Chapter 24: Fun in Spain in 1970

A fascinating and fun visit to Spain five decades ago...

This chapter is based on my diary written at the time…

Saturday, April 18, 1970: The wonders of travel in this age. The 700-mile flight from Gatwick Airport, just south of London, to Gerona Airport, on the Costa Brava, took my wife, Rosemary, and I one and a quarter hours. The 30-mile train trip from our home in Shepherd’s Bush to Gatwick took two and a quarter hours. At one stage, we were beginning to worry that we would not get to the airport in time for our flight. The trouble was at Victoria Station where we switched from the Underground to British Rail. There had been a derailment, and as a result, three out of every four airport trains were being cancelled. We finally, and tortuously, made the airport on a stopping-all-stations train. Heavy rain was falling, and we were glad to be leaving it all.

Our plane was a BAC-111 (the British equivalent of the DC-9) operated by the Scottish airline, Caledonia. All the hostesses wore tartans of various clans. Our seats were just ahead of the wings, and quite comfortable and quiet. It was a very smooth flight, and we had a good view of the snow-capped Pyrenees along the border between France and Spain.

We touched down at Gerona on time at about 6.30pm and were quickly put through customs and escorted to waiting buses which took us to our hotel, the Rosamar, at Lloret de Mar. Lloret is a rapidly developing seaside resort at the southern end of the Costa Brava, which in turn is along the north-east coast of Spain. It was overcast when we arrived, but quite balmy and pleasant.

The first thing we noticed on the 30-minute bus trip was all the evergreen trees -- and all the billboards along the roadsides. After the winter wilderness of Britain, the trees, if not the billboards, were a marvellous sight. Our hotel was right on the beachfront and was far better than we dared hope for. Our room was spacious and modern with a bath, a shower (we’ve almost forgotten what a shower was), a toilet, wash basin, bidet -- and a balcony with a pleasant view. We had more cupboard space than in our flat. Our balcony view included two large flowering gum trees (what joy!). Gum trees are very common in Spain.

After a short stroll, it was time for dinner. The menu was a fixed one with no choice, but there were four courses -- soup, fish, cold meats and salad, and sweets. We had a half-bottle of excellent wine to wash it down. Maybe the wine was strong, or we were very tired, but afterwards we could barely walk a straight line. Being in that state, we decided on an early night.

Sunday, April 19: We had a rather restless night to begin with, chiefly because the central heating was unexpectedly, and unnecessarily, turned on. By the time we discovered why the room had suddenly become so hot and had turned our units off, it was well into the early hours. There was also a lot of noise from a nearby nightclub. Breakfast was a simple affair -- bread rolls, butter and jam, and coffee, but it was quite filling.

Immediately after breakfast we went downstairs to the swimming pool (it wasn’t warm enough for the beach) and had a lovely sunbake. We came away gloriously sunburnt -- for the first time since the 1967/68 Australian summer.

English women behave in a most peculiar way at the seaside. All conventions are thrown to the wind. An example: One woman sunbaked beside the pool in her bra with her skirt unzipped and hitched up around her waist. With her legs wide apart of course. Another woman had the zip on the front of her dress undone almost to the waist.

The meals continued to amaze us. We had expected them to be pretty skimpy in view of the all-in price (air fares and hotel dinner, bed and breakfast) of the equivalent of 58 Australian dollars each. But no. For lunch we had a salad, a hot Spanish dish, roast chicken and potato chips, and a cake-type sweet. Service was excellent, and our waitress was fittingly enough called Juanita.

A cool breeze was blowing, so instead of sunbaking, we went for a stroll. Being Sunday, few shops were open. The town reminded us very much of the Australian Gold Coast -- with a Spanish flavour of course. New hotels were sprouting everywhere, and there seemed little town planning. The shopping area looked quite good. By the time we returned to the hotel we were pretty wacked and collapsed into bed for a siesta. After the evening meal, a hot bath and back into bed.

Monday, April 20: We had a great night’s sleep and awoke to find a gloriously sunny day. A cool breeze was blowing, so sunbaking was out, and we decided on a stroll along the beach. The beach is more than half-a-mile long, with rocky outcrops at each end, and is quite wide. The sand was big-grained, rather like river gravel.

On the way back to the hotel, we bought a bottle of Bacardi rum for about 80 cents (worth more than $A7 in England) and a bottle of gin for a dollar (worth about $A6). After lunch, we went on a boat trip north along the Costa Brava to the old fishing village of Tossa de Mar. The boat, quite a sizeable one, nosed straight into the beach and lowered a gangplank from the front onto the dry sand. The coast was quite rugged and interesting. The boat hugged the shore, and the captain obviously knows his way very well, because we roared down narrow channels between jagged rocks, almost scraping the cliff-face. Tossa was clearly undergoing much the same development as the rest of the Costa Brava, and the smell of new cement was everywhere.

