My parents began to despair of me when I was coming of age in northern England during the early 1960s. I’d applied to several universities but my heart wasn’t in it. No academia for me; I hungered to be a journalist. It was something I’d wanted since I was a youngster and had been taken on a tour of a local newspaper. All that hustle and bustle, the smell of hot lead and printer’s ink: I’d found my calling – but my calling didn’t want me,

Leaving school at 18, I applied to my hometown paper and had an interview with the editor. He shook his head.

“Sorry kid,” he said with a shrug, “you should’ve applied when you were 16. Started off as the tea boy. That’s the way it happens.”

And that was it! Too old at 18!

I spent the next few years toiling in various mundane jobs, still hungry to be a newsman. My big break finally materialized as I turned 20. The local edition of Britain’s biggest-selling newspaper, The Daily Mirror, was looking for an advertising salesman. I applied immediately. It wasn’t the job I wanted but at least it would be a foot in the door. To my utter delight, I was hired, despite my lack of experience. (I learned later that I was hired because I reminded the boss of his favourite soccer player!)

The work was simple. Each day I’d phone different businesses and organizations to try and get them to advertise in the newspaper. After six months, my portfolio of clients was quite impressive; it even included Rolls-Royce and some of the largest stately homes in northern England.

My boss was happy but I wasn’t. My longed-for career in journalism seemed as far away as ever. And as bad as that was, my life was about to get even more frustrating, thanks to the appearance of a young chap named Bob.

Bob was a Canadian who materialized in the office one Monday morning, accompanied by my boss.

“Peter, this is Bob,” my boss informed me. “He’s an experienced Canadian ad salesman from Toronto and we’ve hired him to punch up our sales. Show him the ropes.”

Bob and I were the same age but he exuded a brash confidence that was quite intimidating. Worse yet, he commandeered all my best accounts, leaving me scrambling to find new ones.

My dislike of him lasted several months, until the day my mother made me invite Bob to our house for a home-cooked meal. Those few hours together away from the office setting were a real-eye opener. Bob turned out to be a really nice guy whose “swagger” was just a defence to mask his inexperience. Turns out his much-vaunted Canadian sales experience had been touting for the Yellow Pages. When it came down to it, I had more daily newspaper experience than he did!

I couldn’t help but admire his cheek and, over time, we became the best of friends. We discovered that we had an awful lot in common, most especially our wanderlust. Bob shared stories of his travels across the United States and I was enthralled. Such a big world out there, waiting to be explored! And explore we did, starting with my homeland.

Each Friday after work, with our pay in our pockets and a backpack over our shoulders, Bob and I would choose a destination, take a bus to the appropriate highway and stick out our thumbs and be gone until late Sunday evening.

Week after week, we roamed northern and central England and up into Scotland as far as Loch Lomond. We got wet, we got sunburned, we got exhausted, but what times we had! Then one long weekend, Bob suggested we try Ireland! And so, to Dublin we went – by thumb and ferry.

Dublin was fun and came with a bonus – I fell under the spell of a young Irish lass. Her name was Terri and she and her girlfriend were visiting the capital for some shopping. The four of us hit it off and we chummed around for the rest of the weekend.

Back in Manchester, I couldn’t forget the happy weekend I’d spent across the Irish Sea and was keen to go back. As luck would have it, I had a two-week’s vacation due me and decided to return. (Sorry Bob, I’m going solo this time…)

I phoned Terri when I reached Dublin but she had some bad news for me. She was leaving the next day on a working holiday in New York and didn’t have the time to see me again.

Ouch! Talk about a big disappointment. What to do, continue my visit to Ireland or head back to Manchester?

Sitting alone in a downtown Dublin pub that night, I debated my next move: stay or go? As I pondered, I became aware of a young man standing by my table.

“Are you alone, then?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Well then, come join us!” he exclaimed. “The more the merrier!”

The stranger was with a boisterous group of young men and women enjoying a drink before heading down the street to catch a play at the Abbey Theater. Introductions were made and, to my surprise, I discovered that the chap who’d invited me over was none other than the son of the Mayor of Dublin!

Before I knew it, I’d been adopted by the group and was being plied with overflowing glasses of Guinness, a drink I’d never tasted before. An hour later, I was being swept along with them to the theatre where a very pleasant three hours were spent dozing in a plush balcony seat.

