I had a holiday in Turkish Cyprus last month. Driving back from the airport, I was startled to see a couple of young lasses, dressed up for a Saturday night, hitching at the side of the road. They weren’t the only hitchers I saw during the week. It’s years since I’ve seen anyone hitching in the UK; the last time I picked someone up was some time in the late 10s in Wiltshire, when I was driving between festivals,.
I thumbed my first lift when I was 12 years old. It seems staggering looking back. My mother was as protective as any other, yet she never expressed any worry about this. That was the 70s. It’s true, I was already 6 foot, like my brothers before me, all of whom hitched regularly up and down the country. I would sometimes get lifts from drivers who knew them. All through my teens and twenties, I could get all over the place and it made freedom affordable. Back then, money was shorter than time, so it was worth giving up the extra time for the free ride. I enjoyed the journey too. Mr Extrovert enjoyed the various conversations and loved the HGV cab rides.
When I started backpacking round Europe and the world, I just assumed that the generosity of strangers would still hold, but there were variations. Rural France was fair, but I was told that hitching had never gained acceptance in Italy, and I recall the gestures received by my father when he tried it in the Appenines. When I lived in Australia, I was told that the indication to drivers varied between states; in some, you stood at the side of the road pointing 45 degrees to the road. New Zealand was wonderful. You could reckon on being picked up by the first or second car, though on a rural road there could be an interval of 30 minutes between those two. Oh, the sociability of it and what an introduction to a country! Kiwis were the most generous of the lot, inviting me to join them at family get togethers, and all sorts.
I was far from alone. Where would our popular culture be without hitchhikers? Well, where would Douglas Adams have been, for starters? Neil wouldn’t have been Bound for Glory. Roger couldn’t have debated the Pros and Cons. Lou couldn’t have had Holly walking on the wild side. The soundtrack to my Australasian travels was Hejira and that line from Coyote ‘You just picked up a hitcher / A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway’ is etched on my mortal soul. But these references must seem historic to anyone under 50. When I got back from my world travels in 1990, something had changed. Those standing with their thumbs out at service stations were now typically what had become known as ‘travellers’; there were plenty of dogs on a string. At that stage of my life, it was time for me to return the complement of giving others a lift, but I found fewer people to pick up as the decade wore on. I heard that larger hauliers were telling their drivers not to pick anyone up; there were scare stories in the tabloids; soon, it was all over. An era had ended.
But not in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, apparently. So, I’m interested, particularly from those Afterworders living in those countries that I’ve mentioned. Is hitch-hiking still a thing where you are?
And, of course, I’m bound to ask for your best hitch-hiking tales.
Possibly your father received gestures as the thumb out sign looks like the ‘fig’ a somewhat rude gesture resembling the male genitals.
The last time I saw it used in anger was by a young chap in Turkish Cyprus at a coach load of tourists.
I hitched a lot when I lived in Israel, the thumb is a rude gesture so they just put their index finger out
Around here in rural France still lots of hitch-hikers. I’d say 97.23% of them are teenagers, too young to drive and missed the school bus (again)
I once hitched from outside my mums house in Surrey to the Atlas Mountains in Morocco … took a week
Impressive!
Another who hitched in my early teen years without any voice of concern from my mum.
I recall hitching with my first fiancé in Corfu. It was ridiculously hot and we had hiked up a mountain through Olive Groves. We were lost and cafes with a revitalising drink were nowhere to be seen. We hitched a ride in a pick up truck and shared the back seat with a goat. The driver spoke no English we spoke no Greek. We realised we were going in wrong direction when we got to bottom of the mountain and gestured for him to let us out of truck. We trudged back to the hotel along a road that was longer than the mountain we had just climbed.
It was a happy memory but sure I wouldn’t want to relive it today.
I can also attest to the siren call of the adventures that may follow the waving of the thumb at the side of the road. I must have covered thousands of miles that way between teenage years and twenty five or thereabouts, when motorcycles became a thing for me. Having said that, in the days before crash-helmets I once hitched a pillion ride, at night, down narrow lanes to a wild party in a farm somewhere outside Exeter. I cannot for the life of me remember how I got back from that jaunt. There was a hairy band playing loud rock music on the back of a flatbed truck parked in the yard, and an outhouse stacked with barrels of cider, but all else is a blur.
When I went off to University it was my regular means of returning home (bin-bag of dirty laundry under one arm), and of getting to that London for occasional visits to gigs and some illicit overnights in a nurse’s home (in Hammersmith if I recall correctly).
I once hitched the length of Devon with a female friend – darling Zoe – and her delightful but geriatric beagle that she brought along for the trip, afraid that we’d never get picked up because of the hound, but we managed fine and had a great day out.