We are quite impressed with the Spanish people. We had expected them to be akin to the Italians, but they’re not. The Spanish are polite where the Italians are abrupt, and the Spanish are placid where the Italians are noisy and mercurial. And another thing, the Spanish men don’t leer at foreign women like the Italians do. Something that had surprised us is the poor quality of the fruit and vegetables. We had expected them to be on a par with those on sale in Australia, but they are far from it.

After dinner, it was off to the Rosamar Nightclub for an outing at the expense of the travel firm. We were told we would be given a “champagne welcome” which we reckoned meant a small glass. But we were staggered to find that we could have as much champagne as we could drink. It was incredible. As fast as we took a few sips, our glasses were topped up. You would have thought they were selling the stuff -- not giving it away. The two 45-minute floor shows wouldn’t have made much of an impact in Las Vegas, but they were quite enjoyable. The Flamenco dance group was outstanding.

Tuesday, April 21: Quite surprisingly, we awoke this morning without a hangover. It was a beautiful day, and we went for a stroll to the local market for a little shopping. Then back to the beach for some sunbaking. The breeze was quite cool, but we found a hollow in the sand. Rosemary was still feeling a little sore where she was burnt on Sunday, so we didn’t stay out long. After lunch we had a rest beside the pool then went to our room for an afternoon siesta (what an active life we lead!).

Unlike most other countries we’ve visited, we don’t feel we are being robbed in Spain. In most countries, tourists are considered fair game for everyone.

There’s something peculiar about the plumbing in our hotel. Apart from the strange gurgles made by the bath when it is emptying, every now and again there was a rush of water as though it’s cascading down the wall at the head of the bed. It’s most disconcerting, and we think was the toilet being flushed in the room above.

The hotel sometimes served meals in an odd way. Tonight, for instance, we had boiled potatoes and beans as one course and roast beef and mashed potatoes as another.

They’re trusting types the Spanish -- at least the ones we dealt with were. A tour agent in our hotel gave us a receipt for a trip even though I didn’t have the money. “Give me the money later,” he said. We’ve hired a Seat 600 (the Spanish version of the Fiat 600) for a trip tomorrow. The hire firm accepted two unsigned £5 travellers cheques as a deposit.

Wednesday, April 23: Another beautiful day, and we got on the road soon after breakfast. The car was a left-hand-drive job, and it took a little bit of getting used to, particularly having the gear stick on the right-hand side. It was a good little buggy, and considering its size, quite smooth and comfortable.

We decided to drive inland to track down some of the real Spain and we couldn’t get over how much the countryside looked like Australia. The same trees, the same grasses, and even the same wildflowers. After driving down various side roads, we found a wonderful village called Massanet de Silva where we bought some fruit and rolls for lunch. Mind you, when I say “wonderful” I mean it was wonderful for us as tourists, but I don’t know that the inhabitants are quite so enthusiastic. The village looked like something out of a cowboy film set in Mexico. The stone buildings were decayed, signs hung at odd angles, the streets were unsealed, and the mod-cons we accept as necessities seemed to be non-existent. The sparse population moved about the streets in unhurried fashion, hugging the shadows. An occasional horse-drawn cart rattled by, and every 15 minutes the clock on the church in the town square sounded the time. Sadly, I took no photos of the village.

From Massanet we set off in the general direction of Lloret and stumbled on a walled village, Hostelrich, which is perched on a mountain-top. Obviously, in centuries gone by, it was a fortress town. Apart from the odd Coca-Cola or Kodak sign, time seemed to have passed it by. The locals appeared as fascinated in us as we were in them. Then it was back to Lloret for some more sunbaking.

The lift at our hotel was a rather peculiar mechanical device. It was quite modern and quick but had no memory. This meant that it accepted only one order at a time. To call it, the user has to hold a finger on the button until it came, something which could take quite a time in busy periods. The users also had to open the door quickly on reaching their floor to avoid the lift suddenly charging off to answer another call.

Near our hotel was a castle. It seemed suspiciously new, and it turned out to be only a few years old. Now there’s a classic case of egomania for you! The damn thing even had a flag pole -- presumably to fly the flag when the owner is in residence.

I noticed a television set in the residents’ lounge today, and it was showing the “Flintstones” with the dialogue dubbed in Spanish.

Thursday, April 24: Today we went on a bus trip to Barcelona, Spain’s second city. Before leaving, we were each given a little bag containing a packed lunch of sandwiches and fruit. Barcelona is about 40 miles south of Lloret, and we travelled there along the coast road. The air pollution in and around Barcelona was terrible, and it nearly turned the bright blue Mediterranean sky a sickly grey.

Barcelona had a population of two million people. It was very pleasant with long, wide avenues, and in many ways it reminded us of Melbourne, with perhaps a touch of Paris.

Our first stop in the city was at the unfinished Church of the Holy Family (Sagrada Familia). The church, a most unusual structure, was begun in the 1820s and was still far from completed. When it is, it will have 18 spires, but there were only four when we were there.

