Letter from Jack Miller

I suppose the trip really started with the first letter
sent off for travel folders. As with most pleasures, no
small part is in the anticipation and planning, and of
these we took full measure. The main problem was that
it was intended that we should have a camping vacation.
This would allow us to go where we wanted to without any
concern being given to lodging and meals, (and of course
the cost thereof) and would leave us more or less foot
loose and fancy free. The British holiday had placed
thousands of vacationers on the roads, and bookings for
'bed and breakfast' were virtually non-existent. All
our camping gear had been shipped from Valdosta, and was
currently 'lost at sea' along with our roof rack. So we
not only had to secure camping gear but then had to
arrange some means of loading it into the Volkswagon.

As the day approached, and we continued to check off the
preparations we had made - leace orders, clothing, car
repairs, food, routes, insurance, dollars changed for
pounds, the need for camping equipment and a roof rack
became paramount. Four days before we left, I was able
to borrow sleeping bags, air matresses, a tent, shovel,
hatchet,flashlight, cooler chest, an air pump and
lantern. Two days before departure the local Volkswagon
garage borrowed a roof rack for me (they even paid the
deposite) and we were almost ready.

First we had to get it all in. The three weeks of
uninterrupted sunshine now gave way to dark clouds whose
ominous portents we decided to ignore. We loaded the VW
until it fairly bulged, then removed the rear seat
cushion and back and loaded some more, arranging the
whole into a pile roughly resembling a seat in contour.
We strapped our folding table and chaise lounges to the
rood rack, and covered the whole with the tent which we
tied down with its own guy ropes, and we were ready! (we
hope for anything).

At 0645 Monday, 23 August we departed for the first leg
of our European travels which we hoped would, over the
next few years, take us through as much of Europe as we
could cram in. We went swiftly through the narrow
crooked roads and byways of Esses past serious little
villages with facinating names like Steeple Bumpstead,
Cornish Hall End, Great Sampford, Bottomly. We managed
to avoid any serious mishaps in the early morning ground
fog, and to evade most of the hazards common to those
parts, which because of the hour had not made their
appeareance in the form of hay wagons, busses, combines,
etc. However, we were appointed by Georgia who had lost
a bout with 'mal-de-car'. And this less than 20 miles
from home. We unpacked, removed, wiped, cleaned,
repacked, and proceeded to proceed-undaunted(it says
here)!

We soon exchanged the crooked roads and wheat feilds of
Essex for more orderly thoroughfares of Cambridgeshire.
Taking the circular route, we passed to the rear of the
various colleges of Cambridge even as the sun was
breaking through the leaden skies. Through the trees we
could just make out the Kings College Chapel with rays
of sunshine glinting off its slate roof, and from
between the icklimentia of gargoyles, statues, and
emblems of the ruling houses which seem to grace all
English architecture. We had hoped to reach Huntington
and the A1 before 8AM so as to avoid the commercial
traffic which normally clogs the roads during the day.
We didn't quite make it. We, along with a host of
others, spent the best part of an hour laboriously
crawling snail-like through the streets pacing a milk
wagon which was making its appointed rounds. Wehn it
moved, we moved - when it stopped, we stopped. With no
room to maneuvber we could only hope feverently that we
would soon reach that part of the town where people
started drinking tea instead of milk. At last it was
over and we released our frustration in a flood of cars
which poured out over A1 into four streams of 60 MPH
traffic.

The A1 is the only thing comparable to a turnpike in
Brittain. Going most of the distance between London and
Eklinburg, it permits rapid travel the length of
Brittain. It does have a few novelties though. Imagine
a turnpike such as the Pennsylvania upon which two story
busses, bycycles, farm wagons, trailers, and livestock
also move. And with turn offs and turn ons as well as
intersections and traffic circles. It makes things a
'bit dodgy' as they say here. But to the brave belong
the spoils and ours took the form of arrival in the Lake
District of England by afternoon.

The Lake District is much like the Northwest in that it
contains picturesque mountains, lakes and tourists.
They tell me that it also contains blue skies. While we
saw some of these, the blue was not quite as prominent
as grey, as we found out the next day. We stayed in a
place which restricted camping to NON*RESISENTS. I
don't know when I've felt better about being a
foreigner. We were in a perfectly beautiful spot,
camped on a green sward of clipped lawn which sloped to
the waters edge. We had a Dutch family camping at our
left, two women from Canada beyond them, and a gew whose
nationality we couldn't determine from our usual ruse of
letting the children hang around to catch a few words,
(Chris is getting fairly good at telling what language
is being spoken even though he doesn't know the meaning.
We got some practice from the radio on which we can
usually pick up a half dozen different tongues.) Of
course Germany was represented I believe we have the
Germans to thank for the acceptance of camping an hiking
which has grown in Europe. The people are strickly pros
too. While we were feeling proud of our camping
expertise which is womewhere at the
blowupthesleepingbag-lightthepropanestove-unfoldthefurn
iure-pitchtheumbrellatent-openthespam level, the two
women from Canada set up their tent, covered it with
plastic so the wouldn't have to pack a wet tent, put up
a wide screen, lighted a fire, and had tea while they
hung out their laundry. And they took all of 15 minutes
to get it done. The Dutch family were making tossed
salad in a bowl which had previously been massaged with
garlic, and they finished this off with melon. We
decided that this would be a good point to explore the
place which was full of caravans (trailers to you). We
had our 'nourishing meal' unseen in our tent.

