Long before a lack of imagination became a job requirement for television programmers, no holiday screening schedules would be complete without either Charlton Heston racing his chariot in a duel to the death or Julie Andrews belting out the title song from The Sound of Music.
Although last Saturday’s version of Ben Hur was the most recent one, it just didn’t feel right watching it when there was nothing in particular to celebrate.
The dying embers of last week were a time for cinematic analogies which began on the Friday as your truly came over all nostalgic and warmly patriotic when the White Cliffs of Dover loomed into view from the bow of the cross channel ferry from Calais, carrying among its multi-cultural passengers a group of foot-sore travellers coming home from the Western Front.
These towering symbols of the British fighting spirit seemed even more poignant after walking the battlefields of the Ypres Salient – averaging eight miles a day in sun and rain – and being overwhelmed by the sight of column upon column of names engraved on memorials or clinically-white Portland stone headstones in tidy rows set in carefully tended war cemeteries.
It was a long, yet pleasant 12-hour journey beginning at 9 am Belgian time, and taking in a couple of cemeteries en route, to the meeting point at Calais where a dozen coaches back from various locations from Italy to Poland converged. With almost military precision, the smartly liveried coach drivers and guides flittered hither and thither swapping hundreds of items of luggage before passengers transferred to the appropriate coach to get them home to towns and cities the length and breadth of the British Isles.
The Union Jacks up early for the Jubilee and Olympics in Dover added much-needed colour to this sadly neglected yet historically important gateway to the UK.
As the taxi cruised along the Folkstone Road towards the M20 my mind focused on that oh-so British multi-Academy winning wartime movie, Mrs Miniver. For a film so remarkably ‘stiff-upper lip’ it was, in fact, an American production. Like so many success stories of the Second World War, it just wouldn’t have been possible without the Yanks.
The journey, on a warm and sun-drenched late afternoon, confirmed that when it comes to spring there is no better place to be than England. The grey countryside of five days previous had been transformed into a palette of lush pale greens, splattered with burnished pink copper beach, fields of golden yellow oil seed rape and hawthorn heavy hedgerows.
If only travel could always be so civilised as a smooth sea crossing and a leisurely drive through the English countryside. The only blot on the landscape being the looming aeronautical metropolis that is Gatwick.
Having paid an inordinate amount of money in airport taxes, which made the price of the actual flight miniscule in comparison, you would expect a bit of good old-fashioned service from the owners of Gatwick, BAA Limited, and the airlines. Fat chance.
Having not flown through Gatwick for some time, I was amazed to discover it had become self-service. Not only did I and my travelling companion have to check in while a veritable army of airline staff looked on nonchalantly, we also had to check in our own bags. So well explained was the process, that we were immediately retrieving vital bits of sticky back paper deposited in a rubbish bin.
By now we were half-expecting to be given a crash course in flying or would we find a drinks and snacks dispensing machine at the rear of the cabin?
When the call finally came – just five minutes before the gate closed – we were caught in a rush of panicked travellers reminiscent of the start of the London marathon, only to find the gate unmanned till after the stated time!
The best cinematic analogy that came to mind in regards to the flight – when we finally boarded in confusion after garbled instructions – was the scene in Romancing the Stone when Kathleen Turner takes a bus across darkest Colombia, packed to the gunnels with peasants, packages of every conceivable variety and assorted animals including chickens, goats and suckling pigs.
In the case of the 19.40 from Gatwick it was hand luggage obviously larger and in more multiples than should have been permitted – even by an airline that boasts of its generous hand luggage allowance: assorted laptops, duty free champagne and one huge white bag in particular that overwhelmed the owner who was struggling with other bags!
The many items that could not be crammed into the overhead lockers the entire length of the cabin were stuffed under seats – fortunately they did not include any suckling pigs!
How that plane got in the air troubled me all the way home. When asked by an anxious yours truly how on earth the airline permitted so much baggage in the cabin – and clearly over the given limits – the response was that as ground staff were not enforcing those limits, cabin crews had to deal with the problem, which was becoming a real worry.
‘Holy flight plan, Batman,’ as Robin the Boy Wonder would say! Or as another disgruntled passenger remarked: ‘I can’t wait to get my licence.
If ever there was an example of a society that cannot say ‘no’ this flight was it.
