disappointments there certainly were some tremendous experiences which I know will stand me in good stead for the future. 

Last week I spent tying up affairs here in Wiesbaden and generally relaxing - mentally anyway - also had the first of two cholera shots as I intended heading towards Italy and Spain last weekend. Although not feeling the best on Friday I caught the train to Munich to visit the beer festival going on there at the moment - I arrived just on sunset and couldn't get into the youth hostel as it was full - also tried the hotels but Munich was packed with people and couldn't get in anywhere. 

I caught a tram intending to stay on it as long as possible and maybe get into a hotel out of the city area but they turned out to be full also. I was just about to head for the station with the intention of sitting up there for the night when an American guy approached me and said he was lost and looking for the camping area. Although I didn't have a sleeping bag I felt pretty desperate so headed off with him to find the camping grounds.

After getting the right bus and walking a mile to the camping area he suggested I jump the fence to avoid paying, and go from tent to tent asking if someone could have room for me. I did this although I felt pretty low about asking at first but I didn't have much choice and certainly couldn't sit out in the cold. 

Some English guys ended up taking me in - they were a pretty wild lot but looked good to me and I was certainly grateful. We all headed off for the famous beer halls where the atmosphere was tremendous - people linking arms and singing, crashing beer steins together often to the accompaniment of a huge Bavarian woman yodeling her head off into a microphone, and typical Bavarian brass bands blaring away over the deafening noise of the rowdy fun-lovers. I got to talk with a lot of Aussies and glad to hear how proud they are of our country. I felt really stirred up with pride when the band played ‘Waltzing Matilda’ with all the Aussies singing. I've met many young Americans in the last few months who don't have any pride in their country, it’s a mystery to me.

I met up with Viv twice who was with some teachers for the weekend - we seemed to get on a lot better after the upset of the resignation.

   
                    Munich Beer Festival - Viv second from right

On Sunday was the best parade I've ever seen. It must be one of the best in the world and certainly the most colourful - immaculate brass bands, people in national costume either marching, dancing or throwing flowers. Naturally there were huge beer wagons drawn by beautiful draft-horses almost completely covered by ribbons and silver chains. This parade alone was worth all the discomfort of sleeping on the ground - the first night was the worst as I had no sleeping bag - I put on all the clothes I had, and wrapped myself in a piece of plastic and old newspapers gathered from trash cans. 

It was a long cold night on the hard ground inside the tent, and with the dawn I went straight into town and bought the warmest looking sleeping-bag the shop had - unfortunately it has proved to be a bit big to carry around but is certainly warm and that's the main thing - the next two nights I was not so cold even though the nights were really chilly.

I met some guys who offered me a lift to Spain. On the Monday however, I felt run-down after the events of the weekend and didn't feel like pushing on so headed back here to Wiesbaden. 

After trying unsuccessfully to contact Ridge next door and Jack and Gwen, I approached my former landlady Frau Helga, who rescued me by giving me my old room back for the night. I felt as if I had lost everyone else - I don’t want to be a loser anymore. I have to leave here, most of the friends I made are Viv’s friends, and they would stay loyal to her as they had all been friends before I arrived. It has been a hard lesson.

Today I finalized my bank account here and had the second cholera vaccination which has left my arm feeling a bit sore - I guess the first injection didn't help me to feel any better over the weekend and I had a cold even before Friday night so was a little worried but it doesn't seem to be any worse. 

I'm just about to catch the last bus to the station and the 2.30am train away from here and towards England and Pat's place at the Pound House, where I'll be able to dump my bags and rest up for a while. It’s kind of ironic that I am heading for a house which I guess at one stage in history was a place for impounded stray animals. I'm sure Pat and Cuthbert won't mind as we all seemed to get on pretty well on my last trip to England. If I make all the connections I should reach Dorchester station by 7 o'clock tomorrow night so guess I'll be glad of a rest - not looking forward to getting through London's underground escalators with all my bags and hope to get some sleep before the coast.

I leave Germany with the feeling of having been beaten, all my efforts this year have come to nothing, I have no job and no one, all I have is now just in my bags. I guess I have to face the fact that I have become a homeless person - suddenly. Staying with Pat will stave off that ugly truth until I work out what to do next.

Saturday 25 September 1971 - Guilsborough, England.
Its 4 days since I wrote anything. The trip over from Germany turned out to be as exhausting as anticipated and after 9 different changes of transportation with all the bags almost impossible - I can recall struggling for only about 10 feet at a time from about ½ way along Waterloo platform, London with the train's departure imminent and not a porter in sight, but I got on the train. 

I felt really sick at heart when I reached Dorchester station that night and phoned Pat at the Pound House, only to be told that Pat was not at home and would not be back for some time - luckily her sister Ros was there, so she came out and scraped me into her car. 

The first words Cuthbert said were, “Ring up in plenty of time next time and don't telegram.”The next day Danny (Pat's sister also there) capped it off by coming into my room and giving me a lecture on letting people know in plenty of time. She suggested that although we like to know that you feel at home here it isn't your home and Cuthbert is an old man who I should give some consideration for - she wasn't angry but certainly gave me her honest opinion of the situation for about half an hour. 

At first I tried to explain my problems and my side of the story but gave up when it just didn't make any difference at all. Danny also said that I shouldn't believe that because Pat said she liked having me here it was not necessarily true - she suggested Pat was saying it just to be nice and that she really wanted peace and quiet in her own home. 

All this made me feel devastated at the time and just wished Pat was there so I could work out what best to do. All I can say is that Danny and Cuthbert must be pretty overwrought with all the business of tying things up since Vi's death. I couldn’t have arrived at a worse time, and would have left them if I had the physical and mental strength to walk out the door and truly face homelessness, but Danny couldn’t see my condition at all.

Pat’s other sister Ros Attwood, who is very sensible and a good woman, rescued me. I will never forget how she came to the doorway of my room and said “What’s wrong?” I said that I felt unwelcome. She told me to get my bags because we were leaving for her house immediately, and took me away from the Pound House in her open top red sports car. 

Ros relaxed me straight away by saying that the problem with her sister Danny was that she is the only member of the family who hasn’t suffered a nervous breakdown and therefore considers herself superior. Yes I thought, she is too tough to have a nervous breakdown. I am now at Ros and her husband John's home in Guilsborough, which is almost right in the centre of England near Rugby and Coventry.

Extract from an email sent to Michael Heath-Caldwell by Joe Palmer - 2021 
…This is a very interesting but sad story of mismanagement - when I arrived at the Pound House, money was the last thing on my mind, but now that they have all passed away, I can reveal what happened. I left the Pound House in a hurry and stayed with Ros and John. There had been a scene where I was interviewed by Danny, who questioned my motives at turning up at that time. Ros told me later Danny thought I was after ‘the money’

.
I then realised that there must have been money but naturally I said nothing. It took me a while to understand that Danny was defending her father, who she obviously felt was vulnerable at that time. I don't really blame her, and when I saw Danny (40 years later), everything was fine by then.
Some years after I had returned to Australia in 1972, Pat who always corresponded with my mother, told mum of her family being swindled. I naturally thought back to what I had been accused of, and felt so sad that at that time, they were conscious of the possibility of loss, but I think they were eventually cheated of their fortune by someone a lot craftier than they were...

Today we visited Coventry’s new cathedral. The original cathedral was bombed during WW2 leaving only parts of the outer shell and the spire remaining. The reconstructed cathedral has been made of the same stone and joined onto the shell of the original or what is left of it. I don’t know if Ros and John knew it, but they took me to where I needed to go, a symbol of my life today, bombed out and being reconstructed. Those inspired people who made the decision to keep the remains of the old cathedral visible, would have known they were creating a powerful symbol of hope. 

After suffering so much rejection lately, I have resolved to try and see rejection coming in its early stages, and stay away. I have always had the false hope that things would get better if I tried to make it so, but not everyone is nice.

Thursday 30 September 1971 - Guilsborough, England
I am still relaxing and thinking about what to do next after a week with Ros, John and their children, in the quiet village of Guilsborough, Northampton County. Took the dog ‘Moona,’ an English setter for a walk a few days ago - she is a large hairy but very affectionate dog and as soon as we got out of the gate she took off with me being dragged along behind. She took me down lanes and across wet fields before I could turn her head for home - I wasn't game enough to let go of her lead. 

The next day I walked with David (Ros's son who attends Cambridge Uni), who let Moona go her own way. This was a much better arrangement but the stupid dog often got lost behind thick hedges so we'd have to go back and rescue her. 

                       Ros, David and ‘Moona’ at home

I couldn't begin to describe the beauty of the country here - above all it is so green - such a pleasure going for walks down narrow lanes bordered by hedges and graceful oaks or elms. The soil is being ploughed over now - it must be so rich - dark and moist yet crumbly. Flocks of birds settle on the newly turned earth, no doubt finding plenty to eat. 

The other day I saw some sheep being superbly mustered by a small sheep dog. For the most part, the houses here show traces of green moss, especially on the thatched roofs - it is no doubt quite damp for most of the year here. 

Ros and John's house has many small cosy rooms with low ceilings and small paned glass windows. There was a freezing wind blowing when I first arrived but the weather has become warmer over the last few days. We spend the evenings sitting around the cosy fireplace in the lounge room. In England they have what they call high tea, which I at first thought was the evening meal, but that comes later. As the night draws on, John will say to Ros “Would you like me to get dinner dear?” Ros nearly always says yes please.  

John is a fine person - very upright but yet down to earth, the epitome of an English gentleman. The twin girls, Elizabeth and Janet are extremely well-behaved, mainly kept in line by Ros who seems determined to bring them up into the fine women they will be some day.

Today we visited Althorp, a stately ‘ome’ as they are called over here. We drove about a mile from the road to the house through huge old oaks dotted over rolling hills covered by a carpet of lush green grass. Inside, we walked through rooms literally covered with huge oil paintings, mainly family portraits.

There were many royal and Churchill portraits which were interesting but I had to keep looking out the windows because after a while the grandeur became too much to take in. I remember the guide mentioning a portrait of this King and that Queen and this and that duke, and then casually referred to a portrait of a young lady bordered by a garland of many flowers - each flower represented one of her lovers - without thinking I exclaimed out loud “Oh my goodness!” to which a lot of surprised heads turned to scowl at me! What a stuffy crowd they were.

Saturday 2 October 1971 - Cambridge Youth Hostel. 
Cambridge surely is an interesting city - I drove here today in a hired car with David Attwood who is a student here in social science at Emmanuel College. To me, the highlight of our look around today was Kings College Chapel - as I walked through its door I saw the entire wall of magnificent stained glass held together with pure cream columns of stone rising up to fan out over the ceiling, meeting with the corresponding fans from the other side - a cathedral sized stained glass chapel. 

Tonight I walked back through the town to that chapel for an organ recital there. Sitting in dim evening light falling on almost empty pews, I felt almost mean to think how much my parents, who had spent their lives working in various parishes of the Anglican church, would give to be there, and that I was the only member of our family to have the privilege of travelling overseas to experience it. I never realised when I took on this trip how many wonderful things I would see and hear, but how selfish I would feel. 

Sunday 3 October 1971 - Lincoln Youth Hostel.
A busy day today and saw two huge cathedrals - the first Ely and the second Peterborough. I left Cambridge youth hostel with an student (from India) and spent the day with him before dropping him off near his school - very nice chap who gave me a few clues about life in India - for example, have all vaccinations possible before going there and be careful where you eat - although the Indian people are careful about personal hygiene, their food although tasting good is not always pure. I told him that I would like to go back to Australia via India so he was very helpful.  

We drove through mainly flat country similar to the Maitland flats, intensive farming. More industry noticeable as we approached Peterborough. I dropped my friend off then on through more hilly country to Lincoln where after asking the local police, found the youth hostel - have met up with the 3 other occupants of the hostel here - one English, one American and one South African - I’m about to have a packet of Vesta curry and rice which is cooking up on the stove beside me. 

Monday 4 October 1971 - York Youth Hostel.
Travelled today with Gary Sogot, a South African who is heading north so might be with me a few days - great to have company. We arrived at York at 1pm after driving through pretty dull country on narrow winding roads - plenty of villages and more intensive farming, with scattered smokestacks here and there on the horizon - as per usual very hazy. 

After a Chinese meal we had a look at the huge York Minster where a lot of restoration is going on. I had the same feeling as I had in St.Pauls London, which is also undergoing a face lift, all noise and scaffolding. Restoration cost for York Minster is £2 million. Some of the stained glass is apparently the oldest remaining in England - AD 1150. 

There are many narrow streets here which are not fun to drive on but interesting on foot. I wandered into a music store which had a huge selection of sheet music albums, I miss my music - I was playing my Farfisa organ 3 nights a week in a pub band before leaving Australia. 

When we found the youth hostel, stuck in a dark corner was a piano so I rattled out a few choruses of ‘Roll out the Barrel’ - half the notes didn't work and it was out of tune but it was a piano. We bought tins of soup, meat and vegs and pudding which cost us about 30 Aussie cents and tasted pretty good.

Tuesday 5 October 1971 - Edinburgh Youth Hostel
Drove all day today through fairly flat country to light hills until we reached the Scottish border where there was a noticeable change of scenery - the hills became more rugged and dry looking and steep cliffs began to rise from the sea's edge. We stopped before the border at Durham and at Newcastle. 

At Newcastle we stocked up on a few groceries and I bought a thermos flask for about Aus.80c which happened to be on special at the time. We had a light meal and everywhere we went we met friendly people. 

                            Joe at Newcastle on Tyne

It was surprising to hear a different accent only 100 miles from York. The accent was definitely more Scottish than English and I began to feel excited that I was heading into what might turn out to be a new and friendly country. 

Wednesday 6 October 1971 - Edinburgh Youth Hostel.
Edinburgh is a stylish and interesting city, my first impression is of openness as I walked along Princes Street in the ‘New Town’ and looked across the valley to the ‘Old Town’ and the rugged castle built on a mound of sheer cliffs. The famous ‘tattoo’ is held in the forecourt of the castle annually, and after watching it on television in Australia, I was surprised to find that the ground had a slope to it which would make the events even more interesting to the naked eye. 

The castle fortress itself is truly rugged looking with the natural rock protruding here and there from the foundations. The Scottish Crown Jewels are on display but are no comparison with the English ones in the Tower of London. 

There was a war memorial which was supposed to be one of the finest examples of architecture in Europe but it didn’t do much for me - I guess the roaring cold wind up there didn't help either. I liked the little church St.Catherine's, which is the oldest remaining church in all Scotland - very thick walls with narrow windows - it seats only about 20 people - a contrast after seeing some big cathedrals. 

In the afternoon we climbed Nelson's monument fashioned in the shape of a lighthouse, from which we had another great view of the city and surrounding hills. 

We had a guided tour of Holyroodhouse, decorated by Queen Victoria and used occasionally by the present Royal Family. Queen Victoria had several rooms lined with huge tapestries - mostly Flemish, which our guide told us it took 1 year for one person to make 1 square yard - some at least 8 x 5. 

The building is the scene of some pretty horrible murders as well. As the guide told us of one period of time when something terrible seemed to happen every 6 months, it made me wonder how hard those times must have been. We saw a glass object that ladies carried for catching tears, so as to not spoil their thick make-up - no doubt it would have been a necessary accessory in those days.

Despite the blustery wind today, the city somehow has a warm atmosphere about it and I feel more relaxed than I have felt in a long time. We had porridge for breakfast and haggis (which was delicious) for lunch. We also bought some tasty shortbread biscuits, but tonight I broke the Scottish tradition by cooking an omelette, which I don’t think is Scottish, but who knows.

My cooking impressed Gary who thought the omellete was delicious. It wasn't too bad but guess being hungry helps. Gary has turned out to be a friendly companion, and it is interesting for us both to find out about each other's country. For example, Gary was surprised that my family has no servants, because he has servants in South Africa. I can’t imagine Australians having servants, but maybe some do.

Thursday 7 October 1971 Aberdeen Youth Hostel
Leaving Edinburgh this morning we crossed the slender suspension bridge spanning the Firth of Forth - it must be a mile long and so high above the water. From there we sped through green hills dotted with Friesian cows and sheep - the mountains more rugged and at times even looking a little like Australia. 

We stopped briefly at Perth where I took a picture of an old bridge spanning a sparkling river rushing over rocks right the way across. There was a fisherman there and we could see the reason why he braved the cold stream when a fish about 2 feet long jumped out of the water just down from his spot. From Perth we headed to what we thought was Dundee but after about 30 miles down the road, we realised that we were heading in the wrong direction so we took a detour through beautiful country, mainly very hilly, and sometimes wooded with yellowing leaves or green pines. At times the hills were covered only by brownish or golden bracken with tiny streams trickling over boulders in the valleys. 

Dundee didn't appeal to us so we pushed on to Aberdeen under overcast sky. We followed an unspectacular coastline all the way, broken a few times by small seaports. In some of these towns we lost our way but were directed back by friendly policemen. The police are very helpful - no big-timers or ruffians here. In Australia it’s the height that counts - necessary for intimidation I guess.

