Squatting, Cigarettes and the art of hitch-hiking

Back in the early nineteen eighties, and only for a short while, I was fortunate to be living in two places at the same time.

I was living with friends in a beautiful, remote farmhouse at the top of a hill in West Wales, and in sharp contrast, I also had a room in a squat in North London.

Today, squatting is rare, frowned upon or practically unheard of, but back then it was legal, commonplace, and perhaps the only way to find accommodation whilst claiming benefits or struggling with a low-paid job. Squatting culture appeared to thrive and evolve because so many council properties were left vacant, with elegant townhouses and flats left to rot and fall apart as councils struggled to manage their inadequate budgets.

I was signing on in Wales, so had to be physically there to cash my giro cheque. However, I was enjoying the bright lights and benefits of London and that was where I wanted to be.

It was difficult and time-consuming to move benefits records across from Wales to London without risking my pathetic income. So I found myself frequently on a slip-road on the M4 motorway, hitch-hiking from Wales to London and then a few days later returning to Wales to sign on.

Today, hitch-hiking is a rare sight, but back in the nineteen eighties it was fairly common. In fact, it wasn’t that unusual to be sharing a motorway slip road with two or three other hitch-hikers. Traditionally, it was a case of standing on the side of the road, with your thumb stuck out and waiting for luck to intervene. However, it took more than a bit of luck to get a lift; there was a certain amount of skill and psychology involved.

After hours of standing on the side of the road, I had come to the conclusion that, if I was to successfully get to my destination, I would need to improve my interaction with drivers.

Initially, I just used city signs, hastily scrawled out on a piece of cardboard, but later I improved the system by creating a set of individual cards and inserting them into a modified plastic record sleeve. Each card had a swappable city destination printed on it in block capitals: Cardiff, Bristol and London, for example. I would then find a safe part of the road where cars could pull in, make good eye contact with drivers, hide my spiky black hair under a hat and boldly display my sign.

One miserable, damp afternoon, somewhere near Swansea, the brake lights of a passing car illuminate red as it slows and pulls over onto the slick hard shoulder. I hurry towards the car and pull open the passenger door.

The driver, a man smoking a cigarette somewhere in his forties, tells me to get in. I seem to have luck on my side as he is travelling all the way to the capital. I apprehensively get in.

The driver looks like a travelling salesman. He wears a crumpled shirt and tie and appears to be somewhere in his mid-forties. There’s a black briefcase in the backseat and a suit jacket hanging from a hanger. His car looks expensive and appears relatively new. We pull away from the slip road, gather momentum and enter the motorway heading eastbound. We don’t exchange names.

The interior of the vehicle resembles a jazz club from the sixties. It’s thick with cigarette smoke and the air is stale. The ashtray that sits between us is overflowing with cigarette butts. Some have fallen onto the floor.

The driver adds to the ashtray mess by extinguishing the cigarette he has been smoking and immediately lights up a fresh one.

I sit quietly in the passenger seat as the driver talks. He is eager to talk, but not necessarily converse. Without much of an introduction he tells me about how much he despises his wife and what a miserable life he has. It’s a one-way conversation. I cannot really add anything to the discourse, so I occasionally nod my head and look out the window, hoping that the topic changes soon.

He is clearly very bitter, perhaps angry too. As we speed down the motorway he chain-smokes and continues to rant about his life.

We have been travelling about an hour and now approaching junction 17, and I cannot take it any more. His relentless negative chatter has taken its toll on me and despite his promise of a lift all the way to London, I have made an executive decision.

I tell him that I have changed my plans and that I will be changing destination and ask to be let out. The driver goes quiet. He hits his indicator, drives up the exit ramp and comes off the motorway at junction 17.

We do part on good terms, I wish him well and he reciprocates. I stand on the hard shoulder again and watch as he speeds off, continuing his lonely journey to London.

Now, decades later, the episode often returns. I wonder what happened to him as he drove away. Did he pick up more hitch-hikers? Was it an altruistic move to stop for me, or did he just really need someone to talk to?

I also wonder if I should have been a better person that day, a better listener, a longer listener. But I was young, naive and probably not skilled enough to offer any real help.

What I do know is that he was prepared to stop his car on a damp Welsh afternoon and scoop up a young hitch-hiker off the side of the road.

It was a kind gesture. And I am still thankful for that.