After lunch at the Spanish Village (a sort of museum of Spanish architecture) we were turned loose for several hours to do what we pleased. We chose a walk along the city’s main avenue, which on this day, was a hive of activity with flower and book stalls marking the patron saint of Barcelona, St George. It was a wonderful scene. Just about everyone was carrying a red rose (the flower of St George) wrapped in silver foil -- and this included the men.

We were most amused to see such rugged types as street sweepers, soldiers and policemen getting about quite unselfconsciously with their red roses. The roses were selling for up to $1.30 each, but the books were discounted 10%. Rosemary had hoped to buy some bargain-price shoes, but the two-hour mid-afternoon siesta shutdown scotched that.

Our Global Tour representative had given us a lecture on the importance of being punctual in arriving at the designated spot to meet our bus for the return trip to Lloret de Mar. But it was he who failed to turn up on time. After waiting about half-an-hour we left without him. We heard later that he’d been held up somewhere and couldn’t get a taxi.

Friday, April 24: We arose to find quite a bit of high-level cloud about. At the table next to us in the dining room there’s a crowd of north country women. They’re a loud-mouthed, ignorant lot, always bellyaching about something. They were right out of television soap Coronation Street.

Most of the shopkeepers in the tourist areas of Spain spoke several languages besides Spanish. This makes us feel most uneducated and inadequate. We went shopping for booze in preparation for our return home and bought a litre of Bacardi rum for $A1.25; a large bottle of Tia Maria for $A1.50; and two bottles of wine for $A1. We also bought a bottle of real peach jam. The jam in Spain was marvellous after the synthetic stuff on sale in England. I picked up a nice pair of shoes for $A7, then it was back to the beach for more sunbaking.

After lunch, we returned to the beach determined (at least I was) to actually enter the water for a swim. The “swim”, if you can call it that, lasted about 90 seconds at a time. The water was icy. So much for the reports of the warm Mediterranean waters.

Back at the hotel, a lovely hot bath and some pre-dinner drinks on the balcony. La Dolce Vita.

The evening meal was another odd affair. First item on the menu was steamed potatoes and cauliflower, followed by veal and peas. We failed miserably in our attempt to have the two dishes combined and ended up with a compromise course: Veal and cauliflower.

After the meal we went for our last stroll through Lloret and stopped at one of the many pseudo-English pubs for a Tia Maria, which cost us only 20 cents each. These “pubs” had English beer on tap -- and it was cheaper than in England.

Saturday, April 25: Our last day in Spain, and we were up at 7.30 for a morning bus tour to the market at Gerona, the provincial capital. The central area of the town was quite interesting with very narrow streets lined by buildings five and six stories high. The cobbled pavements were just wide enough for a small car to scrape through. In some ways, the archways of the shopping area reminded us of Innsbruck, but it was very tatty by comparison. The market was a true rural affair with rows of old women sitting behind their baskets of wares. They were selling everything from fruit and vegetables to live chickens and rabbits. Rosemary went searching for shoes but again without success. She settled instead for two pairs of ear-rings which cost her about 18 cents.

On the way back to Lloret we saw fields of wild poppies and once again noticed the similarity to the Australian countryside. After lunch we had to get everything out of our room, and what with the booze and odds and sods we’d bought, it was touch and go whether we would be able to close the case. But after a bit of re-packing we did. It was an absolutely beautiful day, so we strolled down to the beachfront and filled in an hour or so sipping cold drinks at a sidewalk café.

Throughout our stay in Spain we were often accompanied by two French homosexual men who were, somehow, on our English package-deal holiday. The “husband” was a swarthy chap of about 40 with a moustache and is an archetype for a continental film director or perhaps the baddie. The “wife” looks just like he was -- effeminate. They had the only table-for-two in the dining room. It was right in the middle of the room, and I think they loved making themselves the centre of attention. They arranged special meals which were eaten ritualistically. And as they talked, each was totally immersed in what the other had to impart. It was almost as if they were sending themselves up. But on this final day of the holiday, we were treated to the unexpected sight of the “wife” being drunk most of the day. They’d presumably had some sort of tiff because the “husband” could hardly bear to speak to him and did his best not to notice he even existed. It really was a sight.

By the time we arrived at Gerona Airport to catch our plane home, the wind had turned rather cold. The plane arrived with the latest batch of holiday-makers, and within half-an-hour had unloaded them, re-fuelled and taken us on for the return flight. We took off as the sun set over the nearby hills. We had hoped for another look at the Pyrenees, but they were hidden by cloud. We had been told dinner would be served on the plane, but this turned out to be two small and rather tasteless rolls with a little pot of marmalade jam and a cup of coffee. The flight was pretty rough when we flew over a storm, but the weather soon cleared and we were able to get a good view of the lights of Paris. Our plane touched down at Gatwick Airport shortly after 9pm and London was as we left it -- wet.

PS: Our elder son, Harley, was born exactly nine months after our time in Spain, so it would be understandable if you were to conclude that sightseeing wasn’t our only activity on the holiday.

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