65 Days to Delhi: An Incredible Journey

© 2012 by Basil Jay. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/19/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8323-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8324-3 (e)

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Contents

DEDICATION

NOT A FOREWORD

PROLOGUE

BOOK 1 Europe

CHAPTER 1 The Preparation

CHAPTER 2 Bexhill (England)-St Omer (France)

CHAPTER 3 St Omer-Troyes

CHAPTER 4 Laon-Troyes

CHAPTER 5 Troyes-Lyon

CHAPTER 6 Lyon-Caracture

CHAPTER 7 Caracture-Nice

CHAPTER 8 Nice–Dianno Marino

CHAPTER 9 Dianno Marino-Genova

CHAPTER 10 Genova-Pisa

CHAPTER 11 Pisa–Florence-Bologna

CHAPTER 12 Bologna-Venice

CHAPTER 13 Venice–Trieste

CHAPTER 14 Trieste (Italy)–Zagreb (Yugoslavia)

CHAPTER 15 Zagreb-Belgrade

CHAPTER 16 Belgrade-Skopje

CHAPTER 17 Skopje (Yugoslavia)–Salonika (Greece—aka Thessalonika)

CHAPTER 18 Salonika-Delphi

CHAPTER 19 Delphi-Athens

CHAPTER 20 Athens-Kristi

CHAPTER 21 Kristi–Mount Olympus

CHAPTER 22 Mount Olympus-Kaballa

CHAPTER 23 Kaballa–Greek/Turkish Border

CHAPTER 24 Greek/Turkish Border-Istanbul

CHAPTER 25 Istanbul

CHAPTER 26 Istanbul

CHAPTER 27 Istanbul

Book 2

East of The Bosphrus

CHAPTER 28 Istanbul–Ankara

CHAPTER 29 Ankara

CHAPTER 30 Ankara

CHAPTER 31 Ankara—Samsun

CHAPTER 32 Reflections on the first 30 days

CHAPTER 33 Samsun-Trabzon

CHAPTER 34 Trabzon

CHAPTER 35 The Mountains East of Erzurum

CHAPTER 36 The Tahir Gecidi Pass-Agri

CHAPTER 37 Agri-Maranda

CHAPTER 38 The Shelbi Pass (Maranda)–Tabriz

CHAPTER 39 Tabriz–Ghazvin

CHAPTER 40 Ghasvin–Tehran

CHAPTER 41 Tehran

CHAPTER 42 Tehran

CHAPTER 43 Tehran

CHAPTER 44 Tehran–Bulbo

CHAPTER 45 Bulbo—Sari—Gorgon

CHAPTER 46 Gorgon—Mount Ku

CHAPTER 47 Mount Ku—Mashad

CHAPTER 48 Mashad

CHAPTER 49 Mashad

CHAPTER 50 Mashad (Iran)–Herat (Afghanistan)

CHAPTER 51 Afghan Border—Herat—Police Cell

CHAPTER 52 Police Cell—Herat

CHAPTER 53 Giritz-Kandahar

CHAPTER 54 Kandahar-Ghazni

CHAPTER 55 Ghazni—Kabul

CHAPTER 56 Kabul

CHAPTER 57 Kabul

CHAPTER 58 Kabul

CHAPTER 59 Kabul—Peshawar

CHAPTER 60 Peshawar—Attock

CHAPTER 61 Attock—Rawlapindi

CHAPTER 62 Rawlapindi

CHAPTER 63 The End Of Month Two

CHAPTER 64 Rawlapindi—Juelum

CHAPTER 65 Juelum—Lahore—Wagha

CHAPTER 66 Wagha (Pakistan)—Amritsar (India)

CHAPTER 67 Amritsar—Amballa

CHAPTER 68 DELHI

WHAT IS IN THE FUTURE FOR THIS UNFINISHED JOURNEY Important note from Basil Jay

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my wonderful wife Polly (Anne) who has always stood beside me, and shared my dreams whether they were her dreams or not

The book is also dedicated to

Lance and Lois Ponting, Denis and Gail Scott,

Tommy Bell, Freddie Ewing. Peter, and Lorraine and Janet Sutherland,

And Roger and Jill James—to all of whom my heartfelt thanks are given

for the very special time we all spent together. No man could have

wished for nicer companions to share an adventure with

Thank you all

Basil Jay

Aka Barry J Eades

NOT A FOREWORD

But A Please Read Me Note

From Basil Jay

If you are anything like me (and I am an avid book reader) you have no wish to read a long and complicated foreword. The fact is . . . well put simply, we, you and I both, just want to get on with the story, intending, if the book is deserving enough, to read it cover to cover—except, of course, for the foreword.

