Footloose Scot Read Free

never knowing what would happen. I passed into Austria which I found more charming than Germany, and then headed for the Loibl Pass into Yugoslavia.
    After a long wait on a road with little traffic, a van pulling a trailer on which a motor bike was tied down stopped. The van was old with rusty body work, but the motor bike looked efficient. An older man was driving, and a teenager sat next to him. They were going to a motor bike race in the mountains at the border, and I was required as ballast to help the van gain traction. This was fine with me; anything was fine if it helped me to get into Yugoslavia. I sat on the floor in the back of the van, which proceeded up the steep and windy road. I recall to this day the youngster shouting "Hupen, Herr Rauer!" ("Blow the horn, Mr. Rauer!") over the noise of the screaming engine as we roared around tight corners, and finally made it to the summit at 4,485 feet.
    This sort of travel was more vagabonding than tourism. Keeping to the budget was vital because it meant more days on the road. I didn't pause much, unless the weather was good or the town large enough. Large cities kept me for two or three days, visiting museums and people watching. What really drove me was the desire to cover the miles, to be on the move. I was restless to get as far south as possible, to warm weather. Getting a good long ride lifted the spirits. When there was no youth hostel, I slept rough, often climbing over a railing after dark into a public park and unrolling my sleeping bag under a tree, first having checked that there were no police or barking dogs around. If it was wet, I looked for a station waiting room.
    Even fifty years later, certain memories come back. In Yugoslavia a car dropped me off in Ljubljana, a town with no hostel. I walked into the countryside, and asked a farmer by miming if I could sleep in his barn. His farm looked run down, and the local economy depressed. But, as often was to happen, the least likely chance turned good. He nodded, took me to the barn and showed me a pile of loose hay I could sleep under. The next morning he showed up with some coarse bread which served as breakfast.
    Getting on the road again and heading towards the Adriatic Coast I saw a VW with German plates approaching, so I waved extra energetically. The car, driven by a single man, passed me then stopped. This should be a good one, I thought, probably a salesman heading down the coast. I opened the passenger door and asked "Rijeka?' the next town. He didn't reply, but said "English?" I nodded enthusiastically and prepared to climb in. Instead, he leaned across, slammed the door shut and roared off.
    Surprisingly, a car with Austrian plates driven by a man with his wife stopped not long after. I say surprisingly since tourist couples seldom pick up hikers, and who can blame them. You never know who is getting in, and sitting behind you. But this couple was as charming as the German was abrupt. They apologized, saying they were only going as far as Rijeka, and complimented me on my German. Then, even though it was nowhere near lunch time, they opened up a picnic basket and offered me a ham-filled roll: "Mehr fleisch als semmel," he commented jovially ("More meat than roll" -a phrase I still remember).
    In Italy, the difficulty of getting rides was more than compensated for by the variety of the everyday life: the colors, sounds and smells. The economy was in bad shape and the people were poor, but there was more life in the city streets than in Germany, for example. More of my time was spent people watching than in going to museums or art galleries, unless they were free. As I went further south the weather got steadily warmer, and the variety and beauty of the old buildings took me by surprise. It was easy to hang out for two or three days in a small town, amble around and watch street life. At night I would ask other hostellers about cheap local restaurants, or we would discuss where we had been.
    Italy