In Aberdeen we stopped and asked directions from two middle aged ladies - Gary asked for Queen St when he should have asked for Queens Road - the ladies said they were going to Queens St and would like a lift. They were just getting in the car when it dawned on us that it was Queens Road we wanted so they didn't ride with us even though I said I would take them where they wanted to go. It just goes to show how trusting and friendly everyone is in Scotland.

Friday 8 October 1971 - Aberdeen Youth Hostel
After scrubbing the floor of the youth hostel kitchen Gary and I walked down Aberdeen's main street and found ourselves on a chilly beach - the tide was out and the beach deserted except for a group of men in swimmers playing soccer on the sand - they certainly must be hardy these Scots. 

   
                     Gary Sogot and Joe on the beach at Aberdeen

The North Sea was very flat today. We walked across the wet sand towards the harbour and were greeted by screeching gulls and fish smell - a typical fishing harbour, messy both in and out of the water, with cluttered foreshores of ramshackle buildings, but in spite of it all a romantic place - you could believe all kinds of smuggling activities and such like going on, but that’s just my imagination. 

Aberdeen has many fine shops - I couldn't resist buying a mohair poncho for Prim, I thought of her when I saw it. We wandered through a shop selling all kinds of Scottish tartans, so I managed to find some Mackenzie colours, and bought a scarf and a tie for my sister Dara and her husband Stan. The lady said it was difficult to get a MacLeod tartan as they had to be specially made and did not have any Ferguson material either, so my other sisters married to men with Scottish names will miss out for now.

Tonight some Canadian girls from Halifax cooked us a 'down home' meal of chowder which was kind of stew consisting of all types of fish that they had bought at the market, potatoes, onions, butter and milk - all delicious. There is a piano here too and I'm making good use of it. I think I'll go downstairs now and play it again.

Saturday 9 October 1971 - Cullen, Scotland.
Tonight I am sitting in a cosy stone cottage by the sea near Inverness owned by Commander Hay (R.N.,Retired) and Mrs Hay who is a sister of cousin Ros's husband John Attwood. Cullen is a fishing village typical of many such villages dotted along this edge of the North Sea coastline. Most of the stone cottages look the same but have a kind of rugged charm with their chimneys and gables.

After lunch Cmdr and Mrs Hay took us to see the old mansion of the family who originally owned all the land here. It is about a mile from the sea set in a valley covered in pretty trees and a jungle of rhododendrons and brooms, which must look beautiful in the spring. 

The church is close to the mansion and has a raised section, something like a dress circle in a cinema where the family of the mansion would sit high above the mere peasants below - no wonder there was class distinction in those days! The family seating seemed even higher than the pulpit so I guess the minister had to watch his p's and q's. 

From there we drove along the coast past fishing villages to Buckie where there were dozens of brightly coloured fishing trawlers tied up in the harbour. 

Back at Cullen beach we walked along the best sand I've seen since leaving Aussie - not that I've seen much but it felt nice to walk on, and there was even a surf running - not that I had any intention of going in especially when Mrs Hay said that the water is very cold, even in the summer. 

There was a golf course beside the beach - apparently golf is a very popular sport here with practically every town having a course, and its cheap to play - they said it’s more expensive to play in England. 

Tonight the Hays had to go out so Gary and I bought some ‘home-grown’ fish for tea and a sausage like thing called a white pudding - very filling. We walked down to the harbour - a cold wind blowing, dark and deserted. I walked out to the end of the breakwater to the friendliness of a floating beacon - for some reason I felt relaxed and warm.

Sunday 10 October 1971 - Oban Youth Hostel. 
A long drive today through steep mountains and by rain swept lochs. Yes it rained most of the way with strong cold winds but it certainly gave atmosphere to the rugged Scottish countryside. Great white capped waves were washing ashore in parts of Loch Ness, and it would be easy to imagine a monster rising up out of the black surging waters. 

Loch Ness turned out to be about 30 miles long and we travelled beside it most of the way. Soon the streams of water were gushing down the mountain slopes out of the mist above. In parts the steams were clearly in flood. We stopped by an ancient ruined castle set on an island just off the shore of the loch. It looked cold and foreboding and yet still proudly standing, defying the elements. I thought of those hardy people who lived through tough times.

Monday 11 October 1971 - Glasgow Youth Hostel.
Feeling pretty tired right now as I sit in a semi-dark dormitory room in Glasgow youth hostel - my friend Gary is sitting on the next bed writing letters. We passed some beautiful mountains today - bare of trees rising into the clouds and mist above. There was intermittent rain today and tiny streams gushed down the mountain slopes forming waterfalls and splashing over the boulders in their path. 

The lochs looked quieter today as there wasn't such a strong wind. Very winding roads to Glasgow - about 3.30pm when we arrived, and walked round part of the town - plenty of people bustling around but a cold wind blowing through a fairly ordinary looking city from what we could see. Gary picked up his mail at the Post Office and I had my watch repaired, the second hand had dropped off but cost only 20 cents. 

Feeling a little done in, but it was a hard drive and Gary picking up his mail made me remember that I haven't heard from home for about a month so guess I feel a little homesick, strange that after all these months to still feel this way.

Last night a girl gave us some left over potatoes and we bought some real fresh meat today so if we go and do some cooking it might cheer us both up. The fellow in the bed next to me last night was sick about ½ dozen times so hope I don’t get whatever it is. 

Tuesday 12 October 1971 - Glasgow Youth Hostel. 
Today started off warm and sunny but ended fairly cold. In town I bought some tartan scarfs and ties for my sisters and their Scottish named husbands, and bought what I think is a beautiful Wedgwood brooch for mum – it’s going registered mail so here’s hoping it gets to her OK - a long overdue birthday present. 

The people here have the strongest Scottish accent that I've heard so far - several times I've had to ask them to repeat what they've said, and as I pass by people talking in the street, they sound like they are speaking another language. It’s no wonder my friend Tom’s mother Mrs Jewell retains her accent after so many years in Australia as she came from here. 

We walked to the Clyde - not a pretty river - brown with rubbish on its banks. Although the city here isn't beautiful and not much for the tourist, somehow I wasn’t bored. An Australian Immigration Centre left me in no doubt that Australia is a wonderful country, even generously allowing for the glossy and over-rated brochures. 

Wednesday 13 Oct 1971 - Windermere Youth Hostel
Now am back in England at a spotlessly clean hostel on a hill overlooking beautiful Lake WIndermere. Beside me a young guy with long hair is singing and playing his guitar - he sounds Dutch but is singing in English. It is very relaxing here after the drive from Glasgow today. 

Just getting into bed last night I heard the Australian who was in the next bed ask his friend if he wanted some acid. I've heard plenty of drug talk in the Youth Hostels, especially by the Americans – perhaps that is what made the guy in Oban hostel so sick the other night.

This morning I dropped off my friend Gary at the bus station in Glasgow. He was great company but must admit I wasn't sorry about him going. A week together was just fine but it was long enough. I stopped off at Gretna Green for pie and chips and a tourist photo of the legendary blacksmiths shop before crossing the border back in to England. After some disinteresting towns I found myself in the Lake District. But for seeing the border signs I would have thought I was back in Scotland - tall, bare mountains and tranquil (this time) lakes. The big difference here is the beautifully lush farming going on in the valleys. I guess David Attwood summed up the difference between Scotland and England when he said that you rarely lose sight of a house in England but you certainly can in Scotland. Just took a picture of the sunset - unusually rich colours for an English sunset. Now for some Irish stew.

Thursday 14 October 1971 - Guilsborough, England.
A comparatively quick trip down the M.6 motorway today back to Ros and John's to pick up some mail - 3 welcome letters from Mum - great to hear news from home after so long. 

About 100 miles of the trip today was through industrial country so I was glad to be speeding through it all on the ‘M’ (motorway) - the only trouble was that the M mysteriously finished in the middle of Birmingham so I had to back track and go another way - apparently the M isn't finished although it is shown as finished on my map. 

I rang up Pat tonight about some of my savings I'm expecting from home - she has it OK with some more mail so will look forward to getting that when I return from Ireland. Yes, tomorrow I am heading to Liverpool before the car rental expires, and getting a boat to Dublin. Cuthbert phoned me about the current situation in Ireland - he did not want me to go but it is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me, and I'm sure it’s no use waiting for the Irish to settle their problems - they're taking their time. 

Ros told me after Cuthbert’s phone call that Daddy never phones anyone, so I should feel justly honoured by his call. His effort to stop me did not go unheeded, and his concern for my safety was appreciated - I discussed it with Ros and John, and in the end I decided to go, so tomorrow for better or worse I head for Ireland.

Friday 15 October 1971 - Liverpool
Writing now aboard the ferry to Ireland but still tied up at Liverpool. As seems usual for me it’s been a big day. First I had a hectic drive from Guilsborough to reach Liverpool by 12.45 pm. I reached Liverpool OK but spent 1 ½ hours trying to locate St. James street to drop the car off. I even went through the Mersey tunnel and back by mistake - that in itself was an eerie experience as the walls are half covered with shiny tiles, so whenever brake lights go on there’s the nerve-wracking effect of bright red glows lighting up the tunnel walls. 

Imagine if you can, what it is like to have four lanes of cars speeding through a tunnel at about 50 mph with brakes going on and off all the time. I imagined John Lennon also driving through that tunnel, but he is probably somewhere much more exciting than Liverpool.

I had a bit of trouble when I handed in the car - the girl gave me a 10 pence refund and I knew it should have been a lot more than that as I had paid £80 originally as deposit. After a time I came away with £16.10, which goes a long way for me over here (about Aus$35). I found the steamship company and booked my passage to Ireland, then left my luggage in a locker at Lime Street Station. 

From the time I arrived here in Liverpool it has been windy and raining steadily so it hasn't been exactly pleasant to get around, especially as I found Liverpool to have a dark and depressing look about it - as I believe it has even in good weather. The different thing here is that most buildings and walls have been defaced and written on. This coupled with the run down feeling and impoverished looking people doesn't help - a contrast is the cathedral - it’s half-finished but is huge already - very plain architecture except for the east end and the Lady Chapel where I attended evensong - beautiful choir. The service was taken by two priests. I was the only one in the congregation - I couldn't get over it - it seemed such a waste - all I could think of all the time was why is the church so unpopular today? 

I stepped outside into the cold realities of Liverpool again and helped a man push start his car. After finding out train times back from Ireland I came across a tiny bar near the station - it turned out to be frequented by dock-yard workers and it wasn't long before I was ear bashed about World War II experiences by a friendly chap who showed me the way to the bus stop and offered me a place to sleep anytime I was back in Liverpool. 

It is amazing the number of friendly people I've met on my travels. It makes me realise more than ever that a person doesn’t stand completely alone in this world. It makes such a difference when people are open and friendly - even in the most dismal surroundings. 

Somehow I found the bus stop, got on the right bus, got off at the right place and walked in the right direction. I sure am tired enough to sleep so I'll put this chair back as far as possible and throw my sleeping bag over me - we're just moving out now.

Saturday 16 October 1971 - Dublin, Ireland.
The Irish Sea was by no means calm and our fairly large vessel rolled from side to side constantly but not enough to stop me from getting a fair amount of sleep. About 2.am I got out of my sleeping bag and walked around the outside. Standing in the front of the vessel in the full force of a cold wind it wasn't long before I copped a face full of the Irish Sea - my coat drenched.

I went back inside, and had a shocking cup of tea from a vending machine, removed the coat and slept off and on 'till Dublin, trying to avoid looking at a young couple making love under a blanket. 

Disembarking from the ferry I caught the bus, but on the way to town but I realized I had no Irish money. I could see the conductor moving down the bus collecting fares, and instinctively buried my face in my hands just waiting for the crisis. Through the gaps in my fingers I could see his shoes standing next to me for a while, but I didn’t have the courage to flinch from my bent over bedraggled half wet state. As he moved on, I thought how much I was going to love this country. 

In town I spent some fruitless time (as it was 7.30am) finding a phone to call my old T.V. work colleague Morgan O'Sullivan. I walked into a car rental place in town and whose voice should I hear on the radio but Morgan's, I couldn’t believe my luck. Using their phone, I got through to someone at the station who told me Morgan would finish his show at 10am, so I asked them warn Morgan of my arrival there when he went off the air. After hiring an almost new V.W., I arrived in time for a happy reunion with my old friend Morgan, who showed me around the Irish station - very old equipment - 1920's by the look of it - but fascinating to see a radio drama in production just like something from the 'golden days' of radio. Morgan works free-lance and only goes there on Saturdays to do his ‘Music with Morgan’ hour. It’s just one more example of the incredible timing I seem to have. 

We went to the market and bought some of the best meat I have seen since leaving Australia and pushed our way through the crowds and traffic jams to the outskirts of town where Morgan and his wonderful wife Liz with their two little girls have a new double storey home. 

This afternoon we shopped in a packed modern supermarket (reminiscent of Canada) and after a wonderful meal of real fillet steak and onions Morgan took me to the local pub to sample the original home-grown Guinness stout. I was honestly surprised to find that I liked it as I had heard that it is an acquired taste. Very thick and almost creamy so I couldn't drink it very fast - it made me quite sleepy and relaxed but not that heady drunken feeling at all. 

We watched the popular ‘Tonight Show’ and it reminded me of our local effort in Newcastle - the more I see of T.V. overseas, the more I think we tackled our programs in Aussie the right way by concentrating on interesting content, and not striving for perfection. Both Morgan and LIz miss Australia a lot.

Sunday 17 October 1971 - Wexford, Ireland. 
After a comfortable sleep I met some of Morgan and Liz's friends - all very friendly as we sat down to a huge lunch. I rang second cousin Sheila De Quincey (nee Palmer) who lives in the south of Ireland on the coast of County Cork - she sounded cheerful and friendly and has invited me to stay at her home when I pass through. 

Went for a walk around Bray streets - Bray is the suburb where Morgan and Liz live, about 12 miles south of the city centre. Very nice setting with trees and mountains (that are really hills) in the background but the houses are boringly similar looking - plain pastel colours and mostly look joined as in terraces. Life seems slower moving in Ireland - for example Morgan and Liz can expect the milk to be delivered any old time of the day and there are parts of their 4 month old home which aren't finished despite repeated requests to the builders. 

Left Bray about 3pm and drove south to Wexford. On the way I picked up two young lads. They invited me into their orchard where I dropped them off so I have stocked up with apples to munch on the way. We left the orchard in a hurry, I got the feeling that it wasn’t their orchard at all. They had also showed me a ruined castle where we climbed up the spiral staircase to the grassy top. 

The countryside so far is similar to England with rolling hills and hedges. In all fairness to the Irish nothing has struck me as being different or let’s say typically Irish, but I haven't seen much of the country yet, and guess I've become used to the sort of countryside that I raved about previously. 

Sitting now on a comfortable bed but no water till 6 in the morning as believe it or not there are water restrictions here after a fairly dry summer - I thought this kind of thing only happened in Aussie! Guess I can't complain as its costing only about Aus$2½ for bed and breakfast.

Monday 18 October 1971 - Baltimore, Co. Cork, Ireland.
After writing my diary last night I went into one of the singing pubs in Wexford and heard some of the worst singing and piano playing in my life. The piano player, I'm sure, only knew 3 chords but guess everybody enjoyed themselves. No doubt Wexford had the most pubs I’ve seen anywhere - it sure must help perpetuate the drink problem over here. 

I am beginning to understand why this is called the ‘Emerald Isle’ - there is such an intense green look about the countryside. Also, am seeing what doesn't appear in the tourist photos - i.e. the dirty pavements and streets in the towns and the run-down appearance of most town buildings - there are however, narrow and interesting main streets especially in the smaller towns - the shops themselves giving an arcade appearance being joined one to the other and usually owned by Sean O'Sullivan or some other typical Irish name. 

It rained periodically during my travels today but stopped for a visit to Blarney Castle where I kissed the Blarney Stone. Strangely enough I felt so excited and happy for the rest of the day that there must be some magic in the old stone after all. 
 
  
                             Joe at the Blarney Stone

Made it here to Baltimore by the sea just on dark so can't report on the place as yet. The De Quincey's are quiet but obviously good people who seem to lead a simple life despite the fact that they could live more luxuriously if they really wanted to. Even though Pat corresponds with Sheila, I copped a bit of a grilling when I first arrived because they had never heard about me before, and couldn’t work out how we could possibly be related! 

I was sorry that they had not heard of my father’s existence, because Sheila’s father was Vice Admiral Alexander Palmer who was also my dad’s cousin. Dad visited him once on his battleship, a visit which made a big impression on Dad. 

My dad (Fred) was so proud to be a part of the Palmer family, a family he had no initial connection with or knowledge of. His own Palmer father died when he was a few years old. Dad began wagging school and working from the time he was a boy. His mother never told him about his father’s family until he was 18 years old and working for an aristocratic gentleman who knew the Palmers in Ireland, and this gentleman became involved in deciding what best to do for dad’s future.  
 
Dad took their advice, which was - “follow in the footsteps that your father intended but never made”. Dad then emigrated to Brisbane Australia in 1910 aged 22, losing contact with the Palmers in Ireland, although he did have his uncle Abraham Palmer and distant Palmer relatives living in Queensland such as the Exton family who were very kind. 

