There’s something about summer that always takes me back.
For millions of us at a certain age, summer meant one thing – piling the whole family into the car and heading for the countryside or the seaside. Those annual two weeks away weren’t just a holiday; they were an adventure.
By the late 1930’s, cars like the Austin Seven, Morris Eight and Ford Model Y had transformed family life. For the first time, ordinary working families could afford their own car. It offered freedom that previous generations could only dream of, allowing people to swap the motorbike and sidecar for four wheels and discover places they’d never been before.
Of course, travelling by car wasn’t quite as effortless as it is today.
In fact, right through until the end of the 1990s, long journeys were rarely comfortable and were almost never trouble-free. They demanded an early start, plenty of patience and, more often than not, a good sense of humour.
Our own pilgrimage was a 165-mile drive from North Birmingham to Dorset. Over the years we made that journey in a succession of family cars including a Morris Minor, Singer Gazelle, Ford Corsair and several Cortinas. Looking back now, it’s remarkable how we ever managed it.
No seatbelts. No air conditioning. No electric windows. No sat nav. Definitely no in-car entertainment.
Just five people, a dog, vinyl seats, plenty of engine noise and a car packed so full that you wondered how it managed to move at all.
The evening before departure usually followed a familiar routine. Dad would wrestle with the roof rack, trying to squeeze every last suitcase into place while Mum appeared with “just one more bag” that simply had to come. By the time everything was tied down, Dad’s patience had worn rather thin.
Before sunrise, Mum, Dad, three energetic sons and an excited dog would set off. Our traditional breakfast stop was Savernake Forest, just outside Marlborough. Forget motorway services or drive-thru breakfasts, our café was a rather wheeze Camping Gaz stove, which somehow produced lukewarm tea and bacon sandwiches that were usually a little undercooked – but they tasted wonderful all the same.
Not long after setting off again, someone (quite often me) would announce they needed the toilet. We’d usually already stopped because the dog had been sick, making the back seat a rather unpleasant place to spend the next few hours. By mid-afternoon, we’d finally reached Dorset… only to find ourselves sitting in traffic at Blandford Forum behind a broken-down lorry. As the queue grew longer, so did the engine temperature. The car began to overheat, tempers frayed, and everyone silently wondered whether we’d ever arrive. Eventually, after almost ten hours on the road, we’d pull into Corfe Castle.
Someone, despite the lack of airbags, seatbelts and virtually every modern comfort we now take for granted, we’d all made it.
And after surviving that journey…
We were finally ready for our holiday.