Trans-Europe
by Lis Mordecai
Summer 1960 and all the roads in Europe undergoing repair – or so it seemed to us on our 6000km drive from Le Touquet, France, to Beirut. But despite armies of workmen on hair-raising mountain passes, parking problems in Western countries, poor roads and inferior petrol in the Eastern section, we survived, and enjoyed, our overland trip without technical hitch or political incident.
Our friends thought we were crazy to undertake such a journey with a young son, ten months old; some said so openly, others showed their views by a slight shrug of the shoulders, by a quizzical lift of the eyebrows, by a heavenward committal of the eyes. But we ignored the implications and pursued our plans to have a holiday in Europe with car, and accept the consequences: to drive the vehicle back to Beirut once our holiday-making was over.
Much staff work is necessary to collect information and permits prior to crossing the continent; we started correspondence two months before we left our desert home for leave and on departure had still not received any visas. Fortunately B’s three days tramping round London offices produced the transit documents for Yugoslavia and Bulgaria, and other missing links, but the visa for Syria was elusive and we finally set out on our trans-Europe expedition wondering if we should be turned back on the last day.
Our small new Ford Anglia was well loaded with luggage, baby gear, and possible emergency equipment: two gallon petrol tin, water container, thermoses, small stove, kettle and basic stores. (The problem of condensing this into tourist air allowance for our flight from Beirut back to the Gulf can be imagined!) A few days trial showed the best method of packing was to fill the boot, luggage rack and front passenger seat and to leave the back for Mother and increasingly active child. Theoretically the heavy suitcase which took half-an-hour’s sweat and toil to rope on top only needed off-loading every two or three days but either due to fear of theft in the West, or excessive zeal of hotel porters in the East, or my panic as in Austria when I was wakened by seemingly torrential rain (actually it was amplified on a tin roof) and forced reluctant B. down in pyjamas and mack to rescue it, the suitcase usually came off each night.
Having crossed the channel by an excellent air ferry service whose efficiency permitted us to drive away from the French airport exactly thirty minutes after boarding the plane in Kent, we drove in pouring rain through the wild poppies of Picardie to Reims and the next day in welcome sunshine over the rolling cornfields of Champagne to Besançon in the Juras. Here in the foothills of the Alps, the centre of French watch-making and the birthplace of Victor Hugo, we received a warm welcome from old friends of my student days as we compared children and exchanged the latest family developments.
From Besançon we followed the charming valley of the Loue with its rippling falls and wooded slopes, to the Swiss border and were soon taking our ease in a small village on Lake Neuchâtel. The homely concern for our comfort which offered a play pen in the garden and two deckchairs immediately on arrival, and the spécialité de la maison, mountains of perch fillets cooked in boiling butter, made us extend our stay at the Hotel du Poisson for a couple of days. Thence we followed the northern shore of Lake Thun, scintillating blue edged with red geraniums and backed by white snow peaks, to our first mountain climbing: over the Süsten Pass, one of the most recent in Switzerland and a masterpiece of modern engineering, to the thirty-eight hairpin (and, to me, most alarming) bends of the St. Gotthard down to Lake Lugano.
Here we spent our real holiday, almost three weeks of utter laziness, swimming from the hotel garden, making the occasional gentle excursion into nearby Italy dining and wining copiously under a vine-covered trellis and occasionally, commiserating with those we had left behind to the desert sun as we brewed our afternoon tea in a lakeside garden and demolished the fresh cream and liqueur cherries of a Swiss patisserie.
Our road to Austria led via St. Moritz; here we joined the embryo River Inn whose descent we shared through golden fields of hay-making (now regrettably mechanised), down tortuous mountain gorges, to the wider valley near Innsbruck by which time our sparkling infant companion had become a dark stream of sober maturity as she prepared herself to Mother Danube. Leaving the valley we turned northwards into Bavaria, climbing with ease mountains which held laborious memories for me of my previous visit ten years before as the rear passenger on a tandem!
Escaping from his family for two days B. went on to Oberammergau and the moving experience of the Passion Play, presented every decade by the villagers to fulfil a vow made over 300 years ago when the hamlet was spared the ravages of the Black Death. The singleness of purpose which unites innkeepers, woodcarvers, shopkeepers and housewives so that 5000+ visitors are accommodated efficiently three times a week, which allows amateurs to present a play of eight hours’ duration with a cast of 1200, the crowd scenes incorporating 800 people, and which above all maintains a devout atmosphere and keeps commercialism to the background is a remarkable witness of faith in the present day.
