Seaside coach trip that left us fuming LETTERS

SITTING in a coach recently, I marvelled at it propelling me speedily, quietly and safely to my destination. My Fifties childhood memories flashed before me — of a family coach trip to the coast. Our designated transport for the day turned out to be a clapped-out heap. The diesel engine made an almighty, deafening clatter — so much so that any thoughts of conversation were quickly dispelled if you were sitting in the front seats. The poor driver, who was expected to control this monster, wrestled with the gigantic steering wheel and struggled with the gear lever, yanking it this way and that as he tried to find a gear. With every failed attempt, a loud grating noise set our teeth on edge. Eventually, he struck lucky and we got under way. After a few minutes, undesirable fumes from the dodgy exhaust started to creep in, wafting up through numerous holes in the floor. Seventy miles and four hours later we arrived. Ingesting a toxic cocktail of noise, diesel, oil and cigarette fumes had left us drugged up to the eyeballs. Still in a stupor, with our minds and bottoms numb, we staggered outside to gale-force winds and torrential rain. None of us had suitable protective clothing, as it had been fine and sunny when we left. So the whole coachful of people got back on board and sat there patiently for the next few hours, only daring to venture outside to answer a call of nature. The storm did not abate all day, so instead of enjoying our sandwiches and flasks of tea on the beach, we settled for a picnic in the fume-filled, moth-eaten coach. On the return journey, I sought out a seat towards the rear. There, at least, my young lungs only had to cope with the heavy fog of Woodbines, players and Senior Service cigarettes. Happy days!

David H. Cox, Kidlington, Oxon.