May 1979, my first journey abroad without the aid of parents, I was 22 years of age and so was Burty.
He had ventured abroad the year before to spend a month or so in an Israeli kibbutz, not that he was from Israel or anything but it was just a trendy thing to do if you were at University in 1978, which he was.
On his way back from Israel he had perchance glanced out of the aircraft window and noticed, 30,000 feet below him the gems in the azure Mediterranean that were collectively known to travel agents as “The Greek Isles” and on his return to the salubrious Queenswood Club for our weekly doms and beer session he had informed me that 1979 was to be the year that we ventured to “The Greek Isles”
So it was that in the May of 79 I found myself sat on a grass verge outside Rhodes airport waiting for a bus to take us to our no-star hotel for the two week sojourn that we had excitedly booked with Thompson Holidays just a few months previous, full board, three meals a day for £240 all-in, and it was hot.
The bus arrived complete with the obligatory Thompsons representative, a young girl with a lisp who immediately asked how many of the entourage were staying at the Sylvia Hotel in the old town, several put their hands up, they were to be our travelling companions for the week, they were all several decades older than us, all retired, the stage was set.
We were the last to be dropped off after the bus had done its tour of the old town and our rep came into the hotel with us to break the news, “I’m sorry” she started, “there has been a misprint in the brochure”
To groans of dismay she continued, “this hotel does not do full board, in fact it only does breakfast and even then its only called breakfast if you like a glass of orange and yesterdays croissant, you will not be receiving full board at this hotel”
To cries of outrage she pressed on, “so in compensation Thompson Holidays will be providing you with these vouchers” and she waved books of some sort of vouchers in the air, “which entitle you to a three course meal and a bottle of wine free of charge at any one of twenty local restaurants, three times a day” the protests vanished as if they had nevererupted, Burty and I looked at each other, did she really just say three bottles of wine per day, each, for free ?
Indeed she did.
We were on a limited budget, I for instance had only brought £50 in drachma’s with me, for a two week holiday, how the hell I thought I was going to live on £3.50 a day spending money I don’t know, I can only guess that I had rather been depending on the hotel serving up three hearty meals a day and lavishly throwing away the £3.50 on beer int he evenings, now this was a stroke of good luck, by all accounts Thompsons Holidays were going to turn me into a lush every day for two weeks, for free, what an excellent idea.
Frankly we didn’t believe her on the first evening so we set off for one of the local restaurants with our book of vouchers and all of our spending money too, we dined lavishly that night on huge steaks and quaffed a bottle of local Lindos white wine apiece and by midnight were quite pissed, so we asked for the bill and when it arrived we waved the voucher book at the waiter fully expecting him to scowl and go fetch the manager. He didn’t, he simply smiled, took the voucher book, tore out two vouchers and handed it back to us, then brought us a complimentary ouzo each.
I was starting to like this holiday.
By the second week we had both gained around half a stone in weight and had yet to see a sober morning and by some miracle we hadn’t even finished the first book of vouchers yet, some of the restaurants that we feasted upon were only taking one voucher from us for the total expense of our nights gluttony, quite frankly it was becoming difficult to eat and drink enough to get rid of the bloody vouchers.
I recall one sublime moment by around Wednesday of the second week when we sat on our beds and counted the total amount of money remaining in our kitty, plus the vouchers.
“How many more breakfasts ?”
“Four”
“How many more dinners?”
“Four”
“How many more evening meals ?”
“Four”
“How many more vouchers ?”
“Thirty eight”
“Christ on a bike, how much more eating do I have to do ?”
“How much spending money have you got left ?”
“All of it”
“Me too”
I was never so wealthy as at that moment, £50 in my pocket and nothing to spend it on, more food and drink than I could reasonably consume in the four remaining days, halcyon days of yore.
