There were of course many other excursions. The Mosel valley is not far from GK and once we spent a pleasant weekend at a little hotel there close to the river. We went to the Leave Centre at Winterberg for a few days, but I'm not sure at what time of year, for it was very quiet, the snows had almost gone (probably late spring) and there was hardly anyone else in the place, but we enjoyed our walks in the nearby woods. (This was one of Hitler's "Strength through Joy" holiday centres; curiously I can find very little information on this aspect of its history).
And one "Martinmas" (November 1st) we went down to Seefeld (Austria) to check-out a little Alpine chalet we'd seen advertised as a holiday let. Now this must have been '61, and the only possible reason we can think of for going down there would be to book it for our skiing trip (which eventually would be as a package tour). Or possibly for the summer of '62 ? Whichever, when we saw the place, it didn't come up to the advertised standard (and certainly not to our expectations !): we turned it down and gave up the idea.
But still we had to find a hotel in Seefeld for the night we spent down there. The only place open had no heating on, it was absolutely freezing. We spent the whole night in our room, huddled under a pile of blankets, with Mary sandwiched between us to keep warm. And we still remember the
wiener schnitzel the old grandmother (who seemed to be running the place) cooked up for us.
Normally we'd do the journeys GK - Austria or back in one hop, but once, in fairly warm weather, we overnighted in Heidelberg (which cannot have been far off the direct route). We were charmed by the beautiful old red sandstone town, the Castle above, the bridge towers over the Neckar, and above all the romantic "Student Prince" feel of the place - for it was really an operetta set come to life.
Back at GK, life continued as normal into summer. Throughout our time there we'd made frequent shopping visits to Holland, always crossing at the same point, so the border guards there got to know us quite well. Particularly they spotted Mary (calling her: "
die kleine prinzessin") - and indeed she
was a picture.
We'd bought a toy plastic "car seat" (sort of miniature high-chair top). This was furnished with a toy steering wheel, a column "shift" and (battery) horn button (which was soon worn out !). The whole device had loops over the passenger seat back: strapped into it by her harness, Mary was high enough to see out easily and beamed at her admirers.
Of course, there was absolutely no protection. But in those days we didn't think of things like that. Compulsory seat belts and anchored child seats were far in the future (although the 403
had front lap straps, few used them - but
we did as I knew their value all too well).
We should be going back to UK in the autumn. An official letter arrived, over the signature of someone who assured me that he remained "My Obedient Servant" (when clearly he was nothing of the kind: the boot was on the other foot). I was informed that RAF(G) had taken cognisance of the fact that my tour was coming to an end, and politely wished to know what my preferences were for my next posting.
After I came to, (with Mrs D. anxiously applying the smelling salts), my first thought was that I'd been transported into the past (like Dr. Who) and that it was really April 1st. Finally convinced that this was not the case, it dawned on me that this had to be a hoax. Someone must be taking the Mickey out of me ! I examined the letter minutely, but by every indication it appeared to be genuine. Why not take it at face value ?, we thought. What could we lose ? I replied that I would be happy to go anywhere they liked, and into any Command - save one: Please Not Flying Training Command again ! (I prefer the quiet life).
You just
know what's going to happen, don't you ? (P2 cannot be accused of not having a sense of humour).
Linton-on-Ouse, that's what ! Oh, well, they must not be grudged their little joke.
The last weeks sped by. I dug out the packs of crate slats and screws for the Twin-Tub and the pram, the RAF supplied folding plywood containers for our belongings (which had mysteriously doubled in volume in just one tour). The car had to be re-registered in the UK, I got a London registration (was this compulsory ?) - 87 EXT - (why didn't I hang on to that: would've been worth a bit today). This alloy plate would be screwed on top of the plastic "LP 97 B" and the Paris temporary registation - the car's third (and final) brush with officialdom.
I've earlier recounted my unsuccessful attempt to blow up my MQ, and how the boiler door hung on precariously until an hour before the Marching Out, then collapsed. I think that was the only thing we were "done" for. We left, the car loaded to the gunwales. We were booked Boulogne-Dover on the afternoon ferry. The Belgian pavé was ready and waiting for us: the middle pipe and back box fell off just before Brussels.
Fortunately, an
Ągence Peugeot was
Prochain, and did a rush job. What we paid them, and in what currency, I can't remember. We'd started with time in hand, but now it was tight. In Boulogne, desperation lent fluency to my tongue:
"Voudrais-vous m'indiquer la Gare Maritime, M'sieu, s.v.p ?", I begged a surprised Frenchman on the curb after screeching to a stop beside him.
Luckily, he understood and simply pointed. We were the last car over the ramp: as we rolled onto the car deck I could see it (in the mirror) lifting behind us.It was a British Rail ferry; now we were effectively back on British soil. At Dover, I still remember admiring the skill with which the ship was stopped at the harbour mouth, then turned in its own length to go astern into the berth. H.M. Customs eagerly surveyed their next tranche of victims. We looked worth investigating.
But I had all the paperwork for the car ready: we were in the clear there. Yet honour must be satisfied; he had to find
something to justify his existence. Our "Slant-o-matic" sewing machine and Mrs D.'s watch would do. Comparing the receipt for the watch with the "0.586" (or whatever) on the back of the case, he looked at us quizzically (I think he thought we'd been "done"). Mrs D. remembers a bill of £17 for both, which was hard enough in all conscience.
We were about "all-in" now. We found a nice little B&B in Dover and called it a night.
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C.
All's well that ends well !