His half-brother Jack Bridgford followed him (Fred) to Australia, and in 1915, Dad brought his mother Edith and younger half-brother Richard out from London to Brisbane, where he helped make a house for them out of packing cases in what was then rural Wynnum/Tingalpa area. In 1931 when Dad brought his wife Norah (my mother) to meet his mother at the house of packing cases, his mother Edith who never owned her own house before, said to Norah, “This is my palace”.

I am now actually in my own palace, a guest house which is separate from Sheila and Roger’s house with its own kitchen and bathroom, so I am surely set up for the duration of my stay. There is a strong wind outside and plenty of rain beating down - a gale warning has been issued for this part of the Irish coast.

Tuesday 19 October 1971 - Killarney
This morning Sheila took me down onto the cliffs at the entrance to Baltimore harbour. There was a strong wind blowing the waves on to the rocks, and us almost over. Sheila amazed me as she nimbly hopped across the rocky cliffs - she suggested a few angles for some photos but I had great difficulty in persuading her to be in one of them. 

  
            Sheila De Quincey (nee Palmer) with Baltimore in the background

I was reading the auto-biography of Richard Palmer, Sheila's uncle, who seems to possess like her, a no nonsense nature - I could see that he and his father (Dr. Joseph Mansergh Palmer) didn't always agree with each other - for example his father reminded him of the blue blood in his veins which Richard said would be pretty watered down by now. 

From what I could read, his father the doctor who was my grand-father's brother must have been tough and mighty strict with his children but guess a lot were in those days. Richard was a well decorated soldier in the First World War and carried a piano around with him to entertain the troops. 

Sheila has such tremendous drive for her age - she must be in her sixties and she is no small time thinker. She and Roger get around the world quite a bit in their yacht and are great believers in people doing what they want to do in life. They say that the Palmer family practically disowned them when Roger tossed in his lawyer's practice in London some 30 years ago and took up farming. However, they loved farming and did very well so now live a life of ease while Roger designs boats when he feels like it. 

Roger (de Quincy) is a contrast to Sheila - he is quiet but has a wonderful character and not reserved in saying what he believes in. Though born in England of Irish parents, Sheila took out Irish citizenship and is so proud to be Irish - she believes Cuthbert doesn't like her much because of it. 

Sheila isn't the first person I've met that thinks that there is an antagonism against them because they're Irish - it makes me wonder why they bother thinking about it. 

As we drove through Baltimore, Sheila would stop near different people walking along the road and introduce me to them. Good looking people in poor looking clothes. After we'd spoken to one very poor looking old soul practically in rags, Sheila explained that she was actually one of the richest women in the town but doesn’t dress up for fear of being known to have money. She believes that to be a typical Irish trait. 

We all drove to Skibbereen for a beaut lunch of roast pork before they said goodbye and I headed on my way. They insisted on paying for lunch and gave me an American evangelical book about morals titled ‘Take My Life’, very kind of them, although I wondered if they thought I needed to improve. 

For the rest of today I have been driving through far more interesting country than previously. The scene changes so quickly here too - one minute through green forests and farmlands, the next over barren hills with nothing but boulders broken up with stunted shrubbery or wind-blown grass sometimes supporting a few sheep.

Completed the famous scenic drive ‘Ring of Kerry’ today with the company of an Australian girl who was hitch-hiking where she couldn't get a bus. We passed over mountainous country next to the ocean and inlets and through more rich farming country. She told me about her trip to England through from India by bus - it sounds fascinating. 

We arrived here in Killarney after dark and after trying a few places found this wonderfully comfortable guest house which according to the Irish Guide book should be E£1.25 only bed and breakfast, so here's hoping it’s true.

Wednesday 20 October 1971 - Near Bunratty Castle. 
The guest house turned out to be as quoted so we had a luxurious night after eating hamburgers and chips and wonderfully warming Irish coffee in town. Today we drove through fantastic coastal scenery where I could be busy once again with my camera. My hitchhiking friend Sherie is still with me and great company. 

We passed by the spot where a great part of ‘Ryan's Daughter’ was filmed - Sherie ran along the beach there - we had a Guinness in the local pub, frequented previously by some of the stars such as Gregory Peck, who had also been there visiting some of his family. 

I asked Sherie to take my photo outside the pub in the same place where Gregory Peck was standing in a photo in the pub - he’s a great actor and the barmaid said he is as charming as he appears on the screen.
   

     
      
           Joe standing where Gregory Peck stood for his photo - “Here’s to Gregory!”

         

                            Cherry on the jetty at Dingle   

We drove up into the clouds over Conor Pass - plenty of moss and lichens plus a few hardy sheep. As we started to come down the other side out of the clouds the view was breath-taking. We reached the quaint town of Tralee where it started to rain and didn't stop till we reached the other side of Limerick. We passed through rolling farming country - the sort of thing we're used to now. We are about 10 miles this side of Limerick at a farm house near Bunratty Castle - we've booked in for the 9pm banquet so I'll have a bath and get stuck into all that medieval food. 

Thursday 21 October 1971 - St.Josephs Guest House.
Last night's banquet turned out to be better than anything I could have anticipated. We were greeted as “My Lord” and “My Lady” by staff dressed in medieval clothes, and drank mead, a sweet traditional wine made from honey - delicious, while Irish music played in the background by a harpist and a violinist - also a choir of 10 sung from time to time for the guests. 

We entered another chamber and sat down to a generous 4 course feast which we mainly ate with our fingers, drank more mead and another traditional wine while the music was expertly played in the background - there were fun parts too when one of the guests was dragged off to the dungeon - gongs sounding and all in all a professional job by the workers. I would surely recommend anyone visiting Ireland to visit Bunratty Castle for the feast. 

Today in cool misty weather we visited the Cliffs of Moher - dropping a sheer 700 feet to the frothy ocean and stretching for miles - howling wind blowing so we didn't venture too close to the edge. 

We were photographing Guaire Castle (Dun Guaire Castle, Kinvarra, County Galway) when a distinguished older lady came along the road riding her horse side-saddle - she said she owned the castle and invited us to see it - we followed her to the stables and helped her unsaddle the horse. The castle, although bleak from the outside could only be described as luxurious inside with period furnishings and old staircases still retained. 

We found out later she was Lady Apple (Christobel Lady Amptill) or some similar sounding name and Cherry - not Sherie as I thought earlier, tells me there was an article in the Australian Women's Weekly about her riding 700 miles in the S.W. corner of West Australia on horseback by herself. The Lady herself was telling us how much she loved Australia and all the friendly people she met. She seemed a little eccentric, but who wouldn't be after living alone in that lonely looking castle.     

  

                   Cherry meets Christobel Lady Amptill on her horse

The overcast sky today didn't help, but I could imagine how much nicer it would be to see the sun going down on Galway Bay. It has lovely winding shores and inlets with strips of yellow sea-weed lining the shore. 

We bypassed the actual town of Galway and drove against a blustery wind through peat country - yellow orange grass and bare mountains. Piles of peat stacked up beside the road and black troughs in the fields where it has been dug out. 

We tried several farm houses to find a place to stay but without success until we found this warm house where the charming lady owner cooked up some food and has us sitting in front of a peat fire watching television. As I write I can hear the wind roaring round the house.

Friday 22 October 1971 - Dublin.
It looked cold and bleak when we stepped out of St. Josephs Guest House this morning but within half an hour the sun was shining and we had mostly blue skies all day - first stop Ashford Castle in the town of Cong (County Galway) where ‘The Quiet Man’ was filmed. The castle is now a luxury hotel and is like a fairy tale castle with bits and pieces sticking out everywhere - battlements, creepers etc. The grounds have lovely trees and walks and all semi-surrounded by crystal clear streams and lakes. 

We examined the ruins of an old abbey while I was almost bowled over by an enthusiastic dog. On through valleys and past lakes surrounded by tall hills dotted with sheep - this is Connemara country. 

Cherry wanted to take a photo of me while I was patting a friendly donkey. Typical Irish country scenes here - people in casual clothes walking beside the road or on a bicycle, appearing to be miles from anywhere. Plenty of signs in Gaelic language - I was surprised to find the Irish language having no resemblance to English in any way. 

  

                Joe making friends with a donkey in Connemara country

Back to Galway, more souvenir hunting and a pint of Guinness. Cherry rang up a contact in Galway but they didn't invite her to their home, so she decided to come with me as far as Kildare where I dropped her off. I found Morgan's place. Liz cooked me a grill and cup of tea which was welcome as the drive from coast to coast had taken a little longer than expected, but now in a comfortable mattress on the floor as friends have the spare room tonight. 

I have been glad of Cherry's company and hope to see her again in London as she has friends who could help me with a place to sleep if needed in London.

Sunday 24 October 1971 - Dublin
What a night tonight! After 2 relaxing days here at Morgan's house I went into town with Morgan to a job he had at the Gaiety Theatre - Morgan was to interview actors appearing on a poetry reading charity show which included Peter Sellers and Peter O'Toole plus others I have seen in films. 

On the way to the theatre Morgan had to pick up a tape recorder and parked his car outside Dublin's main post office. As I was waiting in the car a man appeared and asked me to move the car saying he represented the I.R.A. the Irish Republican Army (which is an illegal organisation). He said a protest march was coming and he advised me to move, but I explained that Morgan would be back soon. 

However, car loads of police arrived and following them men bearing flags and marchers - they stopped right in front of our car facing the post office and the man who had told me to move the car before advised the man who was about to address the crowd that he should stand on our car as I hadn't bothered to shift it. 

I was worried but the man ended up standing in the boot of the car in front and the worst that happened was kids sitting on the bonnet. The speech ended and the crowd was singing the Irish anthem by the time Morgan appeared - he seemed unperturbed about it all and forced the car through the dispersing crowds - I had been worried as to what might happen to the car but guess you get used to these demonstrations after a time.

Backstage at the Gaiety it was exciting to be so close to all these famous actors but I couldn't help thinking how false their lives must be. Morgan interviewed Peter Sellers while I looked on. Peter Sellers really seems genuine and so likeable. I couldn't help but feel relaxed after listening to him for just a minute. Peter O'Toole was brash and un-co-operative and was worse the night went on and got more drink in to himself. 

Morgan introduced me to Peter Sellers, we shook hands and he was so polite to me - I learnt something there. The theatre itself is a beautiful and intimate old building with lavish fittings and good acoustics - the sort of theatre you'd see on films of old-time theatres. So small looking, just crammed with boxes sticking out and different audience levels but seating 1,900. It was full of Irish poetry lovers and you could tell they were hanging off every word - they sure appreciate the arts over here.

Wednesday 27 October 1971 - Dublin
Over the past few days I've been seeing some of Dublin’s tourist attractions, noteworthy the ’Book of Kells’ an 8th century religious book with beautiful symbolic paintings in it. This was in the library of the Trinity College University grounds. There were two beautiful stained glass windows in St. Patrick's Cathedral but as for Dublin remaining attractions - very ordinary, among the ordinary was Dublin’s famous Guinness brewery - a boring tour. 

Morgan arranged a tour today of Ireland's one and only TV station. It is about 10 years old and has some impressive equipment. I was told they’re over-staffed - they all seemed happy and friendly to me. Fantastic outside broadcast unit but they only transmit approx 6 hours per day! TV doesn't play the light entertaining role that it does in Australia. It's a far more serious medium here - more drama produced than light entertainment. 

Tonight Morgan introduced me to a friend who worked with at the A.B.C. in Australia. Dick is on a Churchill scholarship and has been over here mainly with the B.B.C. for past 6 months. Obviously a very able person, produces plays and dramas with the radio section in Sydney - his knowledge is outstanding but just to hear his well-trained voice is a pleasure in itself. He has acted, sung and written music but he didn't mention or brag about any of his achievements. Dick appreciates the wealth of talent over here - actors, poets and script-writers - no doubt this part of the world holds a lot for those interested in the cultured life. 

Just listening to Dick it makes me realise what little knowledge I have about the arts or anything else for that matter. I know Dick didn’t mean to, but he made me feel pretty useless. I'd like to know so much more about what is really going on around me but guess I'll always be too bone lazy to learn how to lift myself up a bit.

For some reason I have been lacking self-confidence lately. I certainly don't believe in over-confidence but somehow I must gain more self-confidence and possibly the only way at the moment is to find a way to improve myself somehow.

Thursday 28 October 1971 - Armagh.
Wrote a few letters today, a dark and dull day but Liz was great company. Caught the bus up to Armagh where I'm settled into a guest house for the night after fish and chips and a Guinness in one of the local watering holes. This is Northern Ireland - I haven't seen it in daylight yet but haven't noticed anything much different except maybe a nosey border officer - the people I've met so far very cold and snappy - they probably don’t get to interact with too many tourists these dangerous northern days. 

Anyhow, I'm glad I'm only up here for a night and a day but tomorrow it may look better. I just had to visit the home of some of the Palmer family when so close to Dublin.

Friday 29 October 1971 - Dublin.

My visit to Armagh turned out to be far more eventful than anything that I had anticipated. First thing this morning I walked up the hill to the hospital where I was shown the plaque in memory of my grandfather’s brother Dr. Joseph Mansergh Palmer (surgeon of the hospital) who saved many lives in Ireland's worst rail disaster. 

From there to the nearby Anglican Cathedral (St.Patricks) where I found his grave-stone but couldn't see any others of interest either outside or in the church. The interior walls are lined with beautifully kept plaques and monuments and although it is small for a cathedral, it is a bright church possibly because of all the white walls and ceiling.  

A young man in robes came up to me to tell me of an impending service which I stayed for - I was the only one in the congregation.  The service was conducted by the Dean and the Archbishop of all Ireland, Dr. Simms. After the service the young man, whose name is Michael Thompson, introduced me to Dr. Simms. My fears of a face to face encounter with the Primate of all Ireland were soon swept away by his humble and friendly manner. He invited me to his home (The Palace) at 12.00. 

In the meantime I asked Michael and his friends if they knew where the Armstrongs lived at Deans Hill - their address had been given to me by my second cousin Ros Attwood. Michael and friends walked with me through the town and passed their school (The Royal School) to a lane winding through yellowing trees to an imposing mansion on the hill. 

Mrs Armstrong invited us in for coffee but unfortunately it was her aunt who was a friend of the family and she wasn't there. After a chat she drove us in to town where we looked at some of the local crafts such as lace-work and basket-weaving in the local museum. 

From there we walked back to the other side of town and along a quiet lane winding through green fields, passing a ruined Franciscan Friary and to the huge ‘Palace’, seat of the Archbishop. His Grace opened the door, and smiling, brought us into a large reception room. We were surrounded by large paintings of previous Archbishops, one painted by Reynolds, while Dr. Simms disappeared and returned shortly armed with a tray of biscuits and coffee which he himself had just prepared. 

We entered another huge room for the coffee and soon found we both knew Bishop Housden (Bishop of Newcastle, Australia), his son works in television administration. Dr. Simms had gone to college with Dr. Auchmuty of Newcastle University. 

Dr. Simms is just so far away from being dominant - in fact he’s probably more the opposite but every word is the right word and he is so jovial - I liked the way he would casually hum or sing a religious tune in between describing this or that object of interest - a continuous and fascinating presentation.

His wife, who had been mowing the lawn came in and flopped down on a lounge chair - what a contrast - bossy but casual. We were in the study at the time and Dr. Simms showed us a secret door built into the library wall - the sort of thing you read about but rarely see.

Before I knew what had happened he presented me with a copy of the book he wrote about the ‘Book of Kells’, the original one I had seen in Trinity College, Dublin. I felt truly honoured when he autographed it for me. We had a look at the Roman columned private chapel adjacent to the Palace and left - I felt at that time a kind of euphoria, as if I had been healed.

I walked back through the town again to St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Cathedral. There are two St Patrick’s cathedrals, a protestant and a Roman Catholic on the top of two hills looking across at each other. The Roman Catholic, a magnificent gothic building lavishly rich with mosaic, gold, and marble, which could only be described as immaculate - there must be a lot of money in the Irish R C church. 

From there back to the Library which is between the Hospital and the Anglican Cathedral where the librarian showed me a book dealing with the train accident, and I was able to read about the part my grandfather’s brother played in saving lives that day. 

Michael met me at the library and took me to the top of the cathedral after ringing a peal of bells, and I was able to get a good view of the surrounding country. A student was being taught an organ lesson so I was able to hear the organ as well. 

I said goodbye to Michael who had been exceptionally helpful to me, and walked down the hill for an omelette and chips before catching the bus for the 2½ hour trip back to Dublin. 

Just a short word about the problems in the north - Michael told me not to bother using the phone as the exchange had been blown up - he showed me some places that had been blown up or burned down with fire-bombs. 

As darkness fell most shop owners placed mesh over their windows or even wooden barricades. However, there seemed to be plenty of people on the streets after dark even though there was an air-raid type siren on both nights about 7.30 so I imagine it was a sort of curfew. 

At one stage I had to walk through a lot of soldiers with machine guns trained down the street but guess it was just an exercise.

Sunday 31 October 1971 - Dublin.
Yesterday I slept in, wrote letters, went grocery shopping with Liz O’Sullivan and had a glass of powerful Irish whisky at Liz's aunt place. Today was sunny and mild, a beautiful day for the end of October. 

We drove about 50 miles through the Wicklow mountains to Athy where Liz's mother lives - they have a pub (one of the multitude of pubs in town), treated to home farm style cooking - fruit mince tarts, apple slices, haunches of meat sliced off the bone and of course Guinness from the bar where Morgan pulled a few beers to help out. 