From Mittenwald to Brenner the scene has altered little since it captivated Goethe on his journey to Italy in 1786. “It has been a day that one will remember with enjoyment for many a year. At 6 o’clock I left Mittenwald; a sharp wind sweepingly cleared the sky. It was as cold as one usually finds in February. But yet, in the splendour of the rising sun, the dark foreground overgrown with pines, the grey lime cliffs mid-deep sky blue, these were precious, ever-changing pictures…“From Innsbruck on it was even lovelier; no description can do it justice… One climbs up a steep valley which offers endless variety to the eyes. As the road clings to the rugged sides, out of which indeed it is hewn, one catches sight of the opposite sides sloping gently so that the finest farming can still be carried on. There are villages, houses, cottages, huts, all painted white, set among fields and hedges on the high, wide slopes.”
Over a drink and excellent lunch in Gries am-Brenner we renewed acquaintances with our host at the Weisses Rössl, and learned of his new electric plant in the village, of the gigantic engineering project down the valley calling itself the ‘bridge across Europe’, of the campaign aiming to restore the Southern Tyrol to Austria, of family vicissitudes and expansions, and left to the sincere wish of ’Auf Wiederschauen’. The rest of that day’s drive through the Dolomites into Carpathia was, to me, the most entrancing of our journey; the narrow Brennertal opened into a wider valley, less exacting to the driver, with wooded hills rising from the fruit orchards and vine terraces, and ever ahead the dominating grey rock peaks telling of yet more heights to be conquered.
After a month’s ambling in Western Europe we took our last rest on the Wörthersee, brilliant blue in sunshine and dazzling white with sails, as we prepared for three hard days driving to Istanbul, taking provisions to ensure quick lunches. I was reluctant to take the direct route from Austria to Yugoslavia over the notorious Loibl Pass, nearly 40km long, with gradient of 1 in 3 and loose surface, and so we made for Maribor by a little used but highly picturesque country road following the wooded valley of the River Drau. Much roadwork was in progress (in fact, ‘lavori in corso’ sums up our whole trip) and old wooden bridges rubbed shoulders with the new concrete hydro-electric plants on both sides of the frontier. As we crossed over we acknowledged the point of no return and trusted that we should survive to prove our critics wrong. “Les meilleures routes en Yougoslavie ne sont que des cailloux” our French friends had warned us. What should we find? In fact, the major roads are poor, frequently with broken surface and potholes, and the minor roads untarred and often no more than cart tracks. Fortunately there is a new highway from Zagreb to Belgrade, and continued from Paracin to Nish (which covers about two-thirds of the West-East transit), classified as an “autoput”. It is by no means of motorway standard, being only a single carriageway and carrying bicycles, but offers a smooth surface of concrete slabs permitting an official speed of 100kph, except at intersections when a reduction to 50kph is demanded. Since the side roads look like nothing more than divisions between fields we frequently failed to notice them in advance and sailed on until a violent whistling behind made us turn round to see an angry young policeman waving a baton at us. We oozed charm, pointed to the GB plate, explained we had only crossed from Austria that morning, pushed forward the baby (who usually did the trick); but to no avail. There was no warning, no leniency, but a demand for 500 dinars (about 10/-) on the spot. More anger and disapproval was shown when we confessed to having no local currency; and we left, subdued, with the echo of “Embassy” ringing in our ears. The next morning our departure from Belgrade was delayed until B. had been to admit his guilt at the Embassy where he had an affable reception and a warning to keep an eye open for policemen in future!
The northwest corner of Yugoslavia is very poor; the children we saw were barefoot and ill clad and the entire population unused to motor traffic, providing many hazards as they meander across the width of the road. But their friendliness was spontaneous and we rarely passed a child or adult without receiving a welcoming hail or cheery wave. Through the breadth of the country we were struck by the intense agricultural activity. Modern machinery was rare but every available acre was being cultivated; maize was the predominant crop with other cereals, sunflowers, vines and fruit trees lining the routes. Petrol stations are far apart, sometimes between 50 and 100km, and the traveller can have no certainty of where he will find his next supply. On one occasion we gasped forward on our last spare gallon, always being directed to the next village, and in the end found no ‘extras’ such as water! Even the best grade petrol is poor in quality but available to the tourist at cheaper rates on production of coupons bought previously. (A saving of about 3/- a gallon is involved.)
The only delay we experienced at any frontier was at that between Yugoslavia and Bulgaria where a frequent traveller told us he was always held up. When we crossed there was a lot of traffic and the officials were very slow although by no means difficult. We found great friendliness and willingness to help throughout Eastern Europe although in Yugoslavia everyone was serious in manner, as if ignorant of a lighter side of life. In Bulgaria, as in Yugoslavia, we were impressed by the pleasing absence of advertisement although in the former country one sees the occasional ‘visual aid’ – a colouful poster with simple chart or diagram to show the output of minerals, farm produce or egg production.
