Tales of an octogenarian hitchhiker

Hitchhiking has always seemed to me a good way to get about. It is cheap, some drivers even treat you to coffee or a meal, and it is always companionable. What’s more, the knights of the road who stop for you are often people you would otherwise never meet. My first experience was when I hitched from London to Athens and back in 1951. South of Florence, en route to Rome, I discovered that not all drivers were knights. I was wearing, I am pretty certain, grey flannel trousers, a tweed jacket and a tie (this was the 1950s). After a short time of putting up my thumb, a Fiat Cinquecento swerved over to where I was standing. The window on the passenger’s side was wound down and a woman’s voice said: ‘I can see you are English and I need someone to protect me. There are banditti on the road through the mountains.’