Snapshot: To Spain in a van, and the heart of the 1960s
After my husband, Bryan, saw Jean-Luc Godard’s film Pierrot le Fou, he made a note in his sketchpad to buy a van. It sounded like a good idea to me. Bryan started to work nights and we saved. We eventually bought a secondhand one in Brixton in 1966 – an Austin J2M16 – aluminium body, custom-built interior, insulated with fibreglass and lined with plywood.
The next year, we decided to leave London and go on the road with the children – Mason, one, Emma, two, and Josephine, three. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.
By the time we met the photographer Paul Carter in Torremolinos, we had been travelling for almost two years and were at ease with our lifestyle. We gave little thought to the future. Our clothes were sent to the nearest poste restante from my family’s basement boutique in Dublin, hence the 60s style. The children were happy, self-sufficient and free.
While we were away, England was changing, it seemed. We started to meet long-haired people seeking a new way of life. In Morocco, we came across Suzy Creamcheese of Frank Zappa fame, and Hoppy, who had been involved in the alternative International Times. The Rolling Stones played Hyde Park, but we were going our own way. I am glad we made the journey. It was liberating.
We did meet some disapproval, though I am reluctant to give that sentiment credence because the experience was life-enhancing and romantic. Being a family made our encounters simpler – people like children. We had that in common, and we had to be responsible and interact with others. That was a pleasure.
We did not give much thought to the implications of all the new apartment blocks we had parked beside in Torremolinos, the beginnings of the Costa del Sol as it is known today. We were blissfully living in the moment. Paul saw the contrast of lifestyles: the tourists, the fishermen, the shepherds and our little van.
Although he took the photographs of us (collected in his book A Moment in Time – Spain 1969) over a few days in just one of our stopovers, they represent the whole journey we made from autumn 1967 to late 1969. They are a precious reminder of a formative and adventurous chapter in our lives, and on a wider level they are a timeless portrait of youth, freedom and change. They capture fleeting moments and are symbolic of the adventure we had as a family. They epitomise the 1960s, when everything seemed possible.
Catherine Whitfield
Playlist: The awful record that banished my blues
The Smurf Song by Father Abraham and the Smurfs
“La la la-la la la, / Sing a happy song / La la la-la la la, / Smurf it all day long”
When I was growing up in the 70s, Smurfs were the latest craze and, like any young child, I was mad about them. Some of my friends had lots of them, but times were hard for Mum and Dad and so they couldn’t afford to buy me all the newest toys. I was a little envious of my friends, but they’d often loan me the odd Smurf or two so we could all play together.
Then Dad came home one day with a record. He had a big grin on his face as he gave it to me. I remember looking at him a little blankly. He had lots of records that he’d often listen to, from the Shadows to the Everly Brothers to Val Doonican. I wasn’t particularly keen on any of them so I wasn’t sure why he’d bought me a record – until he played it. The Smurf Song is terrible, utterly terrible, but extremely catchy (even now!) and as a six-year-old, I adored it.
What’s more, none of my friends had a copy. For once I had something they didn’t! But, as they did with me, I shared and we’d often happily be found singing the odd “la la la-la la la” – they really did seem to go on forever.
I was even lucky enough to be given three of my own Smurfs – one male, one female and then the most wondrous of Smurfs, the Astro space Smurf. It felt like 10 Christmases rolled into one. He was even better than the record (don’t tell Dad) and I took him everywhere. Alas, one of the neighbour’s boys got hold of him and threw him across the garden. I will never forget the day when I picked the Smurf’s broken body (well, his helmet was cracked) and carried him inside, tears streaming down my cheeks. It wasn’t long after that that I grew out of the Smurfs and moved on to the next craze. Though they’ve made the odd comeback over recent years and I must admit I always have a smile to myself when I see them. I’ve heard that Britney Spears recorded a song for one of the Smurfs films. Sorry, Britney, but you’re no Father Abraham.
Esther Newton
We love to eat: Sylvie’s parmentier
Ingredients
Mashed potato
Grated gruyère (preferably) or cheddar
Sauteed onions
Leftover roast lamb or duck
Gravy
Parsley
Gently heat the meat with some of the gravy and mix with the sauteed onions. Layer an oven-proof dish with potato, sprinkle some chopped parsley over this and then grate cheese on top. Lay the meat on this, then another layer of potato, parsley and finally more cheese. Cook for 30-40 minutes at 200C. Serve with the remaining gravy.
I fell in love with all things French when I first visited my pen-friend, Sylvie, in Paris aged 13. Unfortunately, my school language skills weren’t up to much and I made some monumental errors in pronunciation and translation, one unprintable in a family section when I thought I was saying I wanted a kiss and said something much ruder. I announced my dislike of tomatoes as an allergy to pommes de terre (potatoes).
This did not seem to deter Sylvie’s maman in offering me some fabulous meals, although I did wonder at the omission of french fries during my week’s vacation. On my last day, she produced a single dish of roast duck and veg solely for me, and then returned from the kitchen with a wonderful-looking casserole of what can only be described as French shepherd’s pie for the rest of the family. I gazed in yearning at the glorious mix of duck, fried-onion gravy and mashed potato that everyone else was eating with relish, and queried if I should be allowed some to accompany my duck. Maman explained in her faltering Franglais that it contained pommes de terre, and therefore, it was very dangerous with my allergy. I suddenly realised my translation mistake and apologetically wrote down how I’d made the error. Maman was very graceful and served me a portion of parmentier de canard. It was delicious and we were all delighted I did not suffer an anaphylactic reaction. Tania Davis
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