I don’t blame you one little bit; in fact, I am undoubtedly on your team

BUT PLEASE MAKE THESE NOTES

FROM ME AN EXCEPTION

Although I have started writing this account in 2011, the events it records happened almost 40 years ago, BUT, the people they happened to, are, for the main part, still alive and kicking (albeit kicking a little feebly in some cases)

These notes are written because, to enjoy, or even to believe in the book, one must first understand the era in which it was written, and the motivation to write it.

Even I, the author, who am now approaching, with ever gathering speed, the end of my seventh decade on this amazing planet of ours, cannot believe that I imposed such a dangerous burden upon my wife of less than 9 years, and my three children, Timothy aged 8, Tania, aged 6, and Jeremy who had his SECOND birthday en-route.

So . . . . what you are about to read is a true story. A story written in a style that may appear, at the very least unusual, but a story that has been 37 years in the telling. Thanks to my daily diary, where, at the end of each day, I conscientiously recorded, not only our regularly experienced trials and tribulations, but also our equally often experienced days of pure joy, discovery and adventure. Each chapter of this book is written, firstly in the very words (sub-headed From The Diary) that I wrote as a thirty-two year old, trying to responsibly look after my young family on an irresponsibly dangerous journey, undertaken on my selfish whim alone. My verbatim ‘Diary Notes’ are immediately followed by my thoughts (sub-headed Reflections On:—2011/2012) written as a sixty-nine, going on seventy year old, who now realises he should have known better. The writings from the diary are the very words I wrote in 1974. The Reflections On that immediately follow the diary entry, although written in 2011 and 2012 are aided, by the copious notes, filling several school exercise books, that I made almost 40 years ago. When we arrived back from ‘the journey’ in 1975, Polly (still . . .unbelievably my wife) put all these writings away and kept them safe. Perhaps hoping that one day, there would come a time, when the story would be told.

It is time for me to explain. My name is Barry J Eades, but many people know me better under my pen name of Basil Jay. One day in 1974, after just 9 years of marriage and three children. I told my long suffering wife Polly (at that time of course, after barely 9 years of marriage, she had not quite qualified as a long suffering, but was still a relatively short suffering wife) that I wanted us to opt out of—’life as we knew it’ for a year, and drive across Asia, hopefully, as far as Australia, but certainly as far as India. I was 32 and Polly was 29. It was to be a journey which was to take us almost one year to complete. It was a journey undertaken in an extremely aged (14 years old) and battered Commer Van. It was a journey which took us through parts of the world impossible to cross today once over the wild expanses of Turkey, (east of the Bosphorus), pretty much unknown and untravelled by most normal people. Then across Iran (until 1934 known as Persia, and in 1974 still ruled over by Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi—who, later in that decade, was to be overthrown by the infamous Ayatollah Khomeini). Then through Afghanistan. A country that now, in 2011, is a battleground from where, each day, we hear sad news that another of our young soldiers has died. Died, fighting a war against a primitive country that has been seeing off invaders for many centuries. Onward, over the Hindu Kush mountain range that separates Afghanistan from Pakistan, and through the totally dangerous and awe inspiring Kabul Gorge and then the pure lawlessness of the Khyber Pass. Continuing eastward, through Pakistan, into India, and then north to the very borders of Tibet, to the foothills of the Himalayas where lies Nepal. From Nepal then to zig-zag down the length of India, to that tiny island, once Ceylon, and now Sri Lanka.

It is the story of one small family who became a collection, a convoy, and a companionship, of young people (almost all under 30 years of age) doing something quite extra-ordinary, at an age when the extra-ordinary is ordinary, and when nothing is impossible.

Within these pages you will meet, Lance and Lois, and Denis and Gail. Four young Australians driving home after a year in Europe, spent, for the most part, in a van even older, and more battered than our own. You will meet Peter, a young musician, who, having met sisters Janet and Lorraine in a Scunthorpe pub (where they were temporary barmaids) had offered to see them home. We were many times reminded of Peter’s ‘chat up’ line.

