The Grand Tour a whirlwind tale
“What odds? We’d go until our money ran out. Get jobs if we had to. We were young and healthy.”
- Excerpt from “The Grand Tour” They see the Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower, meet other young people from Italy and Rhodesia. They bike to the Mediterranean, take a train to Spain, sail to Majorca. They meet monks and shepherds and eccentric wealthy drivers who invite them to stay in their villas. And, of course, they meet a Newfoundlander: an ice cream vendor in Spain who was born on Morris Avenue.
THE GRAND TOUR: MY MONTHS OF HITCHHIKING, BIKING AND SERVING HER ROYAL MAJESTY BY DAVE QUINTON BOULDER PUBLICATIONS $11.95 104 PAGES
This book is about the size and shape of a postcard, and why not? This is both a missive from a trip through Europe and a dispatch from a time, the youthful 1960s. A European sojourn was, though not a ritual, a rite of passage. Today the “gap year,” a time for exploration and stretch, occurs before college, but back then such a travelogue was planned after going through university, earning a degree, and hovering on the cusp of a full-time, adult career.
A Grand Tour itself was a cultural expedition, originating with the 18th century. It was considered essential to complete a young man’s, or chaperoned young woman’s, education. It entailed exposure to the classical and Renaissance legacies, in architecture, art, and other ephemera. It was guided, even tutored, and Venice (of course) and Rome were must-visits. Participants were expected to return home with books, paintings, sculpture, and other accoutrements. It was conducted by carriage, sail and train, and might include lessons in languages, dancing, and fencing.
This required both private resources and the proper introductions. European travel and influence was the privilege of a certain class. But travel infrastructure changed in the 20th century. Trans-atlantic ships and flights, railway passes and youth hostels, and a culture of camping and hitchhiking opened access.
On the first of December, 1960, Dave Quinton was packing his duffle bag for a long-planned trek. At that time, you couldn’t even drive across the island of Newfoundland. “I was young and, after years of studying all winter and working lonely wilderness jobs all sumer, I was filled with wanderlust.”
He and another friend from college, Bob Gray, were sailing on the SS Nova Scotia, disembarking in Liverpool, and planning to bike, hike, and thumb rides around Europe.
What to bring?
“Skates? I didn’t know — I had never been much of a hockey player on Mundy Pond. Yet, everyone knew that the English were lousy hockey players. I could be a star over there! In went the skates.”
His passage cost $166, and he’d saved $700 or $800 beyond that, enough, he hoped, to sustain him for several months. “What odds? We’d go until our money ran out. Get jobs if we had to. We were young and healthy.” And, on the ship, well fed. Their tickets included three meals a day, and the menu of their last dinner included “Table Celery,” choice of a half dozen main courses including “Buttered Spaghetti & Tomato,” cold buffet, salads, cheeses and fruits, and four desserts including “Ice Cream with Wafers.”
Docking in Liverpool, they face their first challenge: figuring out British currency, specifically what coins are worth what in terms of tipping porters and cabbies. Their first attempts go awry: “The cabbie gazed at it for a moment. Quietly he got aboard, started up, and, as he pulled away, he screwed down the window and flipped the tip at us. ‘‘’Ere mates. Buy yourself a slice of bread!’
They have better luck with the traditional British pub. “They’re wonderful places ... You could eat a meal at a reasonable price, read a newspaper, play darts, chat.”
Lodgings are inexpensive, too. They have a copy of the International Youth Hostel book, a map to cheap places in a variety of spaces, often quite tidy and friendly, where room and board were available in exchange for little cost and some labour.
From Liverpool they make their way to London, then the Continent. They see the Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower, meet other young people from Italy and Rhodesia. They bike to the Mediterranean, take a train to Spain, sail to Majorca. They meet monks and shepherds and eccentric wealthy drivers who invite them to stay in their villas. And, of course, they meet a Newfoundlander: an ice cream vendor in Spain who was born on Morris Avenue.
They travel under their on power, to their own itinerary, suiting their own appetites and curiousities. As one businessman, frustrated by trying to sell his tour to Bob, who repeatedly declines because he can’t afford it, puts it, “You, you, you are an existentialist! ... You grow a beard, you eat coconuts, and you have no money.”
As for the “serving Her Royal Majesty” referenced in the title, it’s yet another yet good story and I won’t ruin the surprise.
“The Grand Tour” is a memoir of not just the trip details, but also the trusts and the goals and expectations of the time. Illustrated with concurrent imagery including the photos and sketches, documents, ticket stubs, and the menu cited above.