The 81st Entry
RAF Halton Aircraft Apprentices
Sept 1955 - July 1958

ISSUE No.14 - FEBRUARY 2008
81st ENTRY NEWSLETTER
Editor: Mike Stanley

The Spanish Trip by Mike Stanley

Did you go on The Spanish Trip? My memory is a little faint as to everything that happened but certain moments I can recall. I have written down those things that I have remembered, I may have embellished some things, and have completely forgotten others, so I hope any one else who was on that trip will help put the record straight. Most on the trip were 81st but it wasn't exclusively an entry jolly. A 'school educational visit' was the official designation, I'm sure we did learn several useful things! . It was in our last year (1958) at Halton and it took place over the Easter leave. With the departure of the 80th we were now Senior Entry.

I don't remember the names of the two brave Education Officers who organized and accompanied us on the trip, one was a Sqdn Ldr, he may have taken us for English or General Studies.

The logistics of the journey out to France I have long forgotten; we travelled in civvies but had we gone home before making our way to Spain or did we have our civvies sent to us at Halton? I assume we went by train to Dover, then ferry to Calais and train again to Paris

From the Gare du Nord we went by coach to a restaurant in central Paris, I felt very sophisticated eating in a French restaurant, with sounds and smells so different from an RAF cookhouse. From the restaurant we went by coach to another station (Gare du Sud?) to catch an overnight train to Perpingnon. It must have been the SNCF equivalent of BR's Aylesbury Milk Train for it seemed to stop at every station on the way. The seats were hard wooden affairs and I don't think any of us slept much. Arrival at Perpingnon gave us the chance to use the bogs at a café; some of our lot swore blind that females were in some of the cubicles in the gents (of course our French may have been at fault). We also had the delight of seeing the sunrise lighting up The Pyrenees, the tops white with snow, dazzling against the clear blue sky.

We boarded a waiting coach to take us over the mountains to Spain. We were pleased to see an attractive Spanish girl as our courier, whilst the driver was typical Spanish, who imagined himself to be driving a Hispano Suiza sports car and not a decrepit old coach. He sped around hairpin bends chatting away 19 to the dozen over his shoulder to the courier, who didn't seem at all concerned. We were relieved when he finally drew up at the Spanish frontier. Granite rocks and granite faced Garda Civilia at the roadside; the latter came on to the bus for our passports.

At this time Franco still ruled in Spain and there was the annual row over the status of Gib so they didn't favour us with smiles or a welcome. On the other hand they didn't fill us full of lead from the lethal looking sub machine guns hanging from their shoulders ("Schmeissers" one of the more knowledgeable armourers informed us) Into Spain, and now, as we were travelling down hill, even more heart stopping moments as Fangio (can't think of any Spanish racing driver) diced with death (and our lives!) taking the hairpin bends and switch back road with one hand on the wheel whilst the other waved about in the air as he conversed with the courier.

We pulled up in the square of a small mountain village, outside of a church. "We make the visit," said the courier. Oh no! We didn't want to be to be shown round a church, unless it was to give thanks that we had survived so far. We reluctantly followed the senorita, but she walked past the church and then went down some steps into a large cellar. After the bright sunlight outside it took a time for our eyes to get accustomed to the gloom. When they did we saw the cellar was lined with great wooden wine casks, in each cask a spigot, with adjacent glasses, ready to be filled. We were invited to try the wines, we did so with alacrity! It was a very happy band of brothers who fell off the coach in Tossa del Mar, on The Costa Brava, our holiday destination.

Tossa at this time had not long been 'discovered' and was largely unspoilt. The women of the village did their dhobi in a stream that ran across the beach; the village fishing fleet left this beach most evenings, coming back in the early hours of the morning (just as most of us were making our way back to our billets) with their catch, fresh for the breakfasts of the visitors. The only hotel in the village was a modest two-storied affair and couldn't accommodate all of us. I ended up with three others (sorry lads I've forgot who you were!) at a 'pension' where we were welcomed by a motherly looking Spanish lady and her attractive teenage daughter. They spoke little or no English, which was more than the Spanish we had, so conversations were limited to smiles and nods.

We soon spread out into the village and sorted out some convivial hostelries. We didn't all bunch into one so didn't swamp the local ambience. The group who I was with had two favourite cantinas; one we called "Sputnik's" on account of the owner/barman's party piece, which was to construct a ' sputnik' from silver paper, with heads of red matches inside. The contraption was then fired up to the ceiling with a satisfying explosion, the sputnik stayed in place on the ceiling for some time. The other bar was "Collie's" named for the barman, who was only a few years older than us. He spoke practically every European language and could tell the nationality of any one who stepped into his bar before a word was uttered. Several of the lads bought sheepskin coats from him, paid him up front and he sent the coats on to them after they had returned to Halton. On the night before we left I was saying how sorry I was to leave such a great place and he said, "Why not stay? You could sell your passport and have some ready money, and I could give you a job in the bar" I was tempted but I was not cut out to be a deserter!

With our 'school party' were a couple of pipers, who of course had brought along their pipes. They had given some impromptu performances down on a beach near to an old medieval tower (nearest thing to Edinburgh castle for miles!) Another bar that we sometimes used was down near the beach and this edifice. We were relaxing one evening in that bar when the door was violently flung open and a wild eyed, wild haired, Spanish man appeared in the doorway."McKenzie! McKenzie! " He cried. We were somewhat startled .Had the eponymous McKenzie trifled with the affections, or other parts, of this wild man's daughter? Was a shotgun, or knife, about to be brandished and utilized?

Thankfully no. McKenzie was this Spanish cove's name! It transpired that he had heard of the pipes being played down in Tossa and knew that his ancestry included said pipes and so had been drawn to the sound, as any Scot (or part Scot) would. He was a wine grower from up in the hills behind Tossa; unfortunately he hadn't brought any of his produce with him.

Other memories are:

Going into Barcelona, where we thought we were to see a bull fight. Instead we were shown around the famous cathedral, at that time still under construction. What Philistines we were in those days, we got out of there as quick as we could!

Drinking coffee in a pavement café on The Ramblas, smoking those long thin black cheroots and eyeing up the passing parade of gorgeous senoritas, sophisticated or what? Sure beats Skeggy or Barry Island for a holiday! One of our party managed to get a date with one of the local village girls. He turned up at the local cinema (the films all in Spanish of course) to be met by his 'date' and half of her female relatives, acting as duennas or chaperons!

I've never been back to Tossa del Mar, the memories of those golden days of long ago are too precious to have modern day reality intrude and ruin them.



The accompanying photo was taken, I think, in Sputniks bar. Collie's was a much more modest establishment and certainly didn't have a waiter. The lounge lizard in the lounge suit in the centre of the group is Mike Stanley; he had an entry badge but not a blazer at the time! The fellow on the far left of the photo is Spanner Spencer, in a typically relaxed pose. The chap between him and me may not be a member of the 81st, my apologies if I have got that wrong. The two gentlemen on the right of the photo are obvious members Look at their proudly displayed badge and smart turnout.





















Well done boys, a credit to yourselves and The 81st Entry!