Can I see you home girls?

Why yes that’s very kind

Where do you live?

New Zealand

Oh, right ho, we better get started then . . . .and he meant it! And they did.

You will meet Tommy and Freddie, two Irish lads who, having upset some rather tough and unfriendly people in Belfast had been advised to make themselves scarce for a few months.

And you will meet Alan and Ross, Colin and Bernice, Roger and Jill, and Swiss John. Young people all, who for reasons of their own were making, overland, a journey . . . to the other side of the world, and to an adventure . . . that you could not do today.

You will meet our vehicles. Homes on wheels that we had to personalize because we relied upon them, almost as much, as we relied upon each other. They are as much a part of our story as are our wonderful human companions. There was Lulu (our 14 year old Commer van), Fiery Fred (the even older and very battered Bedford van of the four Australians). Sam The Van (a relatively new VW Combi van, home and wheels to Alan and Ross). Castle of John (a twin to SamThe Van, and home to Swiss John), Doris (a smart and well cared for Bedford van which carried Peter, Janet and Lorraine), Zebra (an old Vauxhall Viva, painted in black and white stripes, the two back seats taken out to provided the cramped accommodation for Tommy and Freddie), Volvo ( a very smart Volvo sports car—a la James Bond driven by Bernice and Colin), and finally The Sprite (another sports car . . . this time an Austin Healey Sprite, and the transport of choice for Roger and Jill

You will follow the adventures of a wagon train style convoy. That saw, not only, deep corruption and violent death, but travelled a world which, though barely passable in the 1970s, is totally impassable today. Theatre’s of war. Nests of terrorism. Countries that, as each day passes, become places of ever deepening sadness.

We met our young companions, as I have said, all of them under 30, variously between the Greek border and Turkey’s Istanbul. We met them purely by happenstance, and then travelled with them, in convoy for many thousands of miles, and many months. Each looking out for the other. Several times we were held at gunpoint. We bore witness to the punishment of a young girl, stoned to death for adultery. I myself spent a very long night in an Afghanistan police cell, accused of killing a man, and told that execution was what I could expect come the day. We had drugs planted on us outside one lawless border. We saw sights, and met people, the memories of which will stay with us forever. But all of these things are dealt with within the following pages.

There were tough times. It was a time when contact with the outside world was very difficult. There were no computers, so none of the instant email contact that we take for granted today. There were no mobile phones, no cash point machines on every corner (they were more than a decade away). In almost a year we were able to have contact with our families just four times, and each of those was by letter sent to, and collected by us from Poste Restante in Tehran, Kabul, Delhi and Bombay. Or returns sent by us from those same post offices. Letters which, when, and indeed if they were ever received, would have been long out of date. For months on end, our families had no idea of our whereabouts.

There were scary moments, but for every scary moment, there were a dozen filled with humour, fun and laughter—and incredible comradeship.

Every day, I would write, not only a full page in my diary, but also copious notes. I had a small tape recorder through which I was able to record many conversations, thanks to an inexhaustible number of tape cassettes. In these days, long before cam-corders, I had a Bell and Howe Super 8 cine camera with which I recorded a ‘finished’ 12 hours of film. When we eventually came back to England, my diary and my note books were packed away and I never thought of them again . . . . until . . . . one day in the summer of 2011, Polly presented them to me.

It’s 37 years since you wrote these words. She had said, I took the old, now coverless diary from her, and as I flipped through the pages memories came flooding back. Polly was still talking.

The world has changed beyond recognition since that time, I remember I was still thumbing through the crammed pages of the diary. "Our children are long grown up, and now, not only have children of their own, but children who are older than they themselves were when we made that stupidly, wonderful journey". I was still flipping through those long forgotten pages that I had laboured over each evening when our day’s driving was done. I swear my eyes were filling with tears at some of the memories. Polly was still talking.

Now you can’t travel to the corner shop without strapping a child into a car seat . . . .and yet we travelled almost 30,000 miles with three small children rattling around in the back of a 14 year old van. I had just nodded.