Hangover aside, the evening’s fun decided me to stay and explore some more of the Emerald Isle. Which I did, with the open road beckoning each morning and my thumb at the ready. I made it as far south as Cork and, of course, kissed the famous stone in the nearby village of Blarney.

A few days later, I found myself on a little steam train heading for Tipperary, the town made famous by the First World War song, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”

I was the only passenger getting off there and I stood, gazing around, quite perplexed. The station appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. I was all alone, except for a taxi at the platform gate. Shouldering my backpack, I wandered towards the vehicle and the driver stepped out.

“Taxi sir?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “No thanks. If you point me towards the town, I’ll walk,” I replied.

“Ah well,” he retorted, “I’m heading that way anyway so jump in!”

Which I did, and, to my surprise, it turned out we were only a few minutes from downtown Tipperary.

As he dropped me off at a B&B, my driver introduced himself and pointed to a nearby pub. “I also own the pub over there,” he told me. “If you’ve nothing on this evening, come in and I’ll stand you a pint.”

After spending the afternoon exploring the little town and then treating myself to a simple supper, I decided to take my new friend up on his kind offer. Easing my way through the crowded pub, I asked the bartender for the landlord and was directed to a door at the back.

Stepping into a large room, I was startled to find maybe 30 older men singing at the tops of their voices. They were seated on long, bench-like seats attached to the walls and each man had a drink in his hand. In their midst, accompanying the singing, sat a fiddle player and a man with an accordion.

The room fell silent as I entered and then a man stood up. It was the taxi driver/landlord.

“Ah,” he cries, “’tis the Englishman. Come in, come in!”

I stepped further into the room and, feeling very conspicuous, looked around for a spot to sit and hide. My host, however, had other ideas.

“Now,” he says, “I promised you a drink and I will honour that promise… but first you must give us a song!”

Stunned, I protested hotly but to no avail. I must sing for my grog. So, I did. Standing there in the middle of that room, I croaked out “The Leaving of Liverpool”, a song that seemed appropriate and the only one to which I knew all the words.

There were cheers and stamping of feet when I’d finished and soon, I was squashed into a seat with a Guinness in my hand.

And so the evening went, with others standing and belting out Irish songs and the fiddle and accordion working overtime.

Some hours later, there was a knock on the door which led to the street and in came the village policeman. I was sure we were all going to be in trouble because it was well after closing time.

But instead of getting out his notebook, the officer hung up his jacket and helmet, plonked down on the bench and accepted a drink!

It was 3 o’clock in the morning by the time we all staggered out into the street, drunk as lords but happy as Larry.

All-too-soon my Irish adventure came to an end and it was time to return home. I couldn’t wait to get back and share my experiences with Bob. Little did I know that Bob had some news for me that would rock my world and, literally, change the direction of my life.

Next time: Bob’s shocking news and the greatest adventure of them all begins.

English-born Peter Duffy sailed for Canada in 1965 as a young man, took a liking to what he saw and stayed to further his career as a newspaperman. Something of an ink-stained nomad, Peter has worked on papers in England, Canada, New Zealand and even, briefly, Las Vegas! He retired from The Chronicle-Herald in 2009 and worked for then-Mayor Peter Kelly for 3 years. Peter is married to Barbara and has two grown step-children. He lives in Bedford, N.S., and is happy pottering in the basement with his model train layout. He is the Secretary of the Royal St. George’s Society of Halifax.

Wanderlust is a demanding mistress. It’s a siren song that cannot be ignored and I should know. Much of my life has been spent far from home searching for, well, I’m not exactly sure. Whatever it was, I’ve never found it but I’ve had a heck of an interesting time looking.

Perhaps I inherited this restlessness from my mother; she travelled from her home in Shetland to England when she was a young woman to pursue a career in nursing. Or perhaps it came from my paternal grandfather who made it as far as northern France to fight in the First World War.

And speaking of my granddad, he took me aside just before I left my native England for Canada. “Never gamble for money,” he told me, “and never forget that you’re English.” Being young, naturally I ignored the first piece of advice but I’ve honoured the other. Being English is a quiet pride I carry with me, sharing space in my soul with my adopted Canadian identity.

But back to my wanderlust. It beckoned me in the early 1960s when I was in my late teens and working in my first job. I became smitten with French movie actress Brigitte Bardot, me and every other red-blooded British male. Except, in my case, I decided to hitch-hike to the South of France, drop by her home and say hello. (As my Lancashire granny would say: “Nowt like cheek!”)

