The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘My friends were there to hold my hand in Shimla as emotions overwhelmed me’
When we asked about the pros and cons of travelling as a group, your stories were poignant as well as funny
I have spent few holidays with friends, perhaps because of one I endured in the 1960s. My then wife and I shared a fortnight with my best man, a hitherto happy combo, on the Costa Brava. The holiday began well with traditional bar jollities on the first evening and sunbathing at the beach on the second day. Thereafter it fell apart: my wife wanted to spend all her days polishing her suntan while my best man developed a previously undisclosed urge to explore local sites.
Both expected me to join them but, personally, I found the hotel bar and The Telegraph crossword perfectly satisfactory. Needless to say, I have seen neither of them for over 50 years.
LOST IN TRANSLATION
In the 1980s, three of us flew to Connecticut to meet up with a friend. We took off on a road trip in her VW Golf convertible, with the roof down, singing along to local radio in the glorious sunshine. Newport, Rhode Island, Niagara Falls, Washington, New Jersey… everywhere we went, people loved our accents. In Pennsylvania, a waitress asked us to keep repeating our order just so she could hear us speak.
When a minor accident dented the bumper (“fender”), we couldn’t open the boot (“you mean trunk”) so asked for a spanner (“that’ll be wrench”) for the Golf (“it’s a Rabbit!”) and realised our accents weren’t the only novelty. We spoke a different language.
Lynda Cox, Southampton
FOUR’S A CROWD
We were two couples, with two sports cars, so it was in a hired Austin Maxi that we set off through Europe to the Algarve. Lost in Madrid, tempers frayed as we drove in circles. Finally we followed the setting sun and reached a hotel, too late for hot water.
On the rough road to Portugal, the engine mountings disintegrated and we stopped in a village for repairs. We had our first taste of horse meat there, but it didn’t appeal to everyone.
At last, after an encounter with armed police, we reached Albufeira. Our friends booked into a smart hotel, while we found a B&B. We saw almost nothing of each other during our stay and our relationship was shot.
James Harris, Hampshire “Gringo, American?” the locals shouted after us – four fairhaired young teachers. “No, Inglese, English.” Smiles all round. “Bobby Charlton!” – our passport to Mexico.
My husband Tim and I, plus friends Ian and Marion, were teaching in the Bahamas when we set off for Mexico in 1971 using Mexico on $5 and $10 a Day as our guide. The budget held in Mexico City and on the Yucatan Peninsula, but failed in Acapulco. Our cheap hotel had a sewer running under one bedroom, and a neon sign flashing through the window of the other.
We learnt about Aztecs, Mayans, life in a city of 20 million people, bullfights, poverty and religion. The four of us laughed, compromised, supported each other – and shared the $3 left at the end. Vivienne Seakins, Warwickshire
A friend who is a former travel agent loves to plan a holiday, so as a group of six ladies of a certain age (over 60) we ventured out on a tour of Brazil. I only knew two of them before but after 10 days we were all friends.
First stop Rio – a chance to tick off a bucket-list item: a run along Copacabana Beach before breakfast, followed by a caipirinha in a bossa nova club. Next stop, after a long bus trip, was Paraty, to experience a different side of Brazil that included swimming in rainforest pools. We finished off with a few days on Ilha Grande to live the laid-back life, topped off with a few more caipirinhas before our flight home.
Despite not all knowing each other before we went, the shared experiences built a bond for life. Covid interrupted our next plans but we are now looking for a new adventure together.
Sylvia Franklin, Staffordshire
BEYOND THE IRON CURTAIN
After leaving school, a group of us purchased Interrail passes and departed for the boat train. The year was 1989. As children of the Cold War, we wanted to travel beyond the “Iron Curtain”. Our destination was Dubrovnik.
A party of young Yugoslavs came up to us after arrival in the city and immediately offered local wine and cheese. They spoke proudly of being Croats, Bosnians and Montenegrins, as well as feeling European. They were eager to know what we thought of their country. The conversation became blurry as the evening progressed, but I think we shared a special moment with our new friends. It was humbling to receive such generous hospitality, including a walking tour the following day. When the shelling of Dubrovnik started in 1991, I was not alone in wondering what happened to our wonderful hosts.