Don’t you think it is about time for a book (I had by this time had 5 books published and had discovered an undeniable joy in writing). If you don’t, then the hundreds of hours you spent writing your diary and your notes, are, well quite simply wasted. I was still nodding speechlessly. It will be your gift to our grand children. It will show Jack and Emma, and those that come afterwards, just what a stupidly romantic, ‘would be’ adventurer their Grand pappy was. I kissed her full on the lips, first because I still loved her to death and secondly because it was a wonderful idea. I took the note books from her, and with the diary clutched under my arm, I walked upstairs—back to my study—back to my word processor—and back to India.

So my friends, welcome to—The journey of a lifetime.

PROLOGUE

Oh Basil she said in an ‘I really didn’t sign up for this’ sort of voice.

"You want to do what?" I remained calm.

"I want to take a year off work, and drive us around the world . . . and back". I repeated, laying particular emphasis on the last two words. Let’s call it a sabbatical, I said, knowing that my bombshell would have blown her mind with excitement, (but at the same time edging towards the safety of the back door in case it hadn’t).

NO . . . let’s call it an in-sanity she retorted, then letting out a huge sigh, said when do you expect us to leave? I walked back to the centre of the room, assuming my very strong arguments for taking this life changing experience had been conceded. I was wrong.

Why? she replied, following up quickly with and again . . . when? and then, with hardly a pause, you do remember we have three children, and the youngest is not even two years old? As a question, it was, of course, purely rhetorical. I placed my index finger (this was of course before I chopped it off in the lawnmower—but that’s another story and one for another day) on my temple, and frowned, as if dredging carefully through my memory. There was of course no reason for these theatrics, save the realisation that desperate, and slightly comedic efforts were needed to lighten the moment.

The fact is that I did remember, with no small amount of happiness, getting married in 1965. I was still three months short of my twenty-third birthday, and Polly was only just twenty.

I remembered the birth of our first son in 1966, born a few minutes after midnight on April 2nd and thus being able to claim, rightly, that he was no April Fool. We christened him Timothy John, but he has been just—Tim, ever since he could lift a pint glass.

I remember the birth of our daughter in 1968. Remember it, how could I forget it, she ruined, bless her, a perfectly arranged game of golf with my long time friend Gordon, who with his wife Jane had come to visit us in our new Bexhill home, the girls to do girly things, and the boys (Gordon and I) to play golf. As I have said, the year was 1968 and our daughter Tania Jane (forever after called Lulu) started to arrive three weeks early, ruined our golf game, and eventually arrived in the company of a midwife who spent several hours sitting on our marital bed beside a recumbent and oft panting Polly, consuming numerous cigarettes (the midwife not Panting Poll), whilst knocking the ash into her, thoughtfully self-supplied, portable ashtray. This was 1968, and clearly long before the Nanny State took it upon itself to tell us what we could and could not do.

Not wanting to risk another day’s golf, there was then a gap of some four and half years before our youngest son Jeremy Richard, (forever called Jem) came along. He was born in Hospital in Hastings (well, we felt that we couldn’t risk another run in with ‘ash tray Annie’) in September 1972. So, the worries felt by Anne in making my proposal in early 1974, can be understood . . . if only by the faint-hearted . . . . and Polly (my lovingly pet name for my wife Anne), faint hearted, was anything but, as not only the following pages, but also the fact that she walked up (or should it be—down) the aisle with me, will demonstrate time and time again.

So much for the background . . . here comes the plot. We had, you will now realize, been married for almost 9 years. We had happily, (and enjoyably), produced three wonderful children (although it must be said, that there were times when one was forced to the conclusion that some of them—no names no pack drill—were still practicing, and had not yet fully developed, the art of being completely wonderful).

