The written thoughts of a traveller.
Touring with Rock ‘n’ Roll bands; exploring Europe and the world; flirting in bars… and some naughtiness.
Oh, and all with a trombone. Enjoy..
A bit more on Neuschwanstein Castle? OK then – I’ll do all the travelling. You just put your feet up. Maxine tells us to have our barcodes ready as we mill about in the courtyard among a hundred other tourists. Ludwig II’s death rather halted construction of this castle -and therefore much of the building’s
Last night was a perfect opportunity to drink heavily and chase women. We’d unloaded at noon – a day early to comply with tachograph rules – which left a free evening and a lie-in today. However, instead of visiting Boob’s table-dance bar (complete with video cabins) near the station, I poured a nice glass of
I hate to dwell on a single episode. But the peeing incident is being blown out of proportion. Entering Catering last night, I received knowing looks; it’s as though I’m the Peckham Pouncer, renowned for waving my willy at policewomen, and exposing myself at every opportunity. And “Carrot”, a fellow event trucker, opens a telephone
A good-natured joust takes place at 1am. Namibian has gone and made tea instead of coffee. ‘You said you wanted tea in the mornings,’ he squeals defensively. Well, technically he has me there, but, as I say, it is 1am, which I think even a devout Muslim would regard as night-time. ‘We’ll have trouble getting
A flash in the mirrors illuminates a raccoon’s intestines on the trailer mudguards. In fairness, I don’t quite know what went under the wheels. But I can’t face removing animal guts, and I’m hoping a lengthy journey will dislodge them – hopefully somewhere in Austria. Aha, the flash turns out to be Namibian electrocuting himself
Yet again we’re up before the milk. An unmentionable hour sees three trucks hovering on a roundabout in Budapest’s suburbs. Namibian, Little Dick and I pore studiously over a map in the inky blackness. The perennial problem with this vast metropolis, you see, is that, as you approach, road signs indicating truck transit routes resemble
Just in case you were worrying, a train did eventually arrive in Milan – with me on it. Sunburned AC/DC truckers, with cheerful dispositions, proved what good weather I had missed fooling about attempting to scale glaciers. Today, too, is sunny, yet is spent driving and dealing with a menopausal harridan of a policewoman. She
At 4.30am Grandpa waggles my foot, interrupting a splendid dream and leading me to the conclusion that I’m being overrun with marauders ransacking the bedroom. Three soothing, magical words swiftly bring me from this reverie: ‘Cup of tea?’ A blizzard, unusual in late March in Central Italy, accompanies us to Spoleto train station. I smugly
Grandpa suggests a jaunt to the southernmost glacier in Europe. ‘It’s no good languishing in bed all morning,’ he says, leaning nonchalantly against my bedroom door jamb. At a shade after 7am – on what is supposed to be a day off – my resplendent grandfather is hovering in the doorway, modelling smokin’ hot underpants
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