The next morning we packed in the rain, and left for
Scotland and the North. Up through farm land made
dreary with rain and a misty windshield, through towns
whose streets hac been deserted by all but the 'mad dogs
and tourists who go out in the mid summer rain', along
roads better described as 'paths to adventure' we made
our way. The VW was knocking out about 33mpg and the
radio playing and we were wondering it there wasn't some
place we could stay in liew of the tent. Camping is
great fun when its dry, but the slow seep of cold into a
damp sleeping bag can really only be enjoyed by toses
not experiencing it. Then we spied the circus.

It wasn't he kind of circus you normally expect to find.
This one, composed of about a dozen vans, was occupying
at least 80% of the road and traveling about 15mph.
They say you should go to the circus for thrills. After
we had risked life and limb 12 separate and distinct
times as we attempted to pass on slippery, crooked,
hilly roads in the rain with a misty windshield; believe
me, we had had our share of thrills. In spite of
ourselves, the elements, and the circus, we arrived at
Prostwick on the extreme west coast of central Scotland,
about 30 miles south west of AYR. We secured a room at
the base transient facility ( Prostwick is an Air Force
Base used by my old command, MATS). Naturally , the
moment my crisp $5 bill crossed the counter, the sun
broke out and the sky cleared. This being too great a
blow for my mind to accept, I assumed the fetal pose and
went to sleep in the room with the curtains drawn,
however it was still sunny the next day, so we checked
out and continued our trip.

We went into Ayr. which was the home of Bobby
Barrrrrrrrns (as they say up here). Remembering that
Uncle Bob thought quite highly of him, we took a snap of
his old thatched cottage, bought some postcards (which
we promptly forgot to mail) and headed north. Past
Glasgow, by ferry across the Firth of Clyde, and to Lock
Lomand we rushed, because the blue skies had once again
been displaced by clouds. We traveled along the lake
for a distance of about 25 miles, and admittedly, it was
pretty. Like a firend had told me, "Lock Lomand is like
many lakes in Scotland, except they don't have a
commercial."

By the time we had passed the Lock, it was once again
raining. Outside of the depression rain causes in me,
it is really an advantage in Scotland, because it brings
out all the colors. With Ben Lomand standing sternly
dark in the background, we passed the many lesser hills
whose treeless tops were bright green rounded domes,
worn smooth by the wind sweeping across from the
Hebrides and kept meticulouly clipped by the heards of
sheep grazing on them. As we passed farther north we
began to see patches of purple heather along the road,
and now and then we'd see tourists' cars stopped while
they picked some to put behind their license plates for
luck. We didn't pick any then because we felt that it
tended to despoil the countryside and would put
Americans in a bad light (and besides, we had it on good
authority that only WHITE heather was lucky, and besides
we couldn't find a parking place. Later when no one was
looking we got some for us (which I lost somewhere along
the way). The rain disuaded us from going all the way
into Western Highlands, but we did spend some time in
the Highland country of Rob Roy, Robert Bruce, and
Nonan's Rill near Loch Katrine, where Sir Walter Scott's
'stag at eve had drunk her fill' in the Lady of the lake
(Freshman English, VHS).

Dispirited because of the rain, we turned southeastward
toward Edinburg looking for a dry campground. Once the
highlands were irrevocably behind us, the perversity of
the sun manifested itself once more, and the country was
illuminated by sunlight on wet grass. The hills across
the widening valleys , turned purple by masses of
heather, began to flatten as we approached the Firth of
Forth, and Scotland's capital city. We finally camped
at the south edge of Edinburg at a farm which had been
converted into a camp ground.

As long as it was a vacation, I guess we'll call it
picturesque. We could see the ruins of an old Scottish
castle (Craigmiller Castle) over a green pasture which
was dotted with tents of various colors and shapes and
of all national origins. They all came for the
Edinburgh Festival which was then underway. We spent a
day in Edinburgh sight-seeing through Edinburgh Castle
('Neverrr taken in direct attack, only through
treacherrrry lad"), shopping, and haveing a wreck (VW
versus bike), (we won)!. We had a beautiful day of sun,
although it was frost-cold at night and we heated the
tent with our gas lantern and stove. Then we headed
south under threat of gaul force winds and squalls
(which never materialised).

Down the eastern edge of Scotland over the smooth round
hillsl, rather than through them as before, through
nearly deserted countryside, past a Roman aqueduct in
ruins, to the A1 and finally home, to a warm house, a
soft bed, piles of camping residue and dirth clothes,
and ultimately, a typewriter----followed in time by some
more travel folders.