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Escaping the Seventies class war Coach trips were a break from status-obsession

“Let’s break the silly rules!” (Credit: Arterra/ Getty Images)

“Let’s break the silly rules!” (Credit: Arterra/ Getty Images)


July 15, 2022   5 mins

It happened in Teignmouth. Drizzly Devon on a summer’s day in the early Seventies. We’d come back to the coach park early, Mum and me, having explored the town. In a shack at the gate was a man selling Mars Bars. “Let’s have one,” I implored.

And then something I had been saving up to say: “Let’s break the silly rules!”

The rules, until that day, had been strict. All manner of behaviour, from the growing of Begonias in front gardens to the stressing of the second syllable in the word controversy, were unacceptable in our little, class-obsessed lives. But very close to the top of the list — second only perhaps to the use of the word toilet — was eating in public. On building sites, one could make an exception, or in the trenches in wars — but not in normal life, not even on holiday.

But Mum was on a journey of her own. A child to look after, a new world of social disruption to cope with, a husband who had gone mad. And in Teignmouth that afternoon she cracked, and the happiest day of my young life was complete. We bought the Mars Bar and divided it and ate it — not entirely in the open air (we used a bus shelter to protect our dignity) — but defying the Gods who policed the division between upper- and lower-middle class, we scoffed the lot.

It was only a day trip. But it was the greatest holiday of my life. It was a harbinger of happier times ahead, of freedom from self-imposed distress. We could look across the flat grey sea and imagine blue skies, sunny days, the sound of laughter. We were laughing ourselves as we got back on the coach.

A few years ago, while driving one of my daughters home from school, I was making what I thought were some trenchant observations about the joys of their modern childhoods and the depredations of my youth.

“When daddy was young,” I said as we wove our way through traffic, “we didn’t even have a car!”

“Oh, when were they invented?”

The Seventies is ancient history. Black-and-white times, as my kids still call it. Phones with dials in draughty halls. Coal smoke, cigarette smoke, everyone coughing, expiring.  Heart attacks taking men who unwisely ran for a bus. Whispers about “the big C”. IRA bombs. Our little house: my step-father suicidal, Mum taking tablets called Quiet Life. But the quiet, when it came, not making anything better.

One thing, though, made everything better. I was in love with coaches. The company was called Roman City and the day their summer brochure was published we would queue outside the shop and ask solemnly for two, please: they were free and Mum and I enjoyed the reckless abandon of possessing our own separate copies.

There was not much else of the devil-may-care or even the vaguely hedonistic in our small world. But on four or five summer Saturdays, courtesy of Roman City coaches, we would escape it — Mum and me — and head for Plymouth via Dartmoor, or Brighton and Hove, or Swansea and the Mumbles, or London for the Ideal Home Exhibition. A drive from our little box in an unfashionable outer suburb of Bath to a better world. In which I would feast not on the destination but on the journey. My memories are not of buckets and spades or the smell of the sea or the sound of the gulls. They are of the open road, where the diesel could spew into fields as we dipped down into villages or pulled into pub carparks.

Coach trips in the Seventies were exercises in grounding. Connection to the person you were with, devoid of any distractions. Too noisy to read and too uncomfortable to snooze. No phones, of course. Connection as well to the land, to place and to places. The vehicles themselves were heaving wrecks, stifling in summer heat. They often broke down but never in the modern way, with software issues that can only be solved in a lab. It was all hardware: a spanner could resolve matters. The drivers sometimes returned to base with smears of grease on their faces.

And when the beasts were coaxed up some country lane in Devon or Somerset or Warwickshire or Wye Valley, you were close to the hedges. You moved slowly and noisily and stared out — and people in these places stared back. I can still picture the aftermath of an accident somewhere near Ilminster in deepest Somerset: squeezing our vehicle past a small group of people in tears, luggage strewn by the side of a road. Grittier than any train view.  Uncomfortably close to the action.

For those of us in the downwardly mobile, upper-middle class, the coach trip also provided a community mixing that modern travel, modern holidays, would never match. I am not pretending this was necessarily to my mother’s liking. If you abhor those you regard as lower-middle class, a day trip to Minehead is an unwise holiday choice. But she did it for me and the result was a bonding between us that grew ever stronger as we giggled and raised our eyes at our fellow passengers in their crimplene suits, with their concern about “toilet breaks” and willingness to eat sandwiches in full view of each other as if they were farm animals or scaffolders.

Nobody on the coach — least of all the two of us, social snobs but educational illiterates — would have been familiar with arguments about rationalism and its sometimes baleful discontent-inducing influence on human existence. But years later, at the LSE, I would spend many hours in the company of disciples of the recently retired philosopher Michael Oakeshott, and I remember thinking then how my life, and the lives of many others in the Seventies, matched his intellectual preference — conservative with a small c — for what works over what might be.

True: nothing much did work back then. But the absence of grand intellectual plans in the pre-Thatcher age gave our lives a kind of messy satisfaction we miss today — and opportunities, in the grimmest of seaside towns, for small moments of real joy.  As Oakeshott put it, we preferred “present laughter to Utopian bliss”. Never mind dreams of frolicking in the sun if you can have a Mars Bar in Teignmouth and enjoy it.

