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Like Cyndi Lauper, I just wanted to have fun, and skipping through borders collecting inky rubber stamps in my navy-school-knickers-coloured Lion and Unicorn passport was my idea of it.Ī friendly farmer took me from Cannes to Ventimiglia, where I crossed over into Italy.
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This was the Eighties, a heady time of femme-power, when suit-wearing, cropped-hair-sporting Annie Lennox was challenging female stereotypes and Britain had – gasp! – its first ever woman prime minister.
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He was older than me – a fan of Rod Stewart and The Osmonds, the poor thing. I was born out of the heady punk years, when you could go out wearing a bin liner and ripped fishnets and no-one (except your brother) pointed out the hole in your tights. My brother – for whom females were petticoat-wearing, mouse-fearing creatures who needed a good man to keep them in their place – was even more astounded. “What for? Haven’t you got anyone to go with?” they asked, as if the notion was utterly bizarre. When I said I planned to travel alone, friends were flabbergasted. It was an innocent time when the notion of a young woman hitching around Europe seemed a bit weird, but not really worrisome. There was plenty to worry about, of course, but parents of my generation were convinced that everyone was nice and trustworthy, and that suited me. “That’s nice dear – don’t forget your tent,” mum said vaguely. “I’m going to hitch-hike around Europe for two months,” I told my parents. I was 16, I’d finished my O-levels and had a broken heart.