Here there was more mechanical machinery on a large scale, as used in the collective farms. Petrol was even dearer and inferior, but the pavé roads generally better. In both Belgrade and Sofia we found good hotels with efficient service, our request for a double room producing in both cases a palatial suite at the price we usually paid for a double room. Sofia offered an example of extreme cleanliness its women gutter-sweepers are dressed in white overalls and headscarves and the city was well laid-out with large squares and attractive gardens. But outside the capital there were signs of hard living: mud and wattle houses, newspaper at the windows of even respectable brick homes, and brown coal. We continued over sheep-breeding hills, through fields of tomatoes, pink-flowering tobacco and the inevitable maize to the Turkish frontier.
Here the scene changed completely; the intense cultivation gave place to huge stretches of open moorland over which we drove on a straight tarred road, following the undulations like a switch-back. We rejoiced in the frequent petrol stations; first glimpses of the Sea of Marmara were thrilling; and a well-illuminated three-lane carriageway into Istanbul seemed like a dream. [There were no signs of recent political changes and people with whom we discussed the situation later seemed very satisfied that a corrupt regime had rightly been overthrown, and confident that soon free elections would be held.] Arriving after dark, we stayed by mistake in the centre of the old town in a hotel which was unable to produce the cup of tea without which B. has no motive power; but next day we moved for two days into more comfortable living (i.e. with tea).
In Istanbul we were greatly relieved to obtain the elusive visas for Syria overnight, with no difficulty, and then occupied ourselves with some carefree sightseeing. The mosque of Sultan Ahmet, with its breathtaking blue tiled interior; San Sophia, once church, then mosque, and, since the religious reforms of 1923, a museum maintaining features of both Christian and Moslem worship; the dazzling Treasury of the old Sultans where jade, pearls and ivory embrace the world’s largest emerald of 1500 carats, are but a few memories of our fleeting visit to this wonderful city.
The ferry service across the Bosphorus is frequent and efficient and here, as in the whole country, we found the Turkish people extremely helpful. (When we drove the wrong way across one of the main busy squares of Istanbul, a policeman even smiled as he held up all the other traffic to let us through!)
We followed a good, straight road to Izmir over open rolling country, catching glimpses of blue sea and green islands as we passed people in long, full trousers, boys in large flat caps, women with white veils encircling the face from forehead to chin, and domestic buffalo enjoying their Sabbath rest by wallowing neck-high in mud. A severe mountain climb through clouds of dust thrown up by fellow travellers: more roads gangs at work improving the surface: and then across wide-open plains to Ankara, a lonely town seemingly dropped in the midst of isolation.
Next day we pressed on over the vast Turkish plateau, with its pastures and short wind-beaten corn, skirting a huge salt lake, seeing for the first time short, grey camels near the small nomadic tents of the shepherds, on to the Cicilian Gate Pass through the Taurus Mountains. We were musing on the passage of St Paul through this narrow winding chasm enclosed by gaunt bare rocks when the twentieth century forced itself rudely upon us. A barrier across the road announced more work in progress, this time blasting, which held us up for three interminable hours. When we were finally released we met chaos and confusion as irate drivers, (B. included), tried to force a passage over single width tracks from two different directions at once, with no attempt at control. We had covered the first 200 miles of the day’s drive in 4 hours; the last 100 through the mountains in darkness took us 6 hours. Tired and dirty, we descended into Adana regretting that we had no time to visit nearby Tarsus.
The best hotel in Adana is very poor and we set out on our last day’s drive to Beirut looking forward to a comfortable bed and bath. The Mediterranean brought us back into the world of bananas, melons, bougainvillea and cotton; we passed crusader castles and a long low Roman aqueduct on our way to Iskenderun, now a busy oil and naval port. Unfortunately we here left the plain for our last mountain excursion up to the Syrian frontier high in the pine woods. B. swore that there were more hairpin bends here than on the St Gotthard, but to me at any rate they were less hair-raising. Passing through the frontier without incident, we returned to the coast at Latakia. We had been unable to pick up a road map of Syria and we did not see one signpost in the country, but we determinedly kept the sea on our right and drove hopefully. Our reward was Tripoli and the good road south to Beirut. We had arrived. The small car had proved its merits, climbing the Alps with ease and riding comfortably over poor roads; we had gained quick glimpses of previously unknown territories and ways-of-life, and we had arrived safe and sound at our destination. Of course, a useful asset for such a trip is an eleven-month old son who flirts audaciously with all chambermaids and oozes charm in difficult situations – but remember, it doesn’t work with Yugoslav policemen!