Such a friendly family - and as the night progressed there was a fellow playing Irish tunes on an accordion with all joining in. I noticed the numbers swelling after 6 o'clock mass, all dressed up in their best clothes - it really is a big night out for the Irish strike up a conversation with a stranger without bragging their heads off. They seemed so informal and relaxed that it’s hard to understand why there is so much unrest and hatred in the north. Perhaps the troubles up there may be because of not being able to let go of the past, and what they believe to be old wrongs that need vengeance. It’s a pity they can’t forget past sufferings, but I am not of the North, so I don’t pretend to know what it is really like for them.

  

            Morgan helps out behind the bar at his mother in law’s pub

Monday 1 November 1971 - On board ferry.
Am now leaving Ireland on the ferry - I joined a scattered group of other sentimental people at the stern of the ferry silently looking back at the disappearing Irish coastline. I had no idea how I would feel when I left both Ireland and the O'Sullivans, who gave me such a wonderful time and made me feel at home. I feel so fulfilled by it all, that I don’t really need to see or do any more. If I could be magically transported home, I would be happy to finish my travels right now.

In just two weeks I've seen and done so much it’s hard to recollect it all. I was so fortunate to meet up with the O'Sullivans, it sure makes a difference to know somebody in a foreign country. I feel like getting straight off the boat again, but that’s easy to say when you have left the jetty.

For the first time in 5 months I’m looking back - but coming to grips with myself, it wouldn't be any use getting too involved here because I want to start up again down under. I want to get back to where I once belonged. 

Liz O'Sullivan would go back to Australia tomorrow if she could but Morgan seems to be settled here in his native country, and I can't blame him as I know now what it means to have a love for your home country and to be away for a time. He loved Australia but never felt truly a part of it - I know I could love Ireland and I'll miss it, but I can’t imagine feeling truly settled here, so isolated from my family and friends - at least I'll always have fond memories of this wonderful country, and maybe one day I'll come back again - but I'll never forget all those friendly people and yes, the soda bread and the Guinness. 

Saturday 6 November 1971 - Youth Hostel, Paris.
I'm so happy to be in Paris - but perhaps I should go back a little as I haven't made any diary entries for 5 days. 

It was a smooth crossing from Dublin to Heysham but I didn't get any sleep and it was equally difficult to sleep on the train to Rugby where I arrived 12 hours after leaving Dublin - quick trip really. From Rugby I hitched towards Guilsborough after ringing Ros to tell her I was on my way - after 2 lifts I was walking along a quiet country road through farmlands towards Guilsborough when I was amazed to see Ros drive up in her car - I was initially so surprised that I thought she must have experienced some intuition about my arrival, until I remembered phoning her. She said she put back her appointments to meet me, and it was so very kind of her to go looking for me. 

I was able to relax for a few days. Ros and I took Moona (the dog) for a walk. I showed some colour slides of my trip so far, we talked, I played their piano and generally sorted out my correspondence. 

There was a tape from home, and John borrowed a recorder from a shop in Rugby - it was such a pleasure to hear the familiar voices of my family once again. Ros and John sure have been good to me. Yesterday morning John drove me to Rugby station on his way to work and from there a quick trip to London, I spent the day sorting out the method of my return to Australia. On the way from Victoria Station when I first arrived, I stumbled across the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. It is amazing how you can run into something happening in London - it surely is a city of contrasts. Soon after this the rain set in for the rest of the day.

After checking out shipping, I decided to take the plunge and book on the overland trip to India by bus with ‘Overland Trips Co’ that I saw advertised in a newspaper. Talking to Cherry in Ireland makes me all the more keen as she came across from Australia this way, but with ’Penn Overland’.

The fare (transport only) to India is E£88 and the flight from Katmandu to Sydney is E£158 so it is cheap - I guess the reason for that will reveal itself. No doubt the cost of food and accommodation on route will push the costs up but I just can't pass by the opportunity of seeing so many fascinating countries, and just can't imagine a better way of seeing them, especially as it goes every month so they should know what to see and do on the way. I guess it will be rough - the winter weather could be a problem until we reach the warmer parts in India. 

In a way I feel I don't fully know what I'm letting myself into but I'm afraid I have that same old forced on feeling again and will just have to go through with it for better or worse. Even if it turns out not to be the most comfortable trip in the world, I'm sure it will be one to look back on and I'll never get the opportunity to go on a trip like this again. 

I booked into the youth hostel near St.Pauls after getting the cheque from my home account cashed into travellers cheques in Australia House. 

I rang Cherry who invited me out to her flat. I was so glad about it because I was feeling a bit depressed. There's no doubt you can go so quickly in London from feeling on top of the world to way down in the dumps. It’s not the kind of city to be alone in - so huge with so many stolid people - even the bright light areas seem to have an air of hardened solidarity about them. Things might have seemed better if I had been born in London as my dad was, in 1888. 

Caught the tube to Shepherds Bush and great to see Cherry again who had just bought some mead for me to remember our night at Bunratty Castle. I met her friend, Diane - who works for the B.B.C. as a production assistant - she left later with two blokes for the pub. Yes I have met another media working person - but I don’t care about working anymore, I have made my decision to go back to Australia.

Cherry showed me some slides she'd taken on her trip from India - all fascinating and better still, some slides she'd taken in Ireland while we travelled together. She has a good one of me patting a donkey. If mine turn out as well I should be pleased. I don't think Cherry is too happy working in England or more specifically London. My guess is that she will return to Australia too, don’t we all?

I raced back from the tube to the hostel with a Canadian girl and buzzed till they let us in - it closed at 11 and we were a few minutes late. 

This morning I had a hectic time at the post office making out postal orders and filling in my travel insurance proposal for the trip. I consequently missed the 10am train to Paris but it was a good thing as I had more time to get things more properly organised, and get some French francs at Thomas Cook & Son the travel people, who have the great habit of cashing travellers cheques for you - the Post Office won't. Booking on the bus to India is a turning point, the die is cast, and I know now where I am heading, no matter how long it takes to get there.

I caught the 1pm train at Charing Cross to Dover Priory then bus to the hovercraft, where we waited an hour until the hovercraft arrived, dramatically heading straight for us in a cloud of sea-spray before bouncing up on the cement landing area. 

The flight (as it is called) was a lot rougher and noisier than expected, so I sat strapped tight in my seatbelt and tried not to think about needing to go to the boys room. Violent vibrations increased to a continuous shudder as we gained speed, skimming the tops of the waves. The noises in the hovercraft reminded me of an early driving lesson given to me by my dad in his car. He said never worry about a noise until it gets worse - I love that - it also speaks volumes about the quality of his cars, but not his life.

I had met a woman on the train to Dover who gave me a plan of the Metro, and getting off the hovercraft a pretty girl asked me in broken English if I would carry one of her cigarette cartons through customs which I did, and we talked between sleeps to Paris. 

I thought she was French but turned out to be Spanish - very friendly and beautiful with long black hair and a petite face. I think she was glad to be out of England after two weeks as she said she didn't understand English enough to get by. It was also an opportunity for me to brush up on my French. She teaches in Orléons, and gave me her spare map of the streets of Paris, so now I am well set up for Paris.

On the Metro we passed over the Seine with bright lights shimmering on its surface, and the bordering trees silhouetted against the city. I got off at Place d’Italie Station and for the first time walked out into Paris. What a contrast after London, the vitality - exciting neon signs, wide streets, extra wide pavements dotted with trees, and cars rushing by on the right side of the street once more telling me I’m back on the continent. It’s a funny thing but I can remember getting the same feeling when I returned to Germany after being in England before. I guess there is a progressive futuristic feeling over here while life seems so staid and traditional in good old Britain.

Sunday, 7 November 1971 - Paris Youth Hostel.
About an hour ago I came back from breakfast to find my sheet sleeping bag stolen. I went to reception to report it. The man there said nothing, and pointed to a sign behind him on the wall that said in French ‘Beware of Thieves’. 

I felt very sorry about the loss, because my mum had created this bag herself, and by using it, I had felt comfortable in many unclean looking beds. I do not believe that crime should be hidden, and went around asking everyone about it.

A guy has just found it hidden under another bed. It makes me realise that you are not alone wherever you are.

It is now 9.30pm after a fascinating day both walking round Paris and catching the Metro - had company too - Bill, a young Canadian. 

We headed first for the Louvre and walked for miles through seemingly endless exhibits of Egyptian and Babylonian relics, and then graceful Graeco-Roman sculptures culminating in the Venus de Milo - almost alive and so lovely from any angle. 

Leaving the Louvre we walked by the Seine to Notre Dame past Paris’s white looking buildings. Inside Notre Dame a huge stained glass rose window caught my eye. We walked a little more along the Seine admiring the wide stone streets and generally open aspect. 

The Metro took us to one of life's memorable sights - the Eiffel Tower. Impossible to describe the impressive feeling of actually standing before this magnificent structure with the fountains playing in the foreground and the white - grey city stretched out behind. 

We went about half way up (the top was closed), a breath-taking view over the city and the Seine as the sun was setting - a cold wind blowing so after taking photos all the way round and staying as long as possible to retain the beauty of it all in my mind, we headed for the Metro and a coffee with cognac, before having a basic but filling meal here at the youth hostel.

Monday 8 November 1971 - Paris Youth Hostel.
A taste of intense Paris today as we walked down the Boulevard Saint-Michel past interesting boutiques, expensive coffee and liquor stalls - this is the Latin Quarter. After coffee we walked down by the river Seine, seeing lovers embracing, and fishermen standing lazily on its banks. A canal ride down the river revealed the beauty of the many bridges over it - displaying different styles of architecture dating from about 1600.

 
                              An Australian in Paris   

We wandered through a department store and saw the biggest range of toys I've ever seen - they must be getting ready for Christmas. Also there was a wonderful variety of French sweets and chocolates. I had a bowl of fruits in syrup for lunch plus more of that delicious French coffee. 

We have been eating tons of French bread - it comes in long hard crusted rolls and is great but hard work for the jaws. Yesterday, we had patê on bread - I'm sure it would not taste the same anywhere else, just delicious. This afternoon we were walking through the Tuilleries Gardens towards the Champs Elyseê when Bill remembered that the Louvre closes tomorrow so we dashed back and found the great attraction in the Louvre - the Mona LIsa - she is smaller than I had expected but so pure and holy a face that I had no trouble at all just gazing at her beauty. The smile intrigued me as you could almost see her smile broadening as you watch - Da Vinci seems to have captured Mona Lisa half way through a smile.

Bill returned to the hostel while I took the Metro to the Arc De Triomphe. By this time darkness had set in and the arch looked magnificent with the bright lights playing over the cream stone. The traffic tearing around the base was the most congested mess I've ever seen - horns blowing, lights flashing and men in white coats darting between the galaxy of cars blowing whistles and waving arms - scary, especially to be in the thick of it I would imagine - I was amazed to see only one accident happen. There were even people on push bikes riding through it all.

A three quarter hour ride through the Metro to a hostel dinner - omelette, chips, beer, cheese and tons of bread - have been talking to a South African girl tonight who is just about to catch the train to Switzerland with two young people and their baby. Bill and I are planning to go to Carcassonne in the south of France tomorrow - I'll be sorry to leave Paris as I've loved every minute of it here and haven't seen everything by any means but guess it will be an excuse to return one day. I guess Paris could be summed up in one word - ATMOSPHERE!

Wednesday 10 November 1971 - Carcassonne Youth Hostel.
Today was the coldest I've ever felt I'm sure. Yesterday Bill and I took the train from Paris to Carcassonne in the south of France. Although cloudy in the morning, the sun came out as we travelled through flat intensive farmlands to hilly and scenic country covered in small autumn-golden trees. The trees seemed to be getting greener the further south we went, ahead of the progress of autumn. 

My dreams of a warm Mediterranean were shattered when today we were blasted with a freezing wind off the Pyreneês. We started the day with a tour of the chateau inside the ancient walled city where the youth hostel is also situated - unfortunately the guide spoke in French but battlements and devices for torturing and dispatching the enemy needed no explanation. The citê is in wonderful condition and some of it dates from Roman times. 

We walked down to the modern town - me wrapped in my big red scarf I bought in London - it sure is coming in handy. My eyes were watering with the cold and I could see my breath without any trouble. I bought some woollen looking gloves and after coffee we returned for a walk around the city battlements. We bought some wine (about 30 cents a bottle), bread rolls, creamy cheese, patê and chocolates - all this cheap wine is taking the skin off the insides of my mouth. A fellow just arrived says it’s snowing 30 kilometres from here. We hope for a car ride tomorrow to Barcelona where its warmer I hope.
  

                      Feeling the cold wind at Carcassonne

Thursday 11 November 1971 - Hotel Aragones, Barcelona.
It was a long drive today to Barcelona with two American guys - Bill and I in the back of their V.W. Kombi. The air was freezing as we push-started the Kombi out of Carcassonne and on through plenty of red and yellow leaved grape vines until the Mediterranean came into view. 

We only jumped out temporarily in the wind and cold while I took a picture, before pushing on with the snow-capped Pyrenees on our right - the first time I had actually seen snow. 

                      A windy stop in the south of France

                       
We drove through drier country although it had rained recently - I couldn't get my feet warm. The Spanish border police took their time taking the Kombi apart but found no drugs, probably because there weren’t any. At Barcelona we walked through the busy streets, and after checking out many pensions we settled on this one. 

There was some trouble as one of the Americans was really tight and sure lived up to his reputation - he wasn't satisfied unless it was the cheapest and best. Even in this place we were looking at a 4 bedroom for 300 pesetas when he noticed a sign saying the room was really a 2 bedroom and for 160 pesetas. He said he was going back downstairs and threatening them with calling the police if they didn't do the right thing - but we calmed him down and he complained in a nice way which meant we now have 2 separate rooms costing 145 pesetas each (about $1) which is incredibly cheap, especially considering we have a bathroom. 

We met up with some other Americans and went to a really cheap restaurant where I had roast veal and potatoes, then squid and salad with sangria to drink, all for 70-80 cents, then afterwards Bill and I walked down and I had a couple of Cinzanos for about 35 cents. 

Things seem so cheap here after France - just about to brave the shower before bed.

Friday 12 November 1971 - Hotel Aragones, Barcelona.
Bill had his sleeping bag so he gave me his blankets. I was very comfortable as a result and slept in to about 10.30 with a much needed rest. 

We stepped out into the noisy narrow streets and after coffee, ham and egg, window shopped our way to the zoo where we strolled around and saw an albino gorilla. Unlike the other poor animals, we escaped to the docks area, but we were stopped from taking photos by sensitive men in uniform. 

Changing some French money to Spanish, we booked a tour to Monserrat tomorrow. I bought a leather drinking gourd for my future travels, a slightly gold engraved ash-tray, brooch and cuff links all for mum and dad, and for my cold feet, a pair of fur lined six dollar boots - my own ‘boots of Spanish leather’. 

We had another marvellous meal at last night's restaurant, cod entreê, steak and chips, biscuit and wine for about 50 cents each. We found another tacky old restaurant where the Bacardi cost almost the same as the coke - about 15 cents for a shot of Bacardi and the same for a small bottle of coke. 

With those prices it’s no wonder there are so many U.S. tourists, but it’s no place for young local women here, they get touched up by the local boys as they walk down the crowded pavements - do they know each other? I can’t understand how some men think this is acceptable behaviour, but I can understand how glad I will be to get away from them all. 

Saturday 13 November 1971 - Barcelona, Spain,
I sit alone in the black of a long night waiting for the train that will take me from Barcelona's dark and dingy station. Once again life for me is a series of meetings and goodbyes - it’s such bad luck I was born to be so sentimental - guess it’s something I just have to live with. It was good travelling with Bill because his manner is quiet like mine and we could have been great company but for the fact of us going in different directions - he to Madrid, me to Rome. 

The day began in the afternoon with a bus tour to Monserrat, home of some Benedictine monks, who have a good tourist business going. It’s a pity, as big crowds tend to spoil the atmosphere, but the air was fresh - I found my scarf useful taking a cable-car ride to the top of the mountain, and whenever the clouds parted was able to get an expansive view down on the abbey and the valley below. 

The boulders making up the steep mountains were absolutely huge and looked as though some mighty hand had smoothed them and stacked them there. Being pinkish coloured they made a smooth encasement of the monastery.

There was some choir singing in the gaudy chapel and on the way back to Barcelona, all of the liqueur we could drink in 10 minutes at a roadside bar. 

                        Monserrat, Spain - late afternoon.
  
                                
Sunday 14 November 1971 - Pisa Youth Hostel - Italy.
From Barcelona, a gruelling train journey through 3 countries, Spain, France and Italy. Couldn't get much sleep and the seats were pretty hard. The compartments were full from Marseilles on.  

Had a sign-language conversation with a fellow in army uniform in Spain, and then a real one with 2 zany Canadian girls followed by 4 Frenchmen and one Italian. The Mediterranean sea was a lovely light blue along the shores of the French Riviera, but so commercialised and no really natural looking beaches. 