I also recall that I hitched with the lovely Carole, for whom I hankered badly, all the way from darkest Devon to well north of Manchester to visit her younger brother. We caught one HGV driven by a charming old chap who kept a length of 2×1 in the footwell. Once we were up in the cab, its purpose became obvious, which caused a little concern – it was his means of establishing cruise control.
Got stopped by the law a few times, but usually without concern, they were just nosey or bored most of the time. One time they said it was because I had an Army bag and they thought I might be AWOL. How they worked that out I don’t know – I had hair like Jimi Hendrix and the bag was indeed an Army kitbag, but it was my dad’s old one from his National Service days, complete with a kitemark and ‘1943’ stamped on the leather.
Happy days from when the world was much less complicated and it was far easier for people to be nice to each other.
Was that a home containing one nurse, or a home containing multitudes?
Multitudes, but only one of whom I visited.
For the record, my best lift was Wetherby to Durham in three quarters of an hour. My generous host in the sports car was a diehard southerner and hadn’t realised just how much of the country existed outside the Home Counties. He had a wedding to get to in Jesmond, Newcastle, but he still took the time to pick me up. As karma would have it, my mother used to live in West Jesmond, so I was able to give him precise directions. I suspect he made it in time.
I hitchhiked once only. January 1982, our town was cut off by a huge snow storm for several days. I needed to get back to university in Liverpool after the Christmas break. So my brother and I set out with my bags and we walked about 2 miles to the Heads of the Valley Rd where I planned to hitch to get to Abergavenny station. It had been ploughed and there was room for a single vehicle to get through between head high snow. My brother turned around to trudge home and I nervously held out my thumb, a car came and stopped within about a minute and I was successfully delivered to the station.
We used to hitch to/from Liverpool Uni quite a lot in the 80s – over the M62 back to Leeds from Broad Green, and even once all the way to Paris (and back) for a Rag Week stunt. I used to hitch up to the Lakes after I’d signed on at the Mt Pleasant dole office and got my Giro that would last me for two weeks to go hiking/camping.
Friend of mine (sadly no longer with us) hitchhiked from Nottingham University to Amsterdam while attached to a fellow student as a 3 legged creature
When I first moved to North Queensland in the early 90s hitchhikers were still pretty common on the highway, and I picked a fair few of them up on my jaunts. They were all European backpackers on their way to and from Cairns/Airlie Beach. I was driving between Brisbane and Townsville a lot (~1,400kms) so a few did very well out of me. Then the whole Ivan Milan/Backpacker Murders saga unfolded and I genuinely haven’t seen a hitchhiker in Australia in 30 years.
Bob Dylan IOW – nae problem. Ticket arrives and just a wee matter of getting there from Aberdeen with no money whatsoever. Eighteen hours later the hitching is not going very well – just south of Dundee. Then a lorry stops. “Cardiff any good?” Not really sure where Cardiff is in relation to IOW but can’t be that far surely?
Twelve hours pass and I’m standing in the rain somewhere in a land called Wales. Eventually a bunch of hippies driving an old ambulance takes pity. No, they are not going to IOW but some place called Nuneaton where apparently “It’s all happening”.
I wake up with hazy memories of giant spliffs and a girl called Melody and wonder why I am all alone in a bus shelter. It’s still raining.
Later that same day after 14 hitches, the longest of which was 10 miles, I’m in Market Drayton which I’m pretty sure is just a short hop to the Festival. It’s Friday now but there’s no way I’m not getting there before Bob gets on stage sometime Sunday.
A lorry stops. I don’t understand a word the driver says but it’s raining, I’m cold and I’m very, very grateful. I fall asleep to the sound of windscreen wipers and motorway hum. I awake as we pull into a yard where a dozen or so other lorries are parked.
The answer to my “Where am I? ” is “Newcastle”.
I’m offered a cup of tea in the office which I accept. A big ginger haired bloke says “You sound as though you’re frae Aberdeen, fancy a lift?”
I’ve still got the IOW ticket.
Take a map next time
Didn’t have maps back then
I also recall back in t’70s – on very rainy/cold mornings, kindly car drivers would pull up to a crowded bus stop and ask if anyone wanted a lift…? This was full-blown commuter-belt South London by the way.
I used to hitch around quite a bit in the late ’60s – early ’70s to festivals etc.
Isle of Wight ’69 and ’70, Weeley Festival, Lincoln Festival (that one was not a good experience. Both the hitching and the festival itself).
After I moved over to West Wales to live for a period of years I fairly frequently hitched around. Both locally in Wales and also backwards and forwards to London. Never had any serious problems.
