Paul McCartney and George Harrison hitchhiking story from 1959

Paul McCartney’s version of events

In the pre-Beatles era when we were just kids, George and I visited Harlech in Wales. Having heard the song “Men of Harlech,” we were drawn to the majestic castle there, our guitars always in tow. We found ourselves in a quaint café in Harlech, where a jukebox provided the backdrop. As we sat around, a friendly guy struck up a conversation, inviting us to his house. It turned out to be a memorable night, his mother run an bed and breakfast with George and me sharing a bed, unaware that we hadn’t paid for our stay. Years later, when fame and fortune had found us, the kind host wrote to us, apologizing for the oversight and enclosing payment.

Her sons name was Michael, and we shared countless laughs with him. One amusing memory involves a drunken night when we joined a local band. The accommodations were in stark contrast to our usual clean and hygienic living spaces. In this country setting, the room was inhabited by long legs spiders. Panicked, George and I grabbed toilet paper, ensuring a spider-free sleeping environment. The next morning at breakfast, Michael’s mum asked if we had slept well. To our surprise, she inquired about “Jimmy and Jemima,” the two little spiders we had unknowingly spared. The revelation left us in fits of laughter, a story that continued to amuse us for years to come

George Harrison’s version of the story

One year, Paul and I made the unconventional decision to go hitchhiking, an adventure considered unthinkable in today’s world. Firstly, the fear of potential mugging loomed over us, especially navigating through the Mersey Tunnel. Secondly, with everyone owning cars and stuck in traffic jams, hitchhiking seemed impractical. Having often traveled with my family to Exmouth in Devon, I convinced Paul to make it our initial destination.

Facing financial constraints, we sought budget-friendly bed-and-breakfast accommodations along the way. In one town, as darkness fell, we approached a woman, politely inquiring about a place to stay. Compassionate, she offered her home, explaining her son was away. Instead of mischief, we gratefully accepted her hospitality, staying in her son’s room and enjoying a breakfast she prepared the next morning. She was a kind stranger, perhaps a modern-day Lone Ranger.

Continuing along the South coast toward Exmouth, we encountered a character named Oxo Whitney in a pub, a tale later immortalized in ‘A Spaniard in the Works.’ John, upon hearing our story, incorporated it into his books, reflecting his penchant for drawing inspiration from amusing anecdotes. Our journey pressed on to Paignton, marked by frugality. Armed with a simple stove and meager supplies, we relied on canned goods like Smedley’s spaghetti bolognese and Ambrosia creamed rice.

Arriving in Paignton with minimal funds, we resorted to sleeping on the beach. Two Salvation Army girls we had met earlier joined us, providing warmth for a while. However, as the night turned cold and damp, we decided to embrace the chill and resumed our journey at daybreak. Venturing through North Devon, we took a ferry to South Wales, enticed by Paul’s relative who worked at Butlins in Pwllheli.

In Chepstow, seeking shelter, we approached the police station, requesting a cell. Unsympathetic, they directed us to the football grandstand, advising us to inform the watchman of their approval. Spending the night on a hard board bench in the cold, we hitchhiked north through Wales on a truck, improvising seating on the engine cover. An amusing mishap occurred when Paul, seated on the battery, experienced a sudden burn caused by his zipper connecting the positive and negative ends.

“When we eventually got to Butlins, we couldn’t get in. It was like a German prisoner-of-war camp – Stalag 17 or something. They had barbed-wire fences to keep the holiday-makers in, and us out. So we had to break in.”