AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE EVENTS IN THIS SECTION ALL TOOK PLACE IN 1986
THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW
ALL THE COUNTRIES VISITED (EXCEPT TURKEY) ARE IN THE EU NOW (2024) – NO VISAS ARE REQUIRED
THE BULK OF THE TEXT IS AS I WROTE IT THEN – SLIGHT ADJUSTMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE IN THE AID OF CLARITY NOW.

Sunday, August 3rd, 1986

Distance travelled 1341 kilometres

Probably excited by the prospect of going home, I was awake long before it was light.

I retrieved the BMW from its hiding place and set out across the city into the early light of dawn. I needed to head for the town of Pilsen and to cross the border south of there into West Germany. There was no motorway in that direction – I mean, who would want to leave the socialist paradise that I was in ? Or, perhaps, who would be allowed to ? The countryside was, at least, green and pleasant.

As a consequence, I wended my way down a seemingly unending series of smallish roads. These, of course, led through a series of smallish towns where the ever present yellow and white cars of the VB almost invariably stopped me to have a look at my papers – and, usually, to tick off my belongings. These examinations became ever more thorough and the attitude of the examiners more brusque, as I finally began to approach the border. Well, when I say approach, it might imply a suggestion of proximity, but the final twenty or so kilometres were, even after all that had gone before, simply horrible.

I had come to what, because of its layout, I wrongly assumed was the border crossing. The usual ticking off was, in this instance accompanied by a search of my wallet. I still had a lot of Czech currency, over ten thousand Crowns, because I had been obliged to change a lot of dollars and it had been simply impossible to spend the results. It was indicated to me by gestures that this could not be taken out of the country and I was directed to what I supposed was an exchange office about three hundred metres away. I trudged back, figuring that, if I did not move the BMW, they would not need to search it again.

Of course, there was an exchange office – but they refused, point-blank, to re-exchange (if that is even a word) my Czechoslovak Crowns into anything. The guy just shrugged and pulled the blind down.

On the other side of the parking area was a shop which proclaimed it was “Duty Free” – not that I needed anything taken off the price. I went there more in hope than in expectation. Of course hope can be dashed – and it was. I found that the only items for sale, in quite a large shop, was one bottle of vodka and two boxes of “Oplatky” which is a large round wafer-biscuit with a chocolatey (note, I did not say chocolate) filling. I totally emptied the shop and was relieved of two one-hundred crown notes. I declined my change.

The same problem as I had encountered leaving Romania was solved in almost exactly the same way. In the middle distance two young boys were kicking a rather deflated ball around. I walked over, took out my wad of cash and just gave it to them. When I returned to Czechoslovakia, three years later, my interpreter was earning 2800 Crowns a month – I gave those two boys over 10,000 ….

The only notes that I kept were a Ten Crowns and a Twenty Crowns. I wanted some souvenirs for my banknote “collection” so I folded these up as small as possible and put them into my mouth. I figured that, if things became too fraught, I could always just swallow them.

As it was, whilst my pockets WERE thoroughly searched, these little mementos escaped detection – and I still have them. I was finally allowed under the red and white pole and entered a road through what appeared to be a high-security area. It was largely forest – but there were several, wide, cleared areas stretching into the distance. These contained pairs of high fences on either side of wide of smooth, raked, strips of earth. A road for military vehicles ran outside of each line of fence. I wondered if the raked areas were minefields, or merely soft earth to give away footprints. In one place I spotted a pair of patrolling guards, with a ferocious pair of huge Alsatian dogs, thankfully on leads.

I came to yet another pole. Three guards came out of the little hut. Two approached and we went through the checking papers, checking the panniers routine while the third un-slung his AK-47 machine gun and watched me like a hawk. At least the barrel was pointed earthwards.

Off again, under the pole and through yet more forest punctuated by fences and raked earth. Then, at long last, the actual border. One final check of my papers, one final ticking off of my luggage list (the 64th) and I “escaped” into West Germany. At least it felt like escape. I almost kissed the ground.

The German border personnel gave me a few odd looks, but it was quite obvious, when they saw my UK Passport, that they considered I had been pretty well checked, so their own scrutiny was all but non-existent. They even missed me removing the slightly soggy banknotes from my cheeks ! Now we know how the spies did it !

The road was still just that, a road – not the hoped for motorway, but Frankfurt was on the signposts so I set off with a will. Despite the delays it was still just before noon. It occurred to me that, if I applied myself, I might be able to get home in one hit so I did not exactly hang around.

Quite soon, I did come to some proper autobahn and that more or less sealed the deal. The BMW, despite its shot suspension, was pretty smooth on a properly surfaced road and I cruised easily at the 130-150 kph level which seemed to be what one did in the inside lane. After so much time in the east, this felt VERY fast but, as it was Germany, cars were constantly passing me on my left at what appeared to be about twice my speed.

It felt equally strange to make progress. Frankfurt airport is, within about a kilometre, exactly halfway between Prague and the English Channel. I did not know that then, but Frankfurt came and went along with Köln (Cologne), Aachen and Brussels and I was crossing Northern France towards Calais when it finally became full dark. There was a brief look at my Passport to enter Belgium, but the guys on the Belgium/France border just waved me through.

The wait for a ferry in Calais was pleasingly short and the Passport and customs checks to enter England seemed almost derisory. How little we value our freedom when we are allowed to take it for granted.

Although it was the middle of the night, I felt I had to stop at the Farthing Corner service area on the M2 for a full English breakfast. After all the strange stuff I had both eaten (and declined to eat) in the previous fortnight, it felt good to just glory in some cholesterol !

The final stretch seemed to disappear in an instant. The sun was trying to rise to my right as I dropped into the Dartford Tunnel and, by the time I emerged into Essex a few minutes later, the first rays were in my remaining mirror as I made the curve North-west towards home.

South of Hatfield, I turned North to the southern fringes of that good town and then made the short run to St Albans and to home.

I have to admit that, as I pulled my trusty and slightly battered steed onto its centre-stand outside of my front door, I did feel that I had been on quite an adventure !