On a hot July evening during the heatwave summer of 1976, our parents waved us goodbye and our coach turned out of the school car park – our Swiss adventure had begun.
I was fourteen; a wee slip of a lassie who’d never been on holiday without my parents and who’d never been abroad before, and here I was with a busload of teenagers and five brave teachers, travelling to Interlaken on a school trip.
The journey overnight to Dover was humid and sticky. Imagine the sweaty stink of forty hyper kids in a poorly ventilated bus (no wonder one of our teachers became obsessed with instructing us to wash our feet and armpits). I don’t think many of us got much sleep. Our ferry to Ostend left early morning and I still remember the excitement of watching the White Cliffs recede as we crossed the Channel.
Arriving at Ostend, the sights and sounds seemed very Continental to me. Even the air smelt different. But then I’d never been further south than Blackpool before. Our overnight accommodation was a ramshackle and shabby hostel masquerading as a hotel. The landlady was a dragon. Rumour spread that she’d served horsemeat at dinner, (it was Spam… I think). I closed my bedroom door rather too firmly and the door frame fell off. Jings, what would the dragon make of that? A hasty repair was made by my maths teacher, using a Scholl sandal as a hammer.
Next morning after a whistle-stop tour of Brussels, we crossed into West Germany, zipping along autobahns in the company of John Denver. Our bus driver, Bob, only had two cartridges to play in the coach’s eight-track system – John Denver and Billy Connolly. The teachers deemed the Big Yin too rude and inappropriate for our young ears, so we listened to John Denver on a loop. Grandma’s Feather Bed was a favourite. Soon the girls were lyric perfect. The boys were unimpressed – they wanted Billy’s Welly Boot Song.
Our second overnighter was at St. Goar, a picturesque village nestling on the banks of the River Rhine, surrounded by vine-clad slopes and a quaint fairy-tale castle. At our hotel there I was introduced to the "duvet". Honestly, I’d never seen one before. Then panic broke out at bedtime; one obedient lassie, while washing her feet, pulled a shoogly wash-hand basin off the wall. Cue broken porcelain, screams, blood, a plumber, a doctor, bandages and probably a couple of brandies for the beleaguered teachers.
Day three, we left for Switzerland. John Denver crooned about being ‘On The Road’ as we passed through stunning Alpine scenery, to reach Interlaken – a busy cosmopolitan town packed with cafés, pâtisseries and beautiful gift shops. Our hotel, however, was not so beautiful – yet another basic and rundown hostel.
But we were young. Spartan conditions didn’t faze us. We soaked up every new experience. We swam in a chilly Alpine lake, visited villages straight off jigsaw-boxes, sailed on the crystal waters of Lake Brienz and, in the evenings, wandered, unchaperoned, around Interlaken’s vibrant centre. Nowadays, with all the rules, regulations and risk assessments which teachers must adhere to, it’s hard to believe, we were given so much freedom. But we were. No name tags, no school uniform to identify us, no headcounts every ten minutes – just left to our own devices with a curfew time when we were expected back at our hostel. And as far as I can recall, we were all responsible teenagers, returning on time and no search parties were ever required.
The highlight of the trip was taking cable cars up to the peak of the Schilthorn mountain – all 2,970 metres of it. All these years later, I can still remember standing petrified on that swaying cable car, scared to look out the window; I’m a big feartie wi heights. Stepping out on to the viewing platform at the mountain’s famous, revolving restaurant (featured in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service), the cold, pure air took my breath away. Visibility could have been better that day, mist shrouded the mountain top, but now and then, I caught a glimpse of snow on the surrounding peaks and felt the thrill of being cocooned in the clouds.
After five fun-filled days we retraced our route back to Ostend, revisiting St. Goar then squeezing in our last night’s stay in the gorgeous medieval city of Bruges. My pals and I wandered quirky narrow streets alongside the canals late into the night; well, at least until our ten o’clock curfew. Then we returned to our very gothic, backstreet hotel which was so creepy and smelly my roommates and I were too afraid to go to sleep. Instead we whispered and giggled, guzzling Belgian chocolate into the wee sma’ hours. Next morning we were bobbing once more across the Channel – a wee group of squeamish zombies, dreading the long bus journey home.
Of course, our parents were all waiting for the bus at the school car park. Delighted to see us back from our adventures, they were over the moon with their gifts. I’d bought my mum a Swiss chalet tea-towel (women’s lib had obviously escaped me back then) and a small Alpine horn for my dad (very handy in Ayrshire).
The following weekend I treated myself to John Denver’s LP Back Home Again from a local record shop. Today, I still have it in my vinyl collection. And, whenever I hear Annie’s Song, I’m transported back to that coach, recalling the jaw-dropping majesty of the Alps and remembering the fun and freedom of my Swiss adventure.