My parents were stunned but didn’t forbid the adventure and so, with £50 in my pocket, two-weeks’ vacation at my disposal and a rucksack on my back, I stood alongside the main Manchester-to-London highway one warm July evening, thumb out and confidence high.

An hour later, I was feeling disillusioned and ready to head home when a large transport truck stopped just ahead of me. As I ran towards it, a body flew out of the passenger side door and collapsed in a heap on the hard shoulder. Stepping over the unfortunate soul, I looked up at the driver.

“Er, any chance of a lift to the South mate?”

“Get in but behave yourself,” he growled. “I gave that other guy a lift and he tried to steal my wallet.”

And so the adventure began. No turning back, not then and not for the rest of my life.

By mid-afternoon the next day, I was standing outside the Boulogne ferry terminal, my thumb out and hopes high. In no time, I was happily ensconced in the back seat of a Citroen, heading for Paris. The driver was a young man in his 20s with his mother in the passenger seat.

We chatted for a while with my schoolboy French really put to the test. Eventually, we all lapsed into silence, much to my relief. With dusk descending, we reached the Paris suburbs and I began to experience a rising panic. This was a big city, it was my first time away from home and I didn’t know a soul. Where to go? Where to stay?

As if sensing my dilemma, the mother turned to her son.

“What about the Englishman?” she asked.

Her son shrugged. “He’s not our problem,” he said.

“But he’s so young and alone,” the mother persisted. “We should take him home, at least for tonight.”

“No!” the son snapped.

And this was the moment I learned my first and most invaluable lesson of real life.

“This Englishman is a traveler,” said the son. “It is not our fault that he is in this situation.”

Hunched in the back seat, I silently cursed the son for being so callous. And yet, as they dropped me off near a subway station, deep down I knew he was right. I was old enough now to understand that my life was in my own hands, no-one else’s.

The kindness of strangers would always be welcome, but I was my own responsibility. Lesson learned in a hurry.

Tired and hungry, I made my way to a big university in the southern part of Paris. I hoped to find cheap lodgings on the campus there but everywhere was closed. By now it was after midnight and, since the night was quite warm, I crawled under a bush and began to doze. A few moments later, I felt someone grab my ankles and drag me out.

There stood half-a-dozen young African students; they’d were on their way back to their dorm after a night out and had spotted my feet. When they heard of my predicament, they insisted I go with them, which I did gladly.

For the next week, my new friends were kindness itself. One of them insisted I take his bed while he slept on the floor. Each morning, they would take me to the student cafeteria and treat me to breakfast, a meal I tried to make last me the rest of the day, augmented by the baguettes I smuggled out.

During the daytime, I roamed Paris, taking in the sights and trying to determine the best routes out of the city and on to the South where Ms. Bardot awaited.

Before I knew it, however, both my money and my holiday time were almost spent. Sorry Brigitte, it’s not going to happen.

On my last evening in Paris, I met a young German about my own age. He, too, had the wanderlust.

Kindred souls, we proceeded to buy several bottles of cheap red wine and wander the city streets, laughing and joking. Eventually, we found ourselves sitting at the foot of a huge statue of the great French general, Marshall Foch. My German friend gazed up at the World War I hero, then put his arm around my shoulder and hugged me.

“You know, Englishman, we were on the wrong sides,” he slurred happily. I nodded, not quite making sense of what he had just said.

The next morning, hung over and bleary-eyed, I said goodbye to my African friends, found the main highway north and stuck out my thumb. My first ride was in a flat-bed truck loaded with unsecured steel girders, all of which threatened to tumble forward and crush us each time the driver hit the brakes. The next ride was with a university professor who insisted I speak French to him and, whenever I mispronounced a word, would hit me on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

By noon, I was back at the ferry terminal in Boulogne with just enough money left to buy a ticket across the Channel. A few hours after landing, I was at my own front door.

My mother answered my knock, took one look at me and turned white with shock.

“My son!” she cried, “You’ve lost so much weight! Didn’t you eat while you were gone?”
“It’s a long story, Mum, but I’m fine, honest!” I assured her.

And fine I was. And always would be.

Next time: I meet a young Canadian destined to supercharge my wanderlust, change my life and drive me crazy.