Monaco/Monte Carlo looked ordinary from the station but as we went round the coastline and looked back across the water it looked magnificent. I had been thinking of getting out and looking around but when the time came it all left me fairly cold - so much for all my dreams of wealth and daring gambling that I used to kid my mum about. One day I might approach Monte Carlo differently but for now I'll push on in my ex-army jacket and rucksack. 

As soon as I asked someone directions when I stepped out into Pisa, I was surrounded by friendly Italians wanting to help. As the hostel didn't open till 6am, I caught a bus and Iooked around for somewhere to eat as I had no Italian money on the train and hadn't eaten, although a generous Italian had bought me a coffee on the train. 

There were no places open, even though it was by now 5.30, apparently they don't eat till 8. Pisa had good atmosphere, people walking all over the main street with the bus beeping to get through. 

As we passed over a bridge in the middle of the town, the yellow-orange pastel facades of the houses reflected perfectly in the still water of the river. 

The walls and ceiling of the old hostel here have been painted in pastel colours. The artist has drawn classical figures and columns in renaissance style - very atmospheric and a contrast to the juke box which is cheerfully blaring out contemporary hit tunes echoing all around the building - wherever I go, I hear Carole King’s voice, she sings such realistically beautiful songs. ‘So Far Away’ always makes me feel homesick. 

Tomorrow, I’ll take a look at the famous leaning tower, but I need sleep today.

Monday 15 November 1971 - Rome Youth Hostel.
A fantastic day today, but first last night - I couldn't resist a walk to see the tower, there was light enough to see its great lean, and looking up at its bulk silhouetted against the stars it seemed that it was falling - in fact it amazes me why it doesn't fall - the base must surely have been reinforced in recent years. 

Today I returned to see it all in daylight. The white of the tower, church and chapel is purely lovely. I climbed to the top for a magnificent view over the town to the snow-capped mountains beyond. The sun was shining and I felt warm for the first time in a long while - even the clouds and colours in the sky seemed more beautiful. 

After a look at the chapel and some frescoes, I caught the train to Rome. I phoned friend Renzo at work but he was not there at the time so I phoned his house and had a 10 minute conversation with someone (who turned out to be Renzo's sister) and who couldn't speak any English at all - is was funny really, so at the end of it all we both said 'arrivederci' several times and hung up, both neither the wiser. 

I stopped into a coffee bar, ordered a cappuccino and a bun and sat down after being invited by a young Frenchman to sit down at his table. He was sitting with another young bloke whom I thought was Italian but turned out to be Yugoslavian. 

The Yugoslav guy noticed my coat badges and said that he had been in Australia for 2 years and working in Newcastle - I could hardly believe it - I just arrive in Rome and meet someone from Newcastle. He didn't speak very good English but we talked about the town. He had just arrived back on the continent after working his way across on a ship and intended to get the first job he can on the next boat heading to Australia. It sure makes me realise I am not the only one who appreciates my home town. 

I found the hostel after catching the wrong bus and having to walk back to the station to catch the correct one. I booked in and walked to Via Della Giuliana where friend Renzo lives. I was so pleased when Renzo answered the bell and invited me in. 

His brother and sister were also there, and we had a few drinks which were a kind of liqueur with a cherry which had been pickling in the liqueur - delicious. The older brother, who obviously runs the household (parents live in the country) invited me to stay there for my remaining night in Rome. He speaks a little English too so the sister is the only one who doesn't. 

Renzo and I caught the bus to town and went into a bar where some of Renzo's English speaking friends usually meet. They weren't there so Renzo and I had a talk over a few beers and I caught 2 buses back to the hostel. I've had such a good start in Rome I just know I'll enjoy my stay here.

Tuesday 16 November 1971 - 58 Via della Giuliana - Roma.
A great day in Rome today - first off at the youth hostel I met Joy, an Australian girl from Warrnambool, she had worked 4 years in Perth. I dropped my pack off at Renzo's place and we met again about 10 o'clock at the Vatican. We spent 'till closing time (2pm) walking around the splendours of the museum and chapels, notably the Sistine Chapel, rich with fresco paintings by Michelangelo. 

The colours were not as beautiful as I expected - no wonder after so many years - but the longer I looked at the east wall fresco in particular (the Judgement), the more I felt that I understood the feeling Michelangelo tried to create - most particularly the faces - expressive. 

The figures (especially those being cast into hell) seemed so lifelike as to be moving, and perhaps if I looked away and looked back the figures would be in a different position. A pair of binoculars would have come in handy, especially for the paintings on the ceiling, which were too far up to see any detail. I don’t know if some of the paintings on the walls have been touched up, but the gold paint of the clothes still glistened when I stood in the right place. The chapel is very dark but guess they are trying to preserve these priceless artworks. 

As for the rest of the Vatican, it's just crammed with the usual paintings, statues, historic objets d'art and so on - must be worth a fortune. I recognised some of the statues from Dad's history books and it was hard to believe that they were really there in front of me as I never expected to have the opportunity of actually seeing them. I suppose they are the originals, who would know. 

   

                                    Rome

Joy and I walked across St. Peters square in brilliant warm sunshine into the heart of the Roman Catholic faith - St. Peters Basilica. It turned out to be more a museum than a church crammed with statues, gold lacework, mosaic, marble, and tombs (one with the body of a pope in robes visible - horrible!) - a depressingly dark black and gold canopy over the Pope's high altar. 

Noticeably, most windows in all the grandeur were clear glass which seemed out of keeping with the rest of it but guess it made things a little brighter. St. Peter's foot, worn away by all the kisses, was interesting. 

We walked down some back streets, had pizza with cappuccinos and argued with the hot tempered woman at the cafe because we thought we were over-charged, even allowing for the 15% tax they put on food here. Some things cost almost double if you sit down to eat them as well.

Foot-sore, we walked on by the imposing Victor Emmanuel monument, past grubby fronted buildings and along narrow pavements looking out for those fast Italian drivers. In fact we took our lives in our hands every time we crossed the street. 

Sitting in front of the Trevi fountain as darkness fell, we watched people turning their backs on the fountain and throwing in coins - the idea is that if you do this and make a wish, one day you will return to Rome.

A walk to the train station to find out about trains and caught the 67 bus back to the Youth Hostel where I picked up some oranges and pears from a street stall. Looking in on the indoor Olympic pool being used for training, we both felt like jumping in. I sometimes think an Australian on dry land is like a fish out of water - at least I know I miss it all, especially the ocean and the warm sand - anyway, not to dwell on that when in Rome!

We walked on, ending up here at Renzo's where we had a truly Italian meal of some kind of macaroni, tomato and parmesan cheese and bacon followed by a thin and tasty steak and tossed salad in oil plus white wine - just my kind of meal. We all cracked nuts fresh from their parent’s farm (hazels) and after dropping off Joy at the hostel for the 11pm curfew, Renzo and I stopped for coffee with Renzo’s friend Roberto. I love Rome but realise that meeting the right people sure helps.

Thursday 18 November 1971 - Florence, Italy
I am writing this in bed at a pensione in Florence. Yesterday I met Joy at the youth hostel and we caught a bus for the coliseum. I could see Joy wasn't happy for some reason and when the bus took us miles out of our way she said she was getting on the next train to Florence. 

I went with her on a tram to the termini station after a coffee which helped us both recuperate a little, but when we arrived there was more trouble when Joy's ticket cost more than she expected - she'd had a lot of trouble changing it around and finally was semi-satisfied but upset so I bought us some lunch and got her on the next train out. 

By this time it was 2pm so I had time only to walk down back streets to the coliseum. It was bigger than I expected and like all the Roman buildings, a tremendous achievement for those times, especially working with such huge stone blocks. Thinking there about its bloodthirsty history, I felt its power, and a foreboding feeling of absolute life and death. It’s good to be alive today, and not then.

I caught the fast but infrequent metro back to termini station where I waited outside for Renzo. We walked along Rome's now darkened streets with Renzo pointing out things of interest including the Spanish Steps frequented by hippies in summer. There were a few of them there, so Renzo went up and talked to them - they were from Sweden. Renzo took me to a back street parlour known as the ‘English Club’ run by an R.C. Church where Renzo frequents to improve his English. I spoke to some friendly people including a Pakistani student and a priest - had a great cup of tea and a slice of apple pie - coffee is the usual drink here. 

At first, crossing the street with Renzo was a terrifying experience as he would dart around speeding Fiats holding up his hand in the shape of a stop sign. He virtually dragged me everywhere by grabbing my arm and compelling me to follow. I'm sure that after a few days in Rome, traffic elsewhere would by mighty timid. 

I had some delicious gelati (ice -cream) and bought a bottle of sparkling Asti Spumante for about Aus$1.20 (a third of the price paid in Australia). Guiseppina, Renzo's sister had cooked us up a nice meal and after writing a letter home, I was glad to get to bed. I slept with Renzo’s older brother because he had the big bed. When we woke up, we were talking in bed when he told me he was in the Mafia. I tried not to seem disturbed by this news.

I got up, said goodbye to Renzo, Sondro and Guiseppina and caught a bus to the Coliseum where it was a short walk to the ruins of the Forum. It may have been beautiful when new but now it's just rubble of beautiful white stone. I guess it would mean more to an archaeologist. 

Nearby I entered a small cell believed to be where St. Peter was imprisoned - from there to the Baths of Caraculla. Once again I was over-awed by the size. No doubt these baths were big enough to fit the whole of Rome’s citizens into them. There were chunks of the original mosaic tiles on view and I could imagine just how beautiful they once were. 

From there a walk down the ancient Appian Way - very narrow and for the first few miles dangerous, no footpaths, only walls on either side, and tons of cars tearing along at their usual Roman pace. 

After a while the traffic turned off - more pleasant with pine trees and stone monuments by the roadside. I felt it best not to push on too far and turned back just as it started to rain. I sat under a pine tree on an old stone and then pushed on back to the Catacombs of St.Callixtus. Our guide took us through dank and dark tunnels, narrow but 30 - 40ft high lined on both sides with grave holes (1,000's of them) occasionally a little chapel including one where several of the early martyred popes were buried. There were some religious symbols marked on the walls still remaining, dark corridors leading off everywhere. Apparently they go for miles and some are still undiscovered? - exciting but glad to be in fresh air again. 

Caught two buses back near Renzo's place and bought a scarf for Pat. I picked up my pack, grabbed an apple and a pear, scribbled a note of thanks to Renzo and caught buses to the station where I reserved a seat on a flight from Amsterdam to London on Monday, using the last sector of my ticket from Aussie. 

I scribbled on a postcard to Pat and caught the train to Florence (3½ hours) and arrived at 11pm so got into the first pension I could after checking out others that were full. I eventually found Santa Monica Pensione where Joy was staying and handed her back her Rome guide plus a Paris Metro map. They had told Joy there was a phone call for her and she rushed down to the desk looking worried and dishevelled. She had been asleep and I don't think she realised what was happening for a while, but she admitted that she had thought I was going to be someone else! 

I got the message, and felt wounded, because I was the one who took the trouble to find her, not him.

Anyhow, I returned footsore and sad well and truly to my pensione, and got into a warm bath to try and ease my blistered feet and brain, but I couldn’t lock the shared bathroom door. The owner came in and kept talking to me until I said I wanted to get out of the bath. I waited but he would not leave, so eventually I had to get out of the bath in front of him to get the towel, but he picked up the towel and started to dry me. I told him no and went back and locked myself in my room.

Saturday 20 November 1971 - Como Youth Hostel.
There was a scene in the morning with the owner’s daughter when I told them I was leaving after 1 night. I had originally said I was staying for 2. They charged me 500L. (about 70c) extra which I foolishly argued about. She went into another room where I could hear her discussing it with her father. He didn’t have the guts to face me himself. It would have been easier to just give the extra money to them in the first place but I felt it was so unjust in the circumstances of how my privacy had been invaded by the same person who now wanted more money from me, so I asked her to go back and ask her father why I shouldn’t have to pay extra. He sent her back to ask for the extra money which I paid.

I walked out in the rain and felt miserable as I headed towards Santa Monica Pensione. I was getting wet but didn't care to find my rain coat in my pack. As I stood in the middle of Santa Trinita Ponte (bridge) trying to ease my mind by looking down at the water, a man with an umbrella coming towards me sheltered me and turned back with me in the direction I had been going, walking with me 2 blocks to Santa Monica Pensione where he left me, saying nothing. 

It’s kindness like that which means so much when you feel down - sometimes life throws you a few curved balls, and then gives you an angel.

At the pensione they told me Joy had already gone - guess she couldn’t wait for me. It was a cold rainy day, I spent most of it rushing along Florence’s dismally wet streets to the art galleries, just wanting to take a look and be done with it. Many Michelangelo sculptures including the ‘David’ - so lifelike and perfect - he managed to catch every muscle and gave his statue such movement. 

There were paintings and more paintings, many by Botticelli. The cathedral seemed overly ornate to me. However, there’s a magnificent domed mosaic encrusted Baptistery - you pay to have the lights turned on, so I waited till some rich looking Americans paid, and sat back taking it all in for free. 

Behind Santa Croce church there was a leather factory. I watched them putting gold leaf on leather and bought a small leather book mark.

Walking back to Santa Monica pensione, I crossed the famous Ponte Vecchio, a bridge crammed with tiny shops selling mainly jewellery, alive with American tourists. I'm sure it would look more romantic on a better day. 

At the pensione, great to see the two young American guys who had travelled with Bill and myself in the Kombi from Carcasonne to Spain. With some others we walked to an old eating house close by and filled up on soup and spaghetti plus lots of cheap wine - we sure had a great time and sky-larked around the pensione when we got back, it a wonder we weren't kicked out. 

Today I walked with an American guy to Pitti Palace, once the grand home of the King of Italy with staircases and beautiful frescoes giving the rooms a 3 dimensional effect - they were so cleverly painted. There were nice views over masses of red tiled houses. 

We had cappuccinos and returned to the pensione where we were told of a train strike in Italy. I had to think quickly, and luckily had a train timetable in my pocket so caught the last train just in time to try and reach Switzerland before the strike which could last 2 days.

At Milan I met an American who was travelling here to Como near the Swiss border. I decided to come here with him, as there is no hostel in Chiasso just over the border and 5 k’s from here. I believe there is a bus I can catch to the border. I bought some bread, cheese, tomatoes and coke on the way here.

I almost forgot to mention that just out of Florence I saw snow close up for the first time - it was really beautiful - so peaceful and pure covering the pine trees and roofs. It even looked beautiful on the railroad tracks. I was not popular with other passengers when I enthusiastically opened a window to get a better look - I quickly closed it again.

P.S. Tonight in the hostel there is Rick (U.S.) Dick (Ireland), Vagilin (Germany), Mohammed Ali (Malaysia) plus a South African and his wife.

Sunday 21 November 1971 - Chiasso, Switzerland
Today was cold with low cloud. I experienced light snow falling on me for the first time. After sharing breakfast with Mohammed Ali, we walked into town - he headed for the autostrada (highway) while I walked round the edge of the lovely lake framed by bluish mountains dotted with clusters of houses. 

A few stylish pleasure cruisers moored but didn't feel in the mood for a ride over the icy water. Instead I took the funicular to the top of one of the mountains, enjoying lovely views towards Switzerland only a few k’s away. 

The thermometer in the waiting room at the top showed 0 degrees centigrade so it would be below zero outside. As I walked passed semi-alpine homes and fir trees, tiny specks of white stuff began drifting gently all around and resting in the creases of my coat - it was a magical experience - some children in bright red bonnets, scarfs and mittens were laughing and playing, and a family was walking up the slope in front of me. It was peaceful and quiet with beautiful views on either side. 

Back down the mountain I ate spaghetti with my vino, and bought some buns for the train - I had already filled my Spanish drinking gourd with some vino Mohammed Ali gave me. 

I caught the trolley bus to the border and was asked by the Swiss border guard if I was carrying hash - he didn't stop anyone else that I saw, so I guess I look the bedraggled type who would be likely to have it. 

I left my pack at the station locker and did some window shopping - tons of watches and cigarette lighters, Jap radios and film, with Italians everywhere - all the people behind the counter speaking fluent Italian - they must do a roaring trade. I had 5 Swiss francs so I bought some Swiss chocolate. 

Snowing once again as the sun went down in a bitterly cold wind, so I sheltered in many shops on the way, until with relief I found the train at the station - the information man at Milan was right after all, the train for Amsterdam has started from the border and I'm on it.

Monday 22 November 1971 - Dorset, England.
I had more trouble than before with border police - there must have been an increase in drug smugglers but it could be from my shabby appearance. The train was wonderfully warm after such a freezing day - it was after making my entry in the diary last night that I realised I might have been able to get an earlier train at Chiasso and seen a little more of Switzerland. As I passed through Switzerland in the darkness I felt like kicking myself but guess I had too much on my mind or maybe too numb with the cold. All I could see of Switzerland was piles of snow beside the tracks, with whirling snow and rain illuminated by street lamps. 

I was half asleep when I was barraged with questions by a German border official - he asked me in German why I had a German work permit in my passport - I was too dumbfounded to reply especially in German. So after stuttering something he asked me what was in my pack - he hesitated - I thought I would be searched, then he stepped out. After that I had the seats to myself so slept to Koln between being asked for my ticket. Another fussy official at the Dutch border who didn't believe me when I said I was leaving Amsterdam today - he checked my air ticket then thumbed through a thick book he had - obviously a list of black-listed persons of some kind. 