Two years before I had made my perfectly reasonable suggestion of driving around the world, we had purchased the beautiful Elizabethan house, called The Thorne. This was a twenty seven roomed home that, we assumed would be our home forever (Don’t get carried away, in 1971 it was near derelict and a property which we could not afford . . . could we NOT afford it BUT, where’s there’s a will there’s a way, as they say). We had paid just £18,500 for our stately pile (an absolute fortune to a trainee millionaire in 1971). The bank, bless ’em, loaned me the cash against the two contracts I had entered into with two very close friends. They had agreed to buy, what we laughingly called The East Wing, of the Thorne for just under £7,000 and, except for the basic division of dividing walls, the electrics and the plumbing, would do the rest of the renovations themselves. Their elderly parents, I think a little against their wishes (the elderly parents, not the very close friends), were persuaded to buy several attached outbuildings, which could easily (and relatively cheaply) be converted into a 4 bedroom bungalow, once again whilst all of the structural work was to be carried out by myself and Polly (she can be deadly with a hammer and a chisel, and, as a manager and a surveyor, I wield a pretty lethal clip board). The price was to be £5000, and, so at a stroke, (and almost including one), we had recovered £12000 of our £18,500 purchase price, (Eventually we were to buy back, and live with great happiness in the whole property—but that was still a few years in the future). For now, our stately pile was all but finished. We occupied what we called the west wing, all five bedrooms of it and most of the, then, 2 acre garden, and yet, I was now suggesting "that we leave it all behind for a whole year", as Polly stated putting quite totally the wrong spin on it, when set against my words:-

"But darling, it is only for one year", a statement which spun to perfection. Even though we had only been married for nine years, I had learned quickly. If you have a good idea it is vital to allow your wife to claim it for her own . . . . and so, I left it there. As is the way of things, Polly had the last gentle, and un-resented word.

Just drink your coffee, eat your toast, and stop having these absurd ideas. I drank my coffee, and ate my toast, but, smiling inwardly, I knew the seed had been sown, and this was one absurd idea that was not going to go away.

The following morning, we were sitting around the breakfast table, when Polly—unprompted by me, said

You never answered my question

Oh, I’m sorry I said, which one was that?

"When do you envisage fulfilling this absurd, if intrepid adventure?"

Ahhh! I said, knowing I was already on the home straight.

Weeeeelllll I said stretching the word out to give me a bit more thinking time. It is now March. There is quite a lot to organise, so I thought if we stay and enjoy a good old fashioned English summer, we could leave in early September I knew she would be impressed with my thoughtfulness.

What is to organise? she said, much to my surprise" I took to my role as intrepid adventurer with gusto.

Well, I said, now the word was short and clipped, as I no longer needed any thinking time. Not too much really. We haven’t got a motor caravan, and we haven’t got any money. However, we have been fortunate over the last 18 months, and we have a couple of properties and a nice big building plot which I am sure the bank will be happy to give us a loan against. Then we will go and buy a cheap motor caravan . . . . and off we will go, all ready by September" I leaned back in my chair and waited for the applause that would recognise my efficient forward planning. She got up and took our tea cups to the sink. Obviously trying to decide on adequate words of praise for all the thought I had clearly put into this project.

What about your job? she said (When I was not dabbling in property on my own account, I was land manager of the south-east regional office of George Wimpey and Company).

Ahh, well I’ve already had a word with Don Smith (the regional co-ordinator, and my immediate boss) and he can see no reason why I can’t have a sabbatical, and my job will be kept open for up to a year.

Was that before or after you told me? she said. Good point, but one to tip toe around.

Oh, it just cropped up in conversation one day last week

What about medicines? she said over her shoulder, obviously having taken on board the Don Smith bit. you will include a bottle of aspirin on your shopping list, which, at the moment only appears to have on it . . . she counted off on her fingers A cheap van and a visit to the bank manager I wasn’t yet deflated, but I pulled an appropriate face, Polly smiled and said, I don’t expect I will get any peace until I say yes . . . . so, subject to you being able to convince me that 1) we will get wherever we are going in one piece, providing you can convince me that 2)the children will never, not even for one moment, be at risk, and providing that we can between us, 3) prepare a comprehensive list that can anticipate every eventuality . . . . It could be quite fun. I was suddenly reminded why I loved her so much, so I took her in my arms, swung her around, and gave her a big kiss. However, I knew I still had a bit of a molehill to climb, she was serious about the list, so I began to build it, a full and comprehensive list in my mind, whilst avidly reading The Exchange and Mart, and various motoring magazines looking for a vehicle that would be roomy enough to sleep two adults and three children, and appeared robust enough to tackle some of the roads which I knew would not be as we were used to.

It was about a week later when Polly said to me,

OK you’ve had a week, so let’s go through your list

It’s all in my head I said

Oh well she responded, in that case it will have plenty of room to develop. I smiled condescendingly. I have written mine, she continued, so let’s start by going through that one She produced a neatly written list, and proceeded to read from it, counting each point off on her fingers. We need.