Don’t overthink life: that for me was the lesson of those holiday trips. You can dream of course of better times, sunnier holidays, changes in circumstance.   But live in the moment, savour the fumes, the small intense pleasures that can make life meaningful.

My kids have swanky holidays. We go abroad. They know (too much) about room service. During one American trip, I asked one of them what she wanted to be when she grew up; she thought for a few moments before answering, “a guest!” They take photos of sunsets, of meals, of themselves.

And, frankly, I am glad. I would not visit my early life on anyone, and certainly not my own children. But still, they miss out — we all miss out in the modern holiday world — on the small pleasures we enjoyed in the days before Instagram, before colour, before choice. If you have been on a British Seventies coach holiday, you have learned how to cope, how to make do, how to stay cheerful. You have no need of the sun. You carry it in you.


Justin Webb presents the Americast podcast and Today on Radio Four. His Panorama documentary “Trump the Sequel”, is available now on  Iplayer

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J Bryant
J Bryant
2 years ago

A charming essay. As an American, I remember complaining (perhaps too much) about some of the author’s earlier Unherd essays about America. I felt that, despite his years spent in our country, he didn’t really understand America. The current essay is certainly authentic and beautifully written, and a window into one aspect of UK society.
I remember the seventies, too, and they feel like a different lifetime, perhaps a different universe.

Last edited 2 years ago by J Bryant
Jeff Cunningham
Jeff Cunningham
2 years ago
Reply to  J Bryant

I agree, only for me it is reminiscent of traveling around rural California of the sixties.

Ragged Clown
Ragged Clown
2 years ago

I would choose a 70s childhood over a 21st century childhood any day.
Yes, the 70s were dreary, the economy was awful and the politics worse. Our national pride seemed to be circling the drain but there has never been a better period in human history to be a child than England in the 1970s.
To calibrate, my family did not go on cultural bus trips and we often ate our sandwiches — cold chicken drumsticks, even — in public behind a breezy windbreak on the beach at Ramsgate. We did not go to Butlins either because, according to mum, Butlins was for posh people and we couldn’t afford it anyway. I did not go abroad until I was 18 and headed for the Falklands.
Kids of the 70s had a freedom that has been lost from human civilisation. I often remark that the current generation is the first generation in human history to grow up indoors while my generation of kids roamed almost without limit.
I toured London on my first Red Bus Rover when I was 10 and took my 8-year-old neighbour with me. We went to Trafalgar Square, St James’s Park and Hamleys. It took two buses and 90 minutes to get there and my Nan told me the name of the pub in Woolwich to look out for where we would catch the Number 53 to take us on the second leg to Charing Cross. I spent the whole of the 70s outdoors returning home only for dinner before escaping back out into the night.
My kids grew up in a different time, on a different continent and in a different class than I did. I crossed the generation gap, the class gap and the Atlantic. In California, my friends were professors, doctors and venture capitalists while, back in the England of my youth, I did not know a single person with a degree — except my doctor and dentist — until I joined the navy. I’ve travelled from the bottom decile to the top decile but, still, I would choose my childhood over my children’s.

Edward Seymour
Edward Seymour
2 years ago

I grew up in the 50s and everything the author says about the 70s applied then, only with bomb sites.

Rob Wright
Rob Wright
2 years ago

Many socio-economic studies have suggested that 1976 was the year that Western society enjoyed it’s peak quality of life, across the class/income groups. I was a teenager and I would agree.

Brendan O'Leary
Brendan O'Leary
2 years ago

We preferred “what works” in the 70s, because things didn’t work.
And we had come to accept the chaos and decline.

Ian Stewart
Ian Stewart
2 years ago

Good article, brings back memories of a much less sophisticated time. More fun too, despite the travails.

Linda Hutchinson
Linda Hutchinson
2 years ago

I quite enjoyed the 70s; I didn’t miss what I didn’t have (a lot) and appreciated what I did have (not that much). I was young and just starting out on my own so it was all excitement and fearfulness, however, I wouldn’t have been seen dead on a coach tour – nothing to do with the other potential passengers, it just wasn’t cool.

Nicky Samengo-Turner
Nicky Samengo-Turner
2 years ago

Straight out of Miss Marple! Two friends of mine whose houses are open to the public, commented to me that, post covid, they never ever thought that the sound that they missed most was that of coaches bringing ‘ the pipl’, crunching on the gravel of their long empty car parks!

Harry Phillips
Harry Phillips
2 years ago

I remember the music of the 70s – David Bowie, Roxy, Lou Reed, T Rex, Deep Purple, Queen, then later Punk. It was incredible.

And football violence and school. But mainly the music, much of which still holds up today.

Will Will
Will Will
2 years ago

I couldn’t agree more with the commentator noting how free we were in the 70s. Almost all gone now.

jane baker
jane baker
2 years ago

I loved every word of this. It must’ve been about 10 years in his column in the Radio Times that I read two essays by Mr Webb which revealed that his childhood in Bath was incredibly similar to mine in next door Bristol. I mean in terms of cultural references etc. I was SO surprised because I knew him as an urbane voice on the radio the BBC man in America,sophisticated and well connected. My Mum and Dad had no money then and Mum took us on coach days out. I so remember the mixture of heaven and hell they were.