I ate some grapes and a few buns I had bought in Como and stepped out once more into Amsterdam. A very different scene from the day I arrived on the Continent in the middle of a heat wave. Now a howling wind, rain, bare trees, blackish appearance - and yet through it all there was atmosphere in the city. I can't quite work out what it is - perhaps a quaint olde-worlde atmosphere combined with a youthful vigour which the more realistically modern thinking Dutch have. 

During a bus ride to the airport, a strange feeling came over me as I thought back to when I first arrived in Europe and Amsterdam only 4½ months ago. I thought about all the things that have happened to me during that time, trying to remember what my feelings were on that first arrival day when I had so much hope for the future. At sentimental times I tend to think more of the setbacks - maybe because I let the failure of the job in Germany really hurt me. 

I have had to come to terms with the fact that I know very little about the ways of this world compared to Viv. I am sure I became an embarrassment to her, by looking less like a man and more like a boy. Viv has had many years travel experience over me, and is in control of her life - she carries a knife to defend herself from men she told me. I took the knife information as a warning to not get too close - kind of like a verbal chastity belt. But if she was worried about my sexual intentions, she was wasting her time.

I don’t think Viv actually expected me to show up. It’s a bit like when you are invited over to dinner, and the consternation it causes when you actually accept the invitation. The only trouble in this case was that Germany was a long way to go to dinner. The whole reason for me going to Germany was the attractive sounding job at the school, and it was a shock to find that the school job was not automatically available. Perhaps I took the invitation too seriously?

I am not sorry I eventually forced my way into the school job, because it was only until that week spent at the school, that the true picture of Viv and her ordinary job was revealed, along with the confirmation that I was not good enough. I have since had a postcard from De on a holiday, but nothing from Viv, and to be fair, I see no point in writing to her, our agreement is over and now I wonder if it ever really began. 

The outstanding impression of my time in Germany working for the U.S.A.F. was the friendliness of so many Americans. I now have a different understanding of American people from that which I had believed from Hollywood movies. Perhaps it is because the U.S. armed forces attract a better type of person, who knows, but I enjoyed my time with them, and never met any American there that I didn’t get along with.

Before entering the plane my pockets were emptied, clothing rubbed, and body checked, and after 45 minutes and a salad lunch (most welcome) on the plane, touched down at Heathrow and collected my broken pack. It looked a sorry sight when it came through the wall on the luggage roller - the metal frame had been pulled out, one of the straps was broken and a buckle missing - I tied it together somehow and after being asked questions by a customs official about my camera, length of stay and more questions by an immigration officer, I bordered the BOAC bus to Victoria terminal where I phoned Pat and had a typhoid and tetanus injection by a nasty doctor who would not commit herself when I asked questions about suitable vaccinations for my journey to India. I must remember to have boosters. 

I phoned the bus to India travel office and they said there was nothing to worry about - the worst that had happened to anyone on the trip had been hepatitis - a strangely casual attitude I thought. I bought some anti-malaria and diarrhoea tablets at the chemist. It’s at times like these that you begin to have second thoughts about taking on a trip of this magnitude – it’s no turning back for me now though. 

I looked in a suitcase shop and collected a post card from Bill at Trafalgar Square P.O. then caught the 4.30 train and was met by Pat at Dorchester. A welcome bath and filling meal and better still my mail - 3 letters from Mum, a letter from my friend Cecily, a Christmas card from my sister Dara and a cheque for £20 from Mum for Christmas. 

There were 2 letters from The British Council, it was one of the places where I tried for employment when I first arrived in England, and I had given them my address at Pat’s place. In one letter was an invitation back for an interview with their board of directors, and in the second letter was an apology that I had missed out on getting the job, and their disappointment, as they felt I had a good chance of getting it. It’s just fate that I wasn’t around to get their letter. On the envelope they had typed ‘Please forward if necessary’. Anyway, careers are no longer important to me.

Mum’s letters no longer tell me about the phone calls between her and Viv’s parents, where they would read Viv’s and my letters over the phone to each other, convinced that there was something romantic happening between Viv and me. As mum put it, they all have ‘high hopes’ for us. Now that I have left Germany and therefore Viv’s world, our parents contact with each other seems to have also ended.
 
Pat seems a little brighter and Cuthbert just the same. There’s an addition to the household - a white poodle. Apparently its little furry friend has already been fatally attacked by the hunting hounds, the nightly sounds of those dogs now causing distress to Pat.  

Tuesday 23 November 1971 - Pound House, Cattistock, Dorset.
Nice to have a cup of tea in bed this morning (Pat is so kind), then downstairs for the usual Pound House oats imported from Scotland, slow cooked all night to soften - plus bacon and eggs. After having trouble starting the car in the cold, Pat drove me to see Sherborne Abbey, an ornate sandstone structure from the outside, and inside, an ornate stone ceiling with painted sections - illuminated for one penny. 

A glass panel on the floor - illuminated to reveal a crypt with half open tomb and bones! An old plaque to commemorate the nearby burial place of brothers (or nephews) of Alfred the Great - plus other interesting plaques, well preserved in old English writing.

I phoned my second cousin Commander Joseph Palmer who has invited me down to his place in Kent next weekend - from what I could tell I may be doing some horse-riding. This could be interesting as it’s something I can't remember having done before. 

This afternoon we walked across the downs in a chilly wind - it was slushy and dark, and most of the trees are now bare for the long cold winter. It makes me glad I won't be here for the next 4 or 5 months. I felt invigorated when we returned after breathing in all that fresh air, and freeing the poodle from a blackberry bush.

I think I'm getting an intense dislike of living with dogs, barking at the slightest noise. The sight of the cat helping himself to food on the table really helps to turn my stomach, especially when everyone seems to blasé about it. I ‘shoo’ Pat’s cat whenever possible, he really can't like me. 

On the news tonight a lot of border trouble between India and Pakistan - I sure hope things have quietened down by my arrival there.

Wednesday 24 November 1971 - Pound House, Cattistock, Dorset.
Sunshine, but a cold wind today. Pat and I drove into Dorchester where I bought a suitcase for £9.70 and paid 50p to a man who put a new part on my camera flash but it still didn't work. Later I felt upset for paying him but was feeling a little too tired to care. It must be the typhoid or the tetanus vaccination having a reaction. 

I felt a lot better after lunch. We drove 15 miles through mostly bare trees and wintry landscape to Milton Abbey, and arrived just as the sun was setting. There were quite a few trees there still clinging onto their leaves, it was a beautiful sight. A cousin of Pat is the headmaster's wife (there is a posh boarding school there) and we had tea after looking at the abbey church and walking up some grass steps to the top of the hill where a 900 year old tiny church stood over-looking the monastery grounds (St.Catherines Chapel - 1190AD). It was built by a grandson of Alfred the Great (King Athelstan) in thanksgiving for winning a battle nearby - he was supposed to have received some vision or inspiration on the spot. No electricity there, just candles. Pat's cousin was placing flowers in the darkness for the one and only annual service held there. (Headmaster - 1969–79: W. M. T. Holland) In the abbey church below Pat copied out an inscription on a plaque that her mother had liked. 

Back at the Pound House I tried some unsuccessful packing and rang Cherry in London about accommodation next week, so hope to hear from her friend Tony who is supposed to be going to help me out with a place to stay.

Thursday 25 November 1971 - Pound House, Cattistock, Dorset.
Typical English kippers (fish) for breakfast - packing interspersed with piano playing - drew a map of my bus journey to India for Pat, plus dates and places pinpointed. Pat had done all my washing for me and had put it on the line but it continued dark and drizzling so we have hung it all over the kitchen where it is drying nicely. 

Tonight I talked with a ham radio operator down the road but unfortunately he has only spoken to New Zealand but hasn't reached Australia - I had been hoping for some connection with my uncle Jack Gerard from Coffs Harbour, however I gave him one of Jack's cards (call sign VK2ADN) and he gave one of his in return. He is yet one more English person I've spoken to who thinks this country is finished and would like to start up down under - I guess like many others he'll never actually do it. I watched TV tonight while Pat did all the work in the kitchen. As it’s my last night here I feel bad about it now, perhaps tomorrow I can be of some company before I leave for London.

Monday 29 November 1971 - London
Friday was overcast but mild. Pat took me and the dog to the local beach almost 15 miles away - a brown pebble beach - a flat sea that reminded me of Lake Macquarie on a rough day. We walked alongside weathered sandstone cliffs where sea gulls were building their nests. Cuthbert thought we were crazy to go to the beach on such a day - perhaps we were but it was just an opportunity for me to imagine what it would be like in summer - we had no intention of getting in the water.

I had bought some Italian crockery for Pat as a kind of peace offering on arrival, because my earlier two arrivals at the Pound House were difficult. I bought locally some pots and pans as a gesture of thanks for feeding me and giving me a place almost like home to stay. On my last visit to the Pound House, it was a shock to find that I was not as welcome as I expected. Pat was not there, and if she had been home, things might have been different. I made assumptions that I would be welcome there, because Pat sometimes lived with my family in Australia, and Pat was always like part of the family. What I didn’t take into account was the extraordinary circumstances of my two earlier arrivals, my first arrival on the day after Pat’s mother Vi died, and the second arrival, on the day the lawyer and his wife were coming to stay the night and discuss the settlement of Vi’s will. As difficult as it was, it may have been worse for me if they had stopped me from coming, as I really needed somewhere to go to after those messed up days in Germany. I am eternally grateful to second cousin Ros and John Attwood for sheltering me at that time.

After tea we rushed in to Dorchester for me to catch the train to London - we arrived to see it pulling out so Pat suggested I stay another night and go the next day. I could tell that Pat was not looking forward to my departure. That house would be hard to be stuck in with poor Cuthbert for company - he needs all the cheering up possible, and Pat is so domineered by him. 

Anyhow, I asked about the next train to London, so Pat and I walked along Dorchester's quiet streets for an hour until I caught the train in drizzling rain. Pat had driven away as the train pulled in to Dorchester, goodbyes were too difficult to do she said. (I never saw Pat again) 

Arriving in London I caught the underground to Cherry's friend's place. Tony Baker lives in a tiny bed-sitter here in Brixton. Still drizzling when I arrived and had to shout to make him hear as he has no door-bell and living on the top storey. Tony is a little person and friendly but obviously not 100% happy here, and has booked on a trans-African trip leaving in a few months for his homeland - New Zealand. 

I have been sleeping on his bed base in my sleeping bag which isn't too bad really, while Tony has the mattress on the floor. Unfortunately there is a gas leak and we have to close the window because of the cold so the room smells a bit, guess I'm here only for the week so can put up with that.

On Saturday morning (two days ago) I caught the train to Headcorn in Kent where I was met by my God-father Joseph Mansergh Palmer (a second cousin) who drove me in his land-rover to a ‘meet’ which was about to start and had his wife Jean and son Anthony riding in it as well. It was great to see an actual meet or fox hunt - it couldn't be more English! 

The masters in their bright red garb and the others (about 50 of them I'd say) dressed in immaculate rider’s clothes. We followed them by road wherever possible, drinking home-made cider (delicious) and chatting to the locals, all out in force for the event. 

I saw the fox being penned in a few times and the horses jumping over a gate in the distance. A friendly 'country-type' woman invited us in for sandwiches and coffee. There's no doubt the people in the country are nice - so much openness and warmth. And Cousin Joe so embracing with personality and charm that one couldn't help but be friendly. He loves the ladies, so I learnt all about who was any good, and who wasn't. 

    

         Commander Joseph Mansergh Palmer (my second cousin and Godfather)

At his farm ‘River Hall’ I took off my muddy boots and donned Wellingtons for a tramp through mud and squishy ground to check their 7 fine ponies in a far field. A large apple orchard and the rest of it open grazing. Some horses in stables being cared for by wife Jean who obviously loves them. Anthony helps there too. Cousin Joe invited two of the local farm girls around for supper but all we talked about all night was horses! I don't really have any great love for horses and it was difficult trying to steer them off the subject as it seems that they are their whole life. 

Sunday morning (yesterday) I played some of their classical record collection, read papers and the information at the back of the Readers Digest Atlas. Cousin Joe, Anthony and I took the dogs for a walk through a nearby pine forest, then after checking the horses it was time for me to catch the train back to London. Cousin Joe tells me his father Alex died with £4.13.6 to his name. (Vice-Admiral Alexander Robinson Palmer R.N., A.D.C., D.S.O., O.B.E.) He was a generous man and obviously believed in living life to the full. He told me I looked a little like him and I took it as a compliment.

This morning my house mate Tony got up about 6.am for work but I stayed in the warm security of my sleeping bag not wanting to face the realities of the day. This sure brings home to me the realities of life in London for the single man. Believe me I'd go crazy if I had to face living and working here for the winter (or any time for that matter). Numb hands and feet in a small dark room smelling of gas looking out onto a jungle of houses around me just visible through the fog - to me this is what life would be in London. Believe me I'm not depressed (possibly because I know I'm not stuck here) but just wondering how I would stand up to it if I had to live here. But I’m not going to live here if I don’t want to. I know where I’d rather be, somewhere warm.

Tuesday 30 November 1971 - Brixton, London
Well, myself and my mind has settled into London life a little since my last diary entry. I picked up (yesterday) my big suitcase from Waterloo left luggage and left it for shipment home at a warehouse in Cowcross St. 

I walked to Australia House and the branch of the Commonwealth Bank to cash mums £20 Christmas cheque but they were closed so walked down the Strand, bought a canvas bag for my sleeping bag from army disposals and sausages from the local Woolies ($1 for 2), and made it back to Brixton to let Tony in as I had his keys to get more cut for myself - also bought some woollen pads for my Spanish boots to try keeping my feet a little warmer - so far so good!

Today I managed to crawl out of bed at nine, cooked some porridge plus left over sausage and egg. Went straight to Australia House and cashed mum's cheque and read a couple of the recent newspapers they have displayed there. As I think I've said before these places really make Australia almost over attractive for the prospective immigrant - it will be interesting for me to see and compare Australia with all these other countries on my return. 

Getting into the underground, I went to Gloucester Road to pick up my Thai Airways flight ticket Kathmandu - Bangkok - Singapore - Sydney. I had asked them before to book me Singapore-Sydney on 3rd February as they warned me bookings would be heavy as only 2 flights per week to Sydney. They have me on stand-by for the 3rd which in my mind is not safe enough to go all the way to Singapore and not be able to get from there to Australia, so I've got them to try for the next flight on the 6th. I'll find out on Friday. It‘s a bit nerve-wracking as the bus for India leaves this Sunday, so hope it's all sorted out by then. 

From there, I made my way to a long waited for tour of B.B.C.TV. I arrived at the Television Centre at White City in good time and was escorted round with another Australian by a friendly but conservative engineering type who couldn't or wouldn't take us into control areas - including viewing a sound mixing desk which we would both liked to have seen, as the other chap had worked in audio too at H.S.V. Channel 7 in Melbourne. 

It was a little disappointing as I don't think we saw any more than a non-TV person would have seen. It was however the B.B.C. and we did get a taste of it in the 2 hours, including a look at the set of Dr Who. 

The Australian chap was telling me he's been here a few weeks and it already looks like he has a job with Southern T.V. He was given good contacts and it sure makes a difference. I couldn't help thinking how different things might have gone for me if I had been given the right contacts instead of just a good reference, but at that time I thought I was beginning a new career working in an American school in Germany. How I could believe that shuffling paper in a foreign school would be a good move seems illogical to me now, but Viv’s job offer in the school helped me get out of Australia and started me on this journey, and I thank her for that.

For months now I felt a sense of shame that I couldn’t make things work in Germany, but now I know that my past failure there turned out to be a success, a success in disguise. My time is more valuable down under, but on a personal level. I don’t think I was ever truly ambitious anyway. 

For supper tonight I cooked up spaghetti, tomatoes, bacon and cheese (my speciality) - it wasn't too bad and certainly filling! I feel a bit cold as I write but at least there's no gas smell since we turned it off at the mains.

Wednesday 1 December 1971 - London - Oxford - Thame
The first day of December was cool but packed full of interest. I caught a fast train to Oxford taking just 1 hour to get there from Paddington and wrote some letters on the way. I was worried as the train sped on through dense fog but it had cleared fairly well by Oxford and from then on blue skies and sunshine all day. How lucky I am with the weather. 

I spent the Oxford day ambling down lanes and through marvellous buildings and chapels. Venture to say Oxford has even more character than Cambridge, but Cambridge has the space and beauty of trees and canals - it was warmer then too which helps. 

Oxford (as far as I could see) doesn't have a Kings College type chapel as in Cambridge, but that chapel would be hard to beat. The sandstone colleges in Oxford have that rich yellow colour and so much carved stone-work - gargoyles and spires everywhere. It wasn't the best time of the year for the gardens but the grass was a rich green and in places covered by frost all day - some of the ponds were covered in ice too. It wasn't uncomfortably cold as there was no wind. 

Wandering around all this civilized charm I couldn't help imagining how different life must have been in Oxford for my dad living there in the 1920’s after working as a clergyman dealing with people in country Queensland - from everyday life and death problems faced by real people to a pseudo world of flippant students and cultured culture. 