1. A guaranteed serviceable motor caravan,

2. A motoring book on ‘How To’ which will be a book that covers everything from changing wheels to changing husbands.

3. A range of medicines AFTER consultation with your doctor friends (fellow members of Round Table) to cover everything from sunburn shoulders to athletes foot, from funny tummy, to housemaids knee, and pills for headache, earache, back ache, front ache, and even heartache. A good general purpose antibiotic is also a must. Plus, in your case perhaps some remedy for acute mental illness.

4. Then we will need road maps of every country we plan to travel through (British Embassies will probably help there), and also details of local customs, Like where we would go to find stoning for adultery was still avidly practiced, and would it be much further to find a country where they chop off your hands for stealing a camel or trying to hide an elephant in your boot.

5. We will need to know what and where we will find nasty stinging things like snakes and scorpions, spiders and ants, crocodiles and hippopotamuses (or is it hippopotami). We will then need available antidotes wherever possible.

6. We will have to know the sorts of clothes we will need, and how we are going to wash and bathe in a cheap motor caravan without a shower.

7. We must consider how we are going to carry our money, are travellers cheques accepted in all of the various countries you plan to inflict us all upon. Should they be in English pounds or American dollars? What do we do if we lose our money or have it stolen?

8. Do we need some form of protection, like a big stout stick, or even, perhaps even a twelve bore shotgun?

9. How much money will we have for the outward journey that leaves us enough money to get back home again?

10. Oh, and one other thing. I would like you to give me a complete list of all the countries we will be driving through so that I can read up on the sort of food I will be able to buy.

11. We must go see Mother Superior at Tania’s Convent, and Tim’s headmaster, to sort out some on-going educational material for them (the, children, I have to say, were at this time coming up eight, six and eighteen months), so we were confident that our combined brain cells could keep up with the work requirement.

12. What about insurance, will our English Motor Policy cover accidentally driving the motor home into the Caspian Sea, or taking a lump out of an camels hump in Persia? And our travel insurance . . . . can that be extended to countries where you can get Delhi Belly or Turkey Trots?

13. The Thorne, we have to continue to pay the mortgage, so we will need a tenant. There was no problem about security of course as ‘The Thorne’ lay behind a ten foot high wall with stout oak gates at each end of the long drive. Added to that of course, our friends were also behind the wall in the . . . .wait for it . . . .East Wing).

Polly sat down and looked up . . . I stood up and looked down. My flabber, as Frankie Howard would once have said, had never been so ghasted.

I was just so impressed, and from that moment realised that this was a serious journey and could not be approached with the relaxed, devil-may-care attitude that I approached most things in my life.

I was thirty-two going on ten. Polly was twenty-nine going on thirty.

BOOK 1

Europe

ENGLAND-FRANCE-ITALY-GREECE-WESTERN TURKEY

CHAPTER 1

The Preparation

(Including a brief re-cap)

As I write these words, it is July 2011. I have just celebrated my sixty-ninth birthday. As you will by now be well aware, the book you are about to read is about events that happened just a little less than forty years ago, when I was just thirty-two years old. And yet, although less than four decades have passed in years, there has been more advancement in technology than that achieved in any other 500 years of human development. But sadly whilst technology has pro-gressed, human relationships, particular in the middle-eastern regions of our world, have re-gressed. In those calm, barely post-Beetle years of the early Nineteen—Seventies, we drove, with three young children in a clapped out fourteen year old converted Commer Van, through countries and regions that armies now treat with fearful respect. Iran, Afghanistan, Helmand Province, The Hindu Kush, The Khyber Pass into Pakistan, and the home of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka. We passed through landscapes that had been familiar to the greatest figures of history from Genghis Kahn, to Attila the Hun, from Alexander the Great, to Kublai Khan. We travelled the infamous Silk Road, an old Asian trade route which, although we travelled in a handful of days, the ancient traders with their camel trains, took many months, and hundreds of lives to complete. My diaries, meticulously recording the day to day details of this journey have remained unread for thirty-seven years. Polly, has kept them carefully, and just days ago she handed the first to me, and said. It is time. Record what we did, not only for us, and Tim, Tania and Jem, but also for the two little ones, Jack and Emma, and whosoever will follow them. What we did, was an adventure for us . . . but for those reading today it will be a chance to share . . . . an incredible journey. There seems to be hardly a country or a people that, at this moment in 2011, are not in conflict with either themselves or their neighbours.

