It was 1971 and I was standing on a dusty road on the Costa Blanca, Spain. I was with three travel-weary friends who were hitchhiking to a small fishing village for an epic reunion of travellers who had met at Oktoberfest in Munich the month before and had agreed to meet up again in Calpe.
As we stood under the Spanish sun, a black car pulled up. Inside was this strangely dressed guy in a beach hat with a charming smile. He asked where we were headed and when we mentioned the reunion, he said: “Hi, I’m Philip. Hop in, I’m heading there too.”
There were three villas where all the travellers were staying – an American villa (where I was lodged with my London friends), a Canadian villa and an Australian villa. Needless to say the Aussie villa was the wildest and most fun.
Life in Calpe was picnic excursions to the countryside, beach volleyball, dinners at various villas and some very wild parties. I remember at one such gathering, Philip and a friend went to the local bodega and spent all our contributions on as much alcohol as they could find. That evening, they mixed up a giant tub of sangria with every form of alcohol imaginable, topped off with some chunks of fruit. I remember remarking that it looked potent; they said it was “just a fruit drink”.
By dawn, there were bodies collapsed on the lawn, people honking into bushes and heaving out of windows. Some fruit drink!
At first I thought Philip was an unusual guy. He wore shoes that were too big and flipped open at the end so his toes hung out, and a long, oversized coat.
One night at a party at the Australian villa, I was reading palms when Philip flicked his open hand over my shoulder and said, “Read mine, Rhodesiac” (I was from Rhodesia, which is now Zimbabwe.) He was wearing his striped towelling hat and flamboyant pink board shorts covered in fish (his mum made them from old curtains).
As I held his hand in mine, it felt strong but gentle and safe. He was stunned by what I sensed on his palm – a few skeletons in the closet from his past. He anxiously asked me if his best friend had divulged something; to which I replied: “No, not at all.”
While holding his hand, I had this sixth sense that this would be the hand that would hold my babies. I didn’t say anything at the time and only brought it up a few years later when we were married. I have never forgotten it.
It was Franco’s Spain, and the beautiful young people were warned not to go on the beach at night for fear of being shot. So at night we stuck to our villas and partied on. Some days I felt the need to be alone and escape from all the madness and personalities and would head off to a small beach hotel for afternoon tea. Philip would often sing out, “Rhodesiac, can I come too?” We would sit and drink tea, gazing at the Mediterranean. I was getting fonder and fonder of this guy who seemed to understand my black moods.
Friends said there was electricity between us. Every time I turned around his big green eyes were riveted on mine. It was the happiest I have ever felt.
Then, Philip headed to Italy and Greece with his friends, and life in Calpe became dull.
The next time we met was at a party in London, and this was where we really fell in love.
Sadly, I had to return to war-torn Rhodesia and my family. A couple of months later, Philip arrived and we were married beneath a southern African sky.
More than 50 years and four beautiful children later, we are now travelling the globe together in our golden years. The one thing we’ve always had in common is our passion for travel. I believe meeting Philip was kismet. Destiny. I’m so grateful our two stars crossed paths.
