Hitchhiking

There's a lot less hitchhiking now than when I was young. It's rare these days to see that familiar thumbing motion as I cruise around.

Back in the legendary sixties there would be a dozen would-be hitchers lined up as I left a motorway service station or entered a major cross-country road.

They'd stand there hopefully with their tatty bits of cardboard saying Exeter or Birmingham or Aberystwyth. Or sometimes Glastonbury or Aldermaston as people hitched to rock festivals and political protests.

I'd pick them up and have fascinating conversations about everything under the sun with complete strangers from who-knows-where. A bit like blogging in fact.

I hitched once or twice myself in my pre-car days, but usually the thought of indifferent drivers hurtling past showering me with muddy water was enough to put me off and I caught the train or bus instead.

But now these cardboard signs and imploring eyes are not often seen, and I miss those unpredictable encounters.

Many people are afraid to hitch after stories of deranged lorry drivers raping and murdering their passengers. Others prefer the comfort of trains or coaches. And nowadays we're all more likely to have our own cars.

So this wonderful custom seems to be virtually obsolete, done away with by fear and the desire to travel in style. And our collective wish to have our own little gas-guzzlers rather than sharing someone else's. Hitchin' will soon mean nothing more than a town in Hertfordshire.

There's a very old urban myth about the driver who picks up a young female hitchhiker. When the destination is reached, the woman has disappeared. The driver later discovers that she died several years earlier, on the exact date his wife died.