Yes, in my opinion it's yet another wonderful place to visit and should not be missed but I wouldn't care to be a student there. My dad always says how much he loved his time studying and living at Oxford. He was awarded Scholar in Theology, but he is more of an intellectual than I turned out to be. 

I caught a bus to Thame (only 14 miles away) and to Danny and John's place in time for a bath and supper plus some of John's best French wine which was from his 5 year old collection. It really was one of the best. We sat around the fire while the cat found a convenient resting place on my lap. Danny was nicer to me.

Thursday 2 December 1971 - On train to London
I'm just numb to know what to say after my goodbyes to John and Ros Attwood. I've just said goodbye to John who drove me to Northampton station and I'm heading for London - its 9.30pm. Earlier today I hitched from Thame to Ros and John at Guilsborough taking only 2 hours and three lifts. 

It was damp and foggy all day but warm in Ros and John’s home. I had a hearty stew and talked with Ros in front of the open fire. Ros brought out their recent acquisition - a tape recorder, thanks to my good influence, Ros said. The girls are using it for their piano practice and Ros has sent a tape to her brother Jimmy in New Zealand - he has replied, very pleased. Ros rang John to bring home a tape so I have been very fortunate to be able to send a Christmas message home. We all also made a fun tape of a mock up interview. 

All I know is that I was a mess when I first went to their home back in September and now I feel straightened out. I wish more people understood what it means to have a helping hand when needed and a home away from home.

Sunday 5 December 1971 - Brixton, London
I'm getting a little excited now as today I leave London on the bus for India, and the headlines in the papers are all about the war between India and Pakistan. What a time to be heading in that direction!

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I’ve been busy over the last couple of days. I had more trouble with my Thai Airways ticket but made sure they sorted it out because I remember only too clearly the trouble I had in Canada with an incorrectly marked ticket. By 6pm Friday the ticket was stamped with definite OK status on all flights arriving Sydney 10.25pm 10th February 1972. In the meantime getting passport photos for visas plus corduroy pants (Aus$5), turtle neck pullover (Aus$5) and a patch for my pants which are wearing thin, so I'll try my hand at sewing. Bought another notebook as this diary is running out, and walked down Soho and bought a record for Dad ‘The Laughing Policeman’ which Pat said that Vi used to listen to - very funny - forgot to mention that I went to see the musical ‘Hair’ earlier this week - a lot of fun and a cheerful show - unfortunately no Symphony concerts happening this week. 

Visited Westminster Abbey, so much like a huge tomb just crammed with memorials of famous English people. It was bad luck that the Royal chapels were closed but saw plenty of monuments to innumerable poets and writers, Keats, Shelley, Brontê sisters, generals, statesmen - there was the feeling that any English person who ever made any mark in history rests here. 

I walked outside to see Big Ben - a magnificent structure. It was 3pm and the bell that strikes the hours has a unique deep tone - it was exciting as it has such a powerful ring to it - it made me think back to the days of England's glory. I'm sure you would be forgiven if back in those times you thought the power and the glory would last forever. 

A walk via No.10 Downing Street, down Whitehall and another look at Nelson's monument which Dad thought so much of, before checking to find no mail (I had a letter from Mum a few days ago) and then 2 hours in the nearby National Gallery where I saw dozens of paintings that I recognised from Dad's books and which of course are beautiful in real life. The misty oil paintings of Turner appealed to me and in a darkened room a painting (or really a sketch) by Leonardo Da Vinci - very old and torn but radiantly pure faces reminding me of his Mona Lisa. He really knew how to catch a holy look in human faces.

Last night at Cherry's place a party where I met some friendly Aussies - a relaxing night around the strip heater and music plus some cans of course. Cherry gave me a photo of us at Bunratty Castle in Ireland - I look like I've had too much mead! - said goodbye to Cherry, a lovely girl.

Just about to dash off a few letters and pack - the bus leaves at 5pm from Twickenham, Middlesex.

  Bags out the front of Tony’s place in Brixton, ready to leave London and catch the bus to India.

Monday 6 December 1971 - Belgian - German Border.
I have left England exactly 6 months to the day after leaving Australia. Yesterday it took 2 hours to get to Twickenham - waited in a small shabby looking office, then walked with the others to find our bus to India parked down the road in the dark beside the river. 

Because of an extraordinary high tide I guess, the bus appeared to be in the river itself. I stepped through the water to it - sitting down in the silent gloom I wondered if this old bus could really get us to India. 

After waiting an hour for some late comers we set off by pushing the bus until it started, not an auspicious beginning I thought. There are 15 passengers and 2 drivers. I struck up a conversation with Frank, an Australian, and Mary, an English girl. We stopped in Canterbury and we three set off to buy a hamburger and chips. 

On the way back we walked around Canterbury Cathedral bathed in spotlights, then a few beers at the plush looking pub before boarding the bus for Dover. 

Border checks, then a fairly sleepless night for me on the boat after buying 6 rolls of 36 shot Agfa colour film for about Aus$4 each and a bottle of Benedictine liqueur for about Aus$4 for cold numb fingers expected at times. 

Arrival at Ostend about 4.30am and four cold hours later spent in a sleeping bag arrived at Belgian-German border for bratwurst and coffee.

1.30pm. We've just pulled up outside the police station after being stopped on the autobahn. Our driver was taken here in the police car and the other driver has brought us here. I am told he will be fined £80-100 for speeding and obstruction as the police car had been flashing his light and couldn't get past. 

He doesn't have the money so has been taking bits and pieces in such as the radio to forfeit as temporary payment. In the meantime I can smell oil and Frank has just discovered an oil leak on one of the fuel lines. 

We've just come back from a walk down to the local shop where we bought bread and cheese but now we have to sit and wait for the verdict. 

I am writing now at 1.00 am. We hadn't gone too far again when we broke down with fuel problems. It was dark and misty and within moments the Politzei arrived again and put flashing lights around us on the road and called a repair man, while assisting us with torches. 

We walked around the bus with the ice crunching underfoot, feeling colder by the minute, and after an hour the mechanic gave up and went into the next town and brought back a bus which towed us about 3k, then we piled into the other bus which brought us a few k’s off the main road to this quiet hotel. 

We had bratwurst, potatoes and sauerkraut plus beer for our late supper, and then 5 of us settled into a game of cards (rummy).

Our driver Ian came to tell us why we have to return the bus to England! I don’t believe him. From what we passengers can tell, this trip to India is nothing but a hoax! Two of our passengers (Americans Murray and Cecile) told us they have a legal background, and because we paid to go to India, we will assert that right, and take the bus there ourselves if necessary. As I think back to when I originally saw the cost of this trip, I felt it seemed too cheap, but I would never have guessed in my wildest dreams the reason why.

We have told Ian we will not be going back to England, and he must drive us to India as promised. He seems to have accepted it - a little too easily in my opinion, so what does this mean? One thing is for sure, the battle lines have now been drawn between the drivers and the rest of us.

I am writing about this crazy day in my bed at a comfortable hotel in our little Bavarian village. Our co-driver Paul turned out to be fined E£85 for over-taking in a forbidden section of the autobahn and had to forfeit his watch to help make the payment. The other driver (Ian) has to drive all the way out of Germany now.

Wednesday 8 December 1971 - Austria.
Just crossed over the border into Austria - cold and driving snow - my feet are like ice and have been trying to warm them in my sleeping bag. Ian, the driver, is looking around for a hotel while we wait. I quietly wonder if he is cutting a secret commission deal for himself. 

Yesterday back in Germany, we left the little village of Weibersbrunn at 3pm after the bus was fixed, and made it to Munich by 8pm. 

We played cards (500) most of the way and passed through tall pine trees and bare fields after the snowfalls - a contrast to the day before when we passed through a lot of industry - Germany surely is an affluent looking industrially forceful nation after England. 

We couldn't get into the youth hostel which was full so we parked the bus and the two Americans (Murray and Cecile), Frank, Mrs Mackie (Scottish woman in at least her sixties and sweetie) and self, hopped on a tram and headed for the Hofbräuhaus. 

A few pints of beer later we were supplied with little bottles of liqueur by two friendly Germans. We had asked the band to play Waltzing Matilda but they didn't so Frank and I started singing in as loud as we could - before long we were joined by a middle aged man immaculately dressed, swelling the choruses. 

He turned out to own 30 or 40 thousand acres in outback Queensland and runs the Vaughan trucking company. He spends 9 months in Australia and 3 here in Europe each year, and typical of Australians overseas raved on about the glories of life in Australia. His telephone number is Charleville 1. 

In my boozy state, I tried unsuccessfully once again to sneak out the door with a stein but no chance, just as well when I think about it now. I had to sleep half under seats and gear levers but my trusty sleeping bag was warm - I guess it’s good for developing a straight back too!

Next morning (today) we headed for a cafe in continuing cold wind and overcast skies, and cleaned up a bit in their rest room. 

We have been having a little trouble with our leader/driver Ian, who has been a depressing influence rather than a cheerful and competent leader - although he said has been on these trips several times he doesn't seem to have the clues on accommodation and has been criticizing everyone rather than being understanding.

Frank is on this bus to rendevous with a trip coming back from Kabul. This is to happen about the region of Istanbul where he is supposed to join them if they consider him suitable. He'll go back with them to London and become a driver on perhaps the African run. If he doesn’t get the job he may continue with us back to Australia. The co-driver is Paul, a Kiwi who has worked a few years in Australia and then UK. This is his first trip but does all the work on the engine and is a whole lot more competent then Ian. 

Thursday 9 December 1971 - Austria.
Yesterday we played cards (whist this time), ate bread, cheese and currants, drank Rhine wine. After changing some money we stopped in a village near Salzburg. It was snowing - Frank, Mary and I raced around throwing snow-balls scraped from cars. 

                      The regular job of push-starting the bus

We ate in an old wood-lined room lined with pine-tree branches, for Christmas I guess. I had goulash - spicy hot but good, Austrian food has a well-deserved reputation. 

Their rest room door was operated by a coin but opened freely so I thought I'd get away with using it for free, but my smugness soon disappeared when I couldn't open the door to get out. There was a small opening at the top of one wall which led into the women's cubicle. I clambered over while luckily no woman came in, and the door opened OK. Only trouble was I was covered in white-wash off the walls - brushed most of it off, but when I returned to the table, the others saw my white streaked clothes and had a good laugh when I told them what happened. Today LIz, the Australian girl helped me brush the rest of it off. 

More snow throwing and joined the rest for beers and jokes (the Americans, Murray and Cecile told some beauties). Co-driver, Paul, joined us 3 in the bus for rum, coffee and cards (500). Frank, Mary and I chose to sleep in the bus but were able to sneak a shower in the others hotel. It was a cold night but we were warm in our bags.

For me it was hard work crawling out this morning. I had our thermos flasks filled with boiling water. We left about 9.30am and drove till dark through fantastic scenery. Rocky looking mountains and pine trees laced with snow. A few problems however - No.1, we didn't stop except for railway gates and lunch, so I couldn’t take photos and No.2, the windows kept icing up making it difficult to see. 

               Murray, Cecile, Liz and Ken - snow fight while we wait

We played cards again most of the day (Chinese patience this time). It seemed to get colder and colder so we must be high up tonight - it sort of takes the glamour off all the beautiful snow, mountain streams and tiny alpine villages.

We were all wrapped in our sleeping bags by the time we arrived here just before the Yugoslav border. Some of us money-saving types are sleeping on the floor tonight. Our driver, Ian, seems to be improving.  I think Paul must have told him how we all felt about him and he is certainly being nice to me.

Friday, 10 December 1971 - Zagreb, Yugoslavia.
A much more pleasant drive today of about 150-200 miles as it became warmer as we dropped out of Austria. 

I felt exhausted last night and went to bed on the floor before the others, no trouble sleeping. In the morning before the others got up to push-start the bus as usual, I had scraped the dirt and ice off the outside windows, and the sun did the rest for the remainder of the day. A miracle - we played no cards. My feet still cold so had them in the sleeping bag - we passed snow covered fields as we left the mountains and crossed into Yugoslavia. No problem at the communist border and life obviously slower and simpler here - horse-drawn carts and fewer cars, more drab houses (minimum of cement between the bricks), chickens and turkeys in backyards everywhere, women on bikes, and generally flat countryside. 

Frank left us at Graz as he has the job driving the bus to Africa - glad he’s gone - anyone wanting to work for this mob needs their head read. 

The charm of the countryside vanished as we entered Zagreb - black looking streets and of course a minimum of advertising signs - petrol stations signs read ‘PETROL’ and nothing else, another indication that this is a communist country. People in dark looking clothes but well-dressed. Am staying in the youth hostel and just had a hot shower - it costs over $1 so is expensive, especially for Yugoslavia but I believe all accommodation is kept about the same price. 

Sunday, 12 December 1971 - Yugoslavia
As I look out the window of the moving bus I see a bleak scene - black furrows of fields flat as far as the eye can see blanketed in snow. A few stark trees and grey houses and an occasional dark figure walking along some lonely track. A heavy overcast sky cutting visibility to a mile or so. This is winter in Yugoslavia yesterday and today. 

My travel experiences are coming in handy as yesterday some were having soup at a roadside cafe but I was, as usual, suspicious and asked the price first - I narrowly escaped paying $1 for soup. Yugoslavia is reputed to be cheap but it sure pays to ask first. 

Last night we stumbled onto a kind of roadside restaurant-bar without accommodation. We ate shish kebabs and chips plus sliced pickle with bread and drank vino and beer. A band played - guitar, accordion and drum - folksy but lively with a girl singer. We danced and jumped around clapping hands, a Yugoslav smashed glasses in his hands (and later progressed to smashing bottles) - we built pyramids of glasses and bottles on the tables with of course disastrous results. 

Paul (the Kiwi co-driver) plays the guitar well, the band lent him the guitar and mike and he started playing ‘The Girl from Ipanema’. I stepped up to the mike and to everyone's amazement, including my own, sang it through OK, and was drunkenly applauded! 

Some of us ended up sleeping on floors and tables but I slept in the bus - cold but not too bad with all the numbing alcohol in me. This morning I was woken up in time to help push the bus - it seems like we are getting used to this morning ritual. 

It was such a contrast yesterday as we entered Belgrade - we passed from flat countryside into towering blocks of flats stretching into the distance all around us - civilization all crammed together, grey with no trees or gardens - there was no gradual entry into the city at all and before we realised, we were out of it again. 

The only similarity was the lifelessness of the whole place.

8.30pm we played various forms of snap, grab, rummy and tiddlywinks while most slept after the night before. At last the sun began to break through just before Skopje and highlighted barren mountains covered in patchy snow. My impression was of poverty and rubbish as we entered the town - garbage in the streets, tumbledown buildings, and an absence of any greenery to break up the combination of ramshackle hovels and multi-storey blocks of flats. 

We found the youth hostel and after our meeting about the degenerating nature of the bus (generator has had it now) we, the Americans (Murray and Cecile) Ken and myself caught a local bus and after going miles out of our way, walked back into the main town past roadside stalls selling everything from magazines to pastries. I bought some halva at one of these stalls which is a sweet and gooey mixture of sesame seed and honey - delicious. 

The streets were jammed with mainly youthful Yugoslavs - the cars had difficulty getting through. We ate at a self-service cafe cheaply. Fireworks were banging and whistling. An old bridge was buckled and re-concreted, evidence of the earthquake of 1964. 

Half the once pleasant facade of the railway station had crumbled away and the clock is stopped at 5.15 - could this be the time of the earthquake?

Tuesday 14 December 1971 - Greece.
I'm chewing on pumpkin seeds as I write. It's great to be in a warmer climate in Greece. Glad to be out of Yugoslavia, not a nice place in the winter and the food was too doughy and sweet for me. For breakfast yesterday we had fried bread and strong goat cheese, plus generously sugared tea (must have had 6 lumps in it). 

We had driven through mountains and snow past dismal towns while the sun began to appear. It was warm sunshine at the Yugoslav-Greece border. I was the first to get through and waited in the sunshine for the others because I am the only one with an Australian passport. The officers there told me they liked Australians because their immigration policy welcomes Yugoslavs. Liz is Australian but is travelling on a U.K. passport. She had boasted about her British passport opening more doors, so she had to wait, which kind of pleased me.

The countryside began opening out - a straight road, brown grass and bluish mountains as the snow began to disappear and the warm sun streamed into the bus. I felt happier as it looked so much like Australia. It’s easy to forget the cold misery of a few days before. Beautiful vistas of snow topped mountains, grazing sheep and a blazing red sunset as we wound along the shore of the Aegean Sea - an emerald blue merging into the pink sky. 

Our lights still not working, we have been passing through dark tunnels, scraping the side of the bus on the walls - nerve-wracking. We made it to Carissa on night-fall and found a cheap hotel but I slept on the floor for nothing. We shared tasty meat dishes with vino and took a few bottles up to their room. 

Today we pushed the bus a block to get it going and have been passing green grass and groves of olive trees - from time to time, a glimpse of the calm Aegean Sea and snow-capped mountains. The road's a bit rough too.

