For a teenager in the nineteen-fifties, an opportunity to spend ten days in France on a school trip generated an intensity of excitement inconceivable to this current mobile generation. Fortunately for me, my parents showed no hesitation in funding the visit, basing their seal of approval on my desire and aptitude for foreign languages. This first foray abroad would propel me to Blois in the Loire valley, an adventure without parents, where my anticipation far outweighed any trepidation I could have felt from leaving behind the security of family life.There was something exotic, almost magical about the visit: the different food, the aromas, the ever-present wafts of freshly baked bread, strong coffee and pungent cigarettes. All these alien sensations lodged in my memory. Though enthused by excursions to exotic chateaux, I also derived pleasure from time spent by the river Loire, watching geckos frolicking on hot stones in the warm sunshine whilst blue-green dragon flies zipped back and forth across the water. The opportunity to practice my basic knowledge of the language: ‘Bonjour, je veux acheter un croissant, s'il vous plaît.’ added to the enjoyment of the experience. However, the lasting memory, which lingered all the way back to Dover and beyond, was the smooth, moreish chocolate and nougat flavour of Toblerone. As I looked back from below the white cliffs of Dover, I was in love for the first time; la France had cast its spell.My irrepressible enthusiasm for our Gallic neighbours awakened my parents’ latent post-war adventurous spirit; we returned to France during the summer of that same year. With me tucked up amongst camping equipment in the rear of our new Ford Prefect, we set off accompanied by aunt Ethel, uncle Arthur, cousin Alan and his girlfriend, Beryl, all making the trip in the ‘luxury’ of a Ford Consul. Apart from Beryl, the adults neither spoke nor understood a word of French; she and I became the unofficial tour guides.The Automobile Association provided a detailed route map directing us from Calais towards Lyons, the Rhone valley, Avignon and the eventual destination of the French Riviera with a return journey across the Alps via Gap and Digne to Grenoble and onwards to the Channel port again. The ‘master plan’ did not quite work out that way! There were no motorways nor service areas, no Formula 1 hotels, no McDonalds and no tourist offices; a dearth of signs and poor street lighting made driving a lottery. These drawbacks, compounded by a limit of only £50 per head allowed for travel in a foreign country at that time, contributed towards an eventful and highly challenging journey to the sun-drenched beaches of Nice, Antibes and St Raphael.In the early evening of day one, we reached Beauvais, where tiredness forced us to book into a hotel for the night. After searching in the town centre for a suitable hostelry, eventually we settled on accommodation in a recently renovated private hotel. Situated in a dimly lit side street, its gigantic neon sign drew us like moths to a candle. After extensive attempts to explain our requirements in a mixture of limited French, English and our improvised sign language, the receptionist offered the only two rooms available with an additional room in a nearby annexe. My father and cousin opted for the latter. A shady looking character arrived to chauffeur them in a vehicle that looked like a battered survivor from the recent war.Whilst my fastidious aunt checked her bedding for bedbugs, they returned, expressing concern that the annexe, though purporting to be additional accommodation, was actually a brothel, resulting in an instant withdrawal of the tentative entente cordiale. With suitcases and bags repacked, we vacated the premises to continue our journey into the night. Though determined to enjoy every minute of this farce, I dozed a little until the bright lights and noise of a city that never sleeps flashed past the windows of the car, dispelling any further thoughts of slumber. Not part of the original itinerary, Paris at one o’clock in the morning captured my imagination; the geckos and chateaux faded into a distant memory. To a youngster accustomed to the tranquillity of the mid-Cheshire countryside, the swirl of vehicles pouring from Avenue des Champs-Elysées to encircle the Arc de Triomphe was overwhelming. Despite joining this revolving circus, both vehicles eventually escaped onto the same boulevard after extricating themselves from the mêlée of  l’Etoile. When far enough away from the maelstrom, the drivers pulled over to the side of the road where they consulted an array of maps to plan a route out of the city. In the distance, I spotted the Eiffel tower rising into the night sky above the shimmering lights of the vibrant café bars and boulevards. Though brief, the unscheduled visit to Paris would live in my memory forever.Later in the early hours, tired eyes forced my father to pull over into the gateway of a field some miles south of the capital. Everyone agreed unanimously to snatch some respite in the vehicles for the remainder of the night. The roar of aircraft engines replaced the anticipated dawn chorus as early morning flights in and out of the adjacent Orly airport announced the start of a new day. After sharing a hastily brewed pot of tea, the group decided to drive to an AA recommended camp-site at Briare where, following our arrival, we pitched three tents to compensate for the night’s traumatic adventure by sleeping through the remainder of the morning.Sometime around mid-day, high-pitched screams interrupted our repose; the wailing emanated from the tent of a rather distressed aunt. Lying on her camp-bed, something had disturbed her; on opening her eyes, she had peered into the muzzles of a double-barrel shotgun poking through the tent flap. A moustached, weathered face followed, emitting a flood of incomprehensible words in French. After much animated gesticulations, we gathered that the farmer had called for his rent! We soon learned that recollections of the ongoing enquiries about the Drummond murders were the underlying reasons for my aunt’s hysteria. Fortunately, she was unaware that during the holiday we would be passing quite close to Digne-les-Bains and la Grande Terre farm at Lurs where Sir Jack Drummond and his wife had been shot and their daughter, Elizabeth, clubbed to death while camping close to the river Durance. It would be later that year, in November, when Gaston Dominique would be finally convicted of these atrocities. The patriarch of the farming family was condemned to death by guillotine, but General de Gaulle commuted his sentence to life imprisonment because of his age.We paid our dues and packed away the equipment before setting off on the next stage of a journey that led to the outskirts of Lyon, where we pitched the tents alongside a small sports arena. Equipped with running tracks, a football pitch and shower blocks, the opportunity to refresh our weary bodies was well overdue for everyone in the group. Later during the evening, a lively debate took place around a Primus stove that heated a pan brimming with an indescribable stew-like concoction. Bolstered by fresh chunks of baguette purchased from a nearby boulangerie, it tasted surprisingly good.A decision to drive to Grenoble early the next morning was one outcome of the discussion over supper. It would involve crossing the mountains via Gap and Grasse before descending to the resorts along the Mediterranean coastline, as opposed to following the more direct route along the RN7 through Valence and Avignon. Everyone agreed that choosing this picturesque but more demanding route would allow us time if problems arose when crossing the mountains. The easier drive back through the Rhone valley would be more suitable to a speedier and less demanding return at the end of the holiday. However, the question still bothering my father as we all bedded down for the night concerned the Prefect; would it cope with the tortuous drive across the mountains? Thanks to Ford engineering, both vehicles rose to the challenge, and we eventually reached the final ridge to absorb the exotic outline of the Cote d’Azur shimmering below like a spellbinding mirage in the haze of the late afternoon sunshine. The remainder of the holiday passed without too many hitches. Despite the financial restrictions, there were sufficient funds left over for a detour to take in Switzerland on the way back. We stayed at the Hôtel des Anglais overlooking Lac Léman in Lausanne and enjoyed a stopover at the Hôtel Bristol in Le Touquet before returning to Calais and embarking on the cross-channel ferry to Dover. On reflection, that expedition to the south of France, at that time and under so many restrictive circumstances was one outstanding achievement for the two families. Before the war, the Riviera was the playground of the rich; we were like post-war pioneers of tourism for the masses. My parents must have been either completely mad or superbly visionary to attempt such an epic undertaking.