The beautiful cities we passed through—Tehran, Mashad, Ghazni, Herat, Ghazvin, Giritz, Kandahar, Kabul, Peshawar, Amritsar, Delhi, Kathmandu, Bombay. Cities made romantic to us through the poems of the likes of Rudyard Kipling, or the Rubyat of Omar Khiam. Scenes of battles that have witnessed heroic actions in the past, as they are witnessing heroic actions today. We have been, without doubt, a privileged generation, born at the end of one world war, and destined to live for the longest era of national peace in living memory. There is no doubt that the opportunity is no longer open for the journey that we made. A journey made, not without hardships. Not without heart stopping moments when we thought that, not only was our current journey over . . . but also our journey through life was being seriously challenged. We were often hungry, often ill, often frightened, often bewildered often confused. There were no PC’s through which we could connect to the world-wide-web and send an email. There were no ATM machines from which we could draw a few pounds with the aid of our plastic. There were no mobile phones, from which we could have friendly chats with the folks back home. We could post a letter if ever we found a post office, we could use a landline, assuming that firstly we could find one, and secondly, we had the patience to book a call, and then wait a few hours to be put through. The fact is that once through Turkey we saw hardly a single telephone until we again reached Europe many months later. We were accused of smuggling, we were accused of theft, and we were accused of murder. We took six days to clear one customs post. I was locked up in the depth of Afghanistan for an unlawful killing. We ate a meal in Attock whilst being guarded by bearded tribesmen with guns and knives. We were held up at gunpoint in the Iran, in the Khyber Pass, in Pakistan, and again in Nepal. We could communicate none of this to our folks back home, other than by tapes that we recorded and posted if ever we saw anything resembling a post box . . . . many of them never arrived back in England. In all of our time away we only heard from home four times, and that news came in letters, posted by pre-arrangement to Post Restante in four major cities, Tehran, Delhi, Kabul, and Bombay.

This book is about an incredible journey that would be impossible today. Because of that I will not waste too much time on the very hectic months (end of March to early September) that Polly’s initial list, which was significantly added to as time went forward, was gradually, assembled piece by piece. But I will touch upon some of the fundamental matters that we had to address.

Firstly, the route. Our intention was to take a few detours between England and India. What happened after India would depend on many factors, not the smallest of which was the amount of cash we had left. Our intended route as we made our preparations was to be:-

ENGLAND>FRANCE>ITALY>YUGOLAVIA>

BULGARIA>

GREECE>TURKEY>IRAN>AFGHANISTAN>

PAKISTAN>

INDIA>NEPAL>SRI LANKA. Thereafter, we thought perhaps a boat to either KENYA, or AUSTRALIA

With the, perhaps, thirteen countries, covering an estimated 30,000 road miles.

So with that decision made, we then set about our shopping list. First item was to find a tenant for The Thorne, and here we were very lucky, an architect friend told us of a group of four young architects from Hastings Borough Council were looking to share accommodation. We met them, and we fixed a rent. They were to move in as we moved out in September, and my good friend and solicitor John Midgley was to have our Power of Attorney, whilst we were away. We had now decided that, rather than put a bank debt around our necks, we would raise such cash as we could by selling various items which were of course, not going to be needed for one year. First amongst those, were our two cars. Polly had a Hillman Imp, and I had a Ford Capri, sadly both with a small hire purchase debt, but still showed us a cash surplus. At a time when coloured television was a new innovation we had a very nice colour portable which we found very easy to sell. Our house had a very large garden for which I had purchased a sit-on tractor mower. It had to go. We put a number of furniture items in to a local auction . . . . all fetched a better price than we could have hoped. After a couple of months when the dust had settled, we were able to see how much cash we had available. Of course, this was not yet our travel money. We found a 14 year old Commer Van in Brentwood Essex, which comfortably fitted our description of a ‘cheap van’. We christened her Lulu, and painted a map of the world on the side with our overland route clearly shown. I had purchased a pump action container