Wednesday 15 December 1971 - Athens. 
We stopped by the monument commemorating the Battle of Thermopylae where the Greeks held off and defeated the Persian hordes. Later we had a picnic on the shores of the Aegean - crystal clear water and sunshine but not warm enough for a swim. I waded in to my knees over beautifully coloured round stones eating figs and nuts and drinking Oyzo.

  

                                 A Greek beach
     
                                
Last night we strolled around bustling streets and scrambled over one of the hills by the Acropolis. To my disappointment, the Acropolis was not lit up. We ate souvlaki - a pancake with meat, onion, tomato and sauce wrapped inside (about 15cents) plus more cheap wine. 

Invited into many ‘genuine’ Greek music night clubs round the base of the Acropolis but walked out when we saw the prices. We're staying in a cheap hotel Aus$1.50 a night, no bath or breakfast - I've used a sink to wash out a few socks and underwear hanging around a room that I'm sharing with Mary.

As far as we can see in the Herald Tribune, the war in India is still raging. We haven't seen our drivers (who are staying in a better hotel) for a day and night so we don't know if the bus is fixed and their money has arrived to continue on. According to Paul, his co-driver Ian begged to take on this trip because he is wanted by the police in England - Ian appears to be a shareholder or could even be part owner of Overland Trips Co, who would know. People tell you things, but what is true? Most times I think people tell me what they want me to know, but what I really want to know is, will this information help my present reality? Anyway, I appreciate Paul confiding in me, and I want to trust his kiwi soul.

This morning a group of us dodged our way from cars and hurrying Greeks past the flea market where Laurie and I bought worry beads - we bought them for a joke, the joke of our situation with the bus. Many local old men fiddle with their worry beads constantly. Up past ruins on the slopes of the hill to the true glory of the Acropolis - the purity of sparkling white stone. We saw mauve mountains ringing Athens, and the sun shimmering on the sea at Piraeus.

We caught the train to Piraeus (about 5 km), ate fish and drank retsina looking out over blue waters to the long strip of Athens backed by mountains and the dot of the Acropolis peeping out. We strolled along to a sheltered harbour cluttered with bright fishing boats, and then found swing seats where we watched the setting sun change Athens from white to pink to hazy blue while the boats gently rocked into dusk.

  
                                Joe in Athens    

Thursday 16 December 1971 - Athens
Last night, Mary was still up when I fell into the bed, which was next to the wall. As I turned to face the wall, someone had written on it ‘This bed has bugs’. I said nothing.

Today we walked around streets dodging people and cars. The money we were waiting for from London to continue the journey didn't arrive. We all got together for a meeting excluding driver Ian - Bill has left the group and is by now back in London. He has taken with him a note signed by all of us to the effect that we will not continue past Istanbul unless Ian is removed and we have a new driver. I'm sure Bill will put in a good word for us and our situation. However I believe this plan is destined for failure. Everything is a failure when dealing with some people. 

After the meeting and goodbye's to Bill (13 of us now) Peter, Liz, Laurie and self, took the train to Piraeus and catching a ferry to the nearby Island of Aegina, managed to forget the problems as we left the noise of Athens for blue skies and emerald waters.

   

                    Joe, Laurie, and Liz on the ferry to Aegina

We sat on the shore of the Island until the setting sun changed the colours of the mountains and sea from blues to pinks to red and orange - an occasional fishing boat surrounded by seagulls.

After writing a message in our empty wine bottle and then trying to bomb it from shore, we headed back to the village and sampled some macaroni with octopus for 40cents - greasy and tasty. 

In the quiet of the dark promenade a tiny chapel big enough for a dozen people but with just a few thin candles illuminating the old white washed walls. Took the 7.30 last boat back to Piraeus and now relaxed and ready for bed, which is for me the bus parked a few blocks away.

Friday 17 December 1971 - Athens.
Before I could think about sleep last night, I was dragged into a party in a sleazy hotel room, and drank way too much, lost a bit of control, things ending up in the bus - next day back at the hotel a meeting - driver Ian was phoned last night by Ian Way in London - it appears Bill went straight to Ian Way when he returned to London and told him the situation. Ian is catching the train to Istanbul armed with a new generator plus money to pay us back if we all chip in cash (about $6 each) to get the bus to Istanbul. 

We thought badly of the situation so we phoned Ian ourselves and can get no guarantees obviously but it seems that he didn't send the money here to Athens as he didn't have any?!! 

Yes the company is going into liquidation and he has to borrow money off relatives to get to Istanbul and pay us off from Athens to Istanbul - he says he is then accompanying us to Delhi or as far as we go because of the war going on between India and Pakistan. 

The only trouble now is than Ian Stevenson (driver) has the insurance and customs documents signed in his name so we have to watch that he doesn't abscond with the vehicle as that is the only thing we have left to hang on to capital wise. We can rely on the fact that Ian can’t go far without us to push start it.

Saturday 18 December 1971 - Mt. Olympus.
So glad to leave Athens and the problems - everything twice the price, and apart from the Acropolis and the islands, not a pleasant city to be in - in general a dark and dirty appearance and few open areas. It was interesting to see some Holden cars (mainly taxis) for the first time in 6 months, probably bought over from Australia by the now affluent Greeks returning from there. 

The colours of the countryside here are constantly changing - rich reds and oranges with fresh grass and autumn leaves in the south - here it is bare - it must have snowed. 

Last night we stopped by the sea, bought a pile of meat, potatoes, and wine. Liz (the Aussie girl) and myself built up a roaring fire on the beach. Only us two Aussies seemed to know how to make a fire! We all had a great night singing, eating and drinking. I drank too much and slept on the beach in my bag.

I was cold when I woke up and have been suffering today. I am punishing my body enough these day without the vino to make things worse. It really amazes me what the human body can take!

We just pulled up at the tiny village of Platamon (Platamonas) by the Aegean sea and Mt.Olympus. There is so much to see in one of these tiny villages. I feel a little better after shish kabobs, chips and a salad of cabbage and olives (60 cents).

Monday 20 December 1971 - Just inside Turkey.
An early night Saturday night - am feeling just exhausted. On Sunday we stopped in a little Greek village when we were low on oil and were greeted by the friendly inhabitants who handed us pieces of toast and some kind of sweetmeat. They were all dressed up probably just been to church - women in black veils, one with front teeth coated in gold - friendly old men with their worry beads. 

Going down into Kavala we ran out of brakes, so stopped and wandered around the waterfront while they were fixed - brightly coloured fishing boats - an old ruin on the hill and a statuesque aqueduct. On through more boring and dry country into darkness - we stayed the night in Alexandroupolis - some of us slept in the bus - all of us fairly tired again - blaming it on the fumes leaking from the engine. I didn't sleep too well but don't feel too bad today. 

It was foggy at first and then opened up to reveal a drier landscape - the Aegean still a beautiful blue but choppier. We've been talking to Murray and Cecile while finishing off some food scraps and vino. They are an interesting couple, Murray was once New York District Assistant Attorney and Cecile a Legal Representative to the United Nations. You sure don't always know who you're talking to - it explains their outstanding character. They have dropped out of that high life, and live on a small farm in U.S. 

Without the advice of Murray and Cecile, we would not have stayed on the bus this far, and we might not have been the first, who knows how many people there were before us who paid to go to India by bus with Overland Trips Co, only to be told on reaching Europe that the bus would return to England for some reason or other? What is wrong with the law of England that allows a business to operate like this?

And now, after coffee, off to Istanbul. 

Tuesday 21 December 1971 - Istanbul.
A not good day today - I woke up in an Istanbul hotel feeling bad but got up. We walked through drizzle and some filthy dark Istanbul streets to collect 3 welcome letters - changed some money (me $2) on the black market and hustled on to the Blue Mosque. 

I took off my boots and we walked over undulating carpets - ugly chandeliers (rusty) hanging from the ceiling to about 8ft from the floor. Difficult to see the colour of the ceiling as such a dull day - patches bare - obviously dropped off - some nice colours in the stained glass but for me not interesting designs. I felt exhausted so returned to the hotel and covered myself with all the blankets off the beds - a croupy cough and fever - dosed up with pills and some swigs of Laurie's brandy - spent afternoon in bed. 

The money from London did not arrive so we phoned Ian Way. His lawyers have told him not to leave London - he has not been able to borrow any money. 

I wonder how we could have believed his stories. He is so bold in his false promises that he almost sounds convincing. I was told Murray, Cecile, Mrs Mackie, Laurie and Norman are not continuing on, leaving possibly 10 of us including the 2 drivers providing £150 comes through from London, being a personal loan that Ian Stevenson (driver) has tried to arrange. He is another unbelievable operator, and no doubt learnt his skills from Ian Way, his little buddy in London.

Wednesday 22 December 1971 - Istanbul
Sunshine today and feeling a little better, but sore throat and tired. Picked up a visa for Iran and went to get a booster typhoid and tetanus but was told no serum in Turkey?? However, am not sorry about it as I could have felt worse after the vaccination. 

Went with driver Ian to check but no money arrived from London as yet. I called in at a travel agency and found I can fly from Kabul to Kathmandu if necessary. The agent asked me to deliver a message to his friend in Kabul who is the Minister of Foreign Affairs so I shouldn't get stuck in Afghanistan. 

I bought a carrot juice for only 15 cents and this evening a meal of salad and shish kabobs for 35 cents. 

Istanbul is not my idea of a beautiful city - narrow old streets, rubbish (no garbage collections happening), dirt everywhere and suspicious looking characters harassing you to change money or buy hash. Streets choked with big old gaudy American cars, the aroma of street-stalls frying tiny fish or roasting nuts, foodstuffs dotted with the occasional fly, old clothes, souvenirs and cigarettes. 

Nobody drinks the water here - restaurant tables are dotted with sealed bottled water. 

In our recommended restaurant the military police searched a hippy-looking character next to our table and then marched him away - it makes you realise the different atmosphere of life here - it's possible to get life imprisonment for importing and exporting drugs and at least 3 years for possession.

I have already walked below the high prison walls and felt the chill. I wish now I hadn’t gone that way.

Apparently there is a 14 year old English boy caught with drugs still in jail here after 6 months trying to get him out but is this just travelers talk? 

I bought Vicks pastilles and some syrup for my throat. We have a comfortable lounge area in our 9/- per night Hotel Ayasofya, but the shared conveniences are really unsanitary places that when used must be got out of quickly.

Thursday 23 December 1971 - Istanbul.
Today we saw the more modern parts of Istanbul on the Asian side of the Bosphorus. We checked out flights onwards from Kabul and found no flights into India at this stage and none to Kathmandu at all - the opposite to what the other agent told me yesterday. However I could fly to Bangkok, but they suggested getting to Kabul and finding out there! Who would know anything for certain in a war zone. 

We said goodbye to Murray, Cecile, Laurie and Peter who are going by boat to Italy (11 of us now including the 2 drivers). The money didn't arrive (of course) so tomorrow I'm finding out the train times to Tehran. I believe it leaves 3 times per week but the journey also involves a voyage across a vast inland lake in eastern Turkey, and who knows what happens after that. 

Tonight I heard our drivers asking the hotel manager where to sell tools here, so guess they're getting desperate for cash - they must think that we won't give them any more. It's got to the stage when I sneak out when we go to get food, to avoid being seen and be asked for money to pay for their meal. We've had a few people come to ask about travelling with us in the bus as we have put a sign up but we can't give them a date as Ian doesn't know when the money will arrive - that is if his friend has sent it. 

Ian has confided in me that if no money comes from London, he will take the bus to Tehran where he knows he can sell it for good money through his contacts there, and then fly to U.S.A. on the proceeds where he hopes to start a new life. Is this just more bait to get money out of us to fix the bus in the hope we can get keep going east? Perhaps it’s just as well we're stuck here as I still don't feel 100% with runny nose and sore clogged throat. 

Wandered with Rosemarie through the markets and was besieged by people wanting to sell clothes and jewellery. Tonight we all ate some horrible food - most food here is half cold - you choose what you want from huge bowls as you go in - at least it's cheap.

Saturday 25 December 1971 - Christmas day - Istanbul.
It's hard to believe Christmas is here as I write from the Hotel Ayasofya in the middle of a Moslem country where there are no decorations, in fact no sign of Christmas anywhere. 

I struggled out of bed about 11am and haven't been game to go out as I'm saving my strength for a Christmas party that we're having in the local café called The Pudding Shop, a meeting place of travelers and hippies, people of all nationalities. They've done the place up with a Christmas tree and decorations and are laying on a turkey supper - turkey of all things (in Turkey). 

My flu or whatever it is has spread and a few of us are spluttering around the place - I've been dosing up with all kinds of things - its developing into a surprise to find out what hurts when you wake up - today I have back pains - my insides have been clogged up for 5 days so will have to do something about it soon. No money yet from London - perhaps is just as well the way I feel. I am not good company to be with because I can’t stop coughing, and have to stop walking from time to time so that I can recover. Yesterday we tried to get student cards but we failed, the government has got wise to it.

Monday 27 December 1971 - Istanbul.
A walk through the Topkapi palace and museum - just a shambles now but glorious in its day - swimming pools with fountains, tiles, mosaics in mother-of-pearl, gold, stained glass, long couches and carpets. The harem tour was interesting, the sultan had from 30 to 200 concubines plus favourite wives (those who bore children). We saw sticks used by the older eunuchs to beat the new eunuchs brought from Africa - first castrated and later whipped - what a life, I must never complain again! 

Our little Christmas party in the café was interpreted by the Istanbul newspapers as a debauched feast and had a posed shot on the front page of Rosemarie kicking her legs up and glugging a bottle of wine - the headline in Turkish translated as ‘Hippie Christmas Party’ and said Rosemarie was dancing on the tables - no doubt all the Moslems would lap it all up. However, that picture of Rosemarie kicking her legs up was staged by the photographer. 

We met a friendly young American ‘Jerry’ from the U.S. base, who took us last night and today also to the U.S. canteen where we filled up on decent food - it has made me feel a lot better. My voice is still croaky but at last on the mend after a week's illness. I could hardly talk last night and had a deep cough until Rosemarie who is a nurse, gave me something to make me sleep, she said it was very powerful and asked me if I was prepared to take it, but I told her I would take anything to escape the endless cough. I didn’t become conscious of anything until well into today, a break from the cough. Tomorrow we check out the possibility of going south through Iraq to avoid the horrors of the mountain passes in Eastern Turkey. Travelers arriving from the east told us they are lucky to be alive - sitting in the back of canvas covered trucks sliding over dangerous mountain roads, bitter cold and snow, and bandits waiting.  

Book 3

Wednesday 29 December 1971 - Turkey
The days waiting in Istanbul for the money from London are becoming a blur. After a week's illness, I'm beginning to think more clearly but still have a nagging cough. I've been getting plenty of sleep and taking things easy. 

Yesterday Mary, a Turkish friend and self, walked down by the sea with a bottle of wine and watched a fiery sun glide down beneath the water. A few old fishing boats puttering along or being rowed back to shore - a shoreline cluttered with every imaginable piece of rubbish - a lone fisherman in a tiny humpy near the sea. 

Today a visit to what was once a huge underground water storage cavern used whenever Istanbul (or Constantinople) was under siege. It must be 150 - 200 feet square and 30 feet high, held up by rows of graceful pillars. Today there was about 3 feet of water but you could see marks up the columns from previous water levels. 

Also today 7 of us booked out of the hotel with the idea of staying a few days with American friend Jerry to defray expenses. All the girls there were happy to be on their way to meet up with the American guys again and stay in Jerry’s weekender by the sea, but if I had realised the difficulty of this undertaking I would not have attempted it - 2 hours by boat to Yalova, then the Turks crammed 17 of us into a V.W. Kombi van and travelled 20 miles inland to the American Base stopping off here and there to drop someone off in the darkness - unfortunately I was next to the door so had to keep hopping onto the bleak road to let someone out. 

At the base Jerry could not be found as we stood around in the cold, so a couple of cars took us into the next town to where Jerry has a house - not there either!! We are now sitting in the local tea shop surrounded by a crowd of old Turks who are drinking lemon tea. 

We have bought some biscuits and are drinking lemon tea along with the locals. Our Turkish friend has returned to the base to try and locate Jerry.

Maybe Jerry didn’t think we would actually turn up - as a boy I was told that I must always keep my word, so when I told Jerry I would take up his invitation to bring the girls and stay in his weekender, I meant it, so here I am, and here we are.

Friday 31 December 1971 - Karamursel
It’s New Year’s Eve and thank goodness for the end of this year. I'm writing in a house about 100 yards from the sea – it’s the weekender used by Jerry and friends in the summer - it would be nice in summer but too cool for swimming now, even on sunny days. We are having a lazy time here - sleeping in, sitting in a lounge room with walls coated in pop posters, and a cassette player running hot with music all day. It gets cold at night but we have filled the kerosene heaters. We bought a pile of meat and vegetables in the village and made two saucepans of stew. It’s great to be out of Istanbul – it’s so dirty and depressing, but out here fresh air, blue sea and mountains, a few locals with sheep, chickens and turkeys.

(To continue reading this diary, go to the 1972 page. To do this, scroll back up to the beginning of this diary, on the right of the page under 'Palmer Family', scroll down to 1972 - Diary - Joe Palmer.)

Or go to
http://www.heathcaldwell.com/palmer_family/1972_-_diary_-_joe_palmer

xxx