There were a few places I used to dread being dropped off at, en route. I recall Ross-On-Wye and Abergavenny were places you could be stuck in for ages.
You’ve found yourself a prime spot, good view of approaching cars and plenty room for them to stop. Thirty seconds later “Hop in”. Five minutes later “That’s as far as I’m going.” You’re now in the middle of nowhere.
Four hours later …
Another place for the dread of being dropped off was Gordano Services. I once spent 12 hours there.
I once got a lift from a tractor in Jersey and on the way to Wembley to see The Band, Joni and CSNY I got a lift in an ice-cream van.
It seems everyone here of a certain age hitched to the IoW in 1969 – myself and John Barker did the same from that there London on the Friday, arriving just in time to catch the Nice and Family if memory serves.
I always hitched everywhere from the late 60s into the early 70s. I was at college in Cheltenham, so a tube through London on the Central Line to Hangar Lane, onto the A40 where there was a layby, out with the thumb – no probs.
I remember going all the way down to St. Ives to see the lovely Nancy one summer – I also remember it being further than I had reckoned.
A couple of memories stick out – one lorry driver only stopping because he thought I was a girl, and another bloke in a roller who was terribly nice and offered me the use of his phone…a phone in a car, who knew??
I used to reckon I would average 30mph when hitching – probably quicker than using my car today…?
My mother, of barefoot tinker stock on the Isle of Lewis, thought hitchhiking common, like tattoos and swearing. As such I only ever tried it twice, both after I had left home. The first was after a day trip to Calais, having got to Dover by train. Catching the last ferry back, no thought was given as to how we might get back, the last train long gone. Until we arrived. A lorry driver took pity and he ferried 3 drunk boys back to London. Buoyed by that experience, 4 of us planned a holiday hitching around Cork and Kerry. After 8 hours on the outskirts of Cork, we called it a day, and went everywhere by bus.
Not so exciting, really. I swear a lot and have two tattoos..
I did a lot of hitching in the 90’s, up and down the M6 to Scotland from the Midlands. Only got stranded once, having to spend the night trying to sleep in a lay-by on the A7. Lessons learnt I started using the train to get around, which was more comfortable but more expensive. I did once hitch a lift with a band after missing the last train home, having to lug a few amps and what not to earn my passage.
I hitched a lot in the 70s and into the early 80s.
I would be standing at a motorway slip road singing Roy Harper’s Highway Blues to myself.
I used to get annoyed in those days with squaddies getting preference, when I’d have been there half an hour and one would turn up and get a lift in minutes.
Though there was one bastard who barged me to the ground when a car had stopped for me – saying “That’s my lift”.
After that experience I thought I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d be driving. I would see a squaddie and as soon as I’d stopped and he got near, speed off (I hated those bastards who would do that, though thankfully they were rare).
Unfortunately the IRA threat led to squaddies stopping hitching, so I never had the opportunity to get my (petty minded) revenge.
There was a game I used to play once I had been waiting a while – guessing how many eligible vehicles would pass before I got a lift – a car already full or someone giving the indication that they were not going far didn’t count. The first time I did it, I decided the 63rd vehicle would be the one. I saw a car approaching. It was number 63 and it stopped! I must have run the game dozens of times after that, but I never came close again.
I loved getting lifts in Volvo trucks – they had a degree of luxury that just didn’t exist with British models.
I never once got a lift in a Mercedes, though I did get a few BMWs.
I did once get a lift in a van up the M6 – the driver proudly boasted that he didn’t have a driving licence. I was later told by a lawyer friend that had he been stopped by the police I would have been prosecuted as a licence holder.
My very last hitching lift was in a Rolls Royce – travelling from Reading to London in around 1982.
It seemed a fitting ending to my hitching career.
A mate and I hitched to the S. of France in 1965 with regulation guitars and rucksacks. Spent a week in Paris in a borrowed flat by the Invalides*, sold the New York Herald Tribune and got busted for busking, then on to Nice. We slept on the beach for a bit, having failed to persuade any local lovelies (or indeed blokes) to put us up. We got bored with this after a while – the dead cow that washed up on the beach one morning didn’t help – so decided to blow the rest of our money and apply to the British consul for train tickets home. Hitching all the way back to Southend didn’t appeal. Turned out this was a service he didn’t offer – he accused us of besmirching the flag – but did get in touch with our parents to wire the necessary few ££.
*We woke up one morning to tremendous clanking and revving of engines, and look outside to see the Place des Invalides heaving with German tanks, trucks and soldiers. There was a swastika flying from the flagpole of the Invalides. Turned out they were filming Is Paris Burning. It was pretty weird for us, but imagine how much weirder for locals who’d had real Germans about the place 20 years earlier, not extras.