The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘Snuggled in our sleeping bags, we whispered that we loved France’
From vintage transport to distinctive tastes and smells, your memories of that first French holiday are indelible
In 1958, when I was six, we set off for Calais in our Utilabrake van with the sliding doors open. The long journey to the south of France was made bearable by dips into the Eiffel Tower lemonade crystals stashed in the back.
In Agay, we erected our heavy ridge tent, incongruous among new “continental” versions. Not trusting the food, my mother had packed tinned meats and Nestlé condensed milk. I remember my first bottle of Coca-Cola, and plates of strange hors d’oeuvres.
My father saw a wallet dropped from a car and, chasing the owner, returned it. A bottle of champagne was duly delivered in thanks. It sat on our sideboard for 20 years – unopened! Anne Mulhall, Norfolk
A CUT ABOVE THE REST
On our school trip to Barcelona in the 1960s, we crossed the Channel to Dieppe, took a train to Paris and spent the afternoon sightseeing. Our onward train south was crowded with French soldiers on their way to Algeria because of the conflict, and two shared our compartment. One of them, Serge, was a hairdresser and he produced from his bag the tools of his trade.
Speeding through the night, pitting our attempts at French against their English, our holiday mood was tempered by the dawning realisation of the dangers that might lie ahead of them. At Port Bou station, awaiting the Spanish train, at least one of our group was sporting a smart new haircut. Christine Hesslegrave, Pembrokeshire
SCHOOL OF LIFE
As I stepped off the Newhaven-Dieppe ferry in 1968, one of four 18-year-olds from Brecon heading for Gare St Lazare in Paris, my excitement knew no bounds. Two weeks of studying French lay ahead. The metro amazed me with its continuous Dubonnet adverts along the tunnel walls.
My first taste of Paris was a glass of Dubonnet and a baguette jambon cuit, while breakfast comprised big cups of milky coffee with dipped croissants. At Easter Sunday lunch, I was introduced to champagne – the one real treat.
There were so many wonders: the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Place du Tetre full of artists. Squeezed in was an attempt to learn French. Magnifique. Wiljo Salen, Cardiff
PARIS MATCH
It was July 30 1966 and England had won the World Cup. I was 13 years old and on my first trip to France. Did I want to be there? No! I wanted to be in England celebrating, not at a campsite in Piriac, Brittany.
Yet that was the beginning of my love affair with France, triggered by so many memories: the tastiest peaches ever, bought from a local market; delicious crepes; locally caught fresh fish cooked in the caravan; and daily fresh bread and cheese, eaten outside on the beach.
I was charmed by the quaint fishing villages, the old stone buildings in towns, and the beauty of the landscape. We stopped in Paris – what a city! – and at the Bois de Bologne on the way home. For a teenager who had never been out of England, this was another world. Janet Weeks, Shropshire
STRANGE CAR-GO
We stood on the quayside as our black Hillman Minx emerged from the dark depths of the ship’s hold in a large rope net, swinging at the end of an ancient crane before landing safely on the dock. Workers tried driving it, then pushing it, but the car stood firmly rooted, rocking back and forth wildly. My father was shouting, ineffectively: “Take it out of gear.” Finally, common sense prevailed and we claimed possession again.
So began my first holiday to Brittany in 1949 – driving on the “wrong” side of the road; strange, musky smells of tobacco and coffee; not understanding alien words being spoken around me; attempting my best French: “Deux glaces ananas, s’il vous plait”; drinking ruby-red Grenadine, which I thought was alcoholic; and the globe artichokes served almost daily – yuk! Such memories are crystal-clear today, 73 years on. Valerie Sheldon, Dorset
LEARNING CURVE
In 1969, when I was nine, we took our first camping holiday “on the continent”. We broke our journey to the Côte d’Azur at a Logis hotel, where my father inspected the family room offered. The secure garage, in which to park our fully-laden car, was a bonus. We trooped inside to find a lion cub in a cage – the circus was in town.
Our room overlooked a pretty stream and, after pulling the bath plug, the water emptied directly into it. The large trout didn’t seem to mind.
Dinner was a steep learning curve as we had to watch other diners to see how to eat an artichoke – and the “boeuf ” bourguignon was certainly not beef (they were the only items on the menu).
Next morning, our departure was delayed by the local market blocking our exit from that very secure garage. Vivid memories still; vive la différence! Susan Cowburn, Monmouthshire