When I was small we never went anywhere on a Bank Holiday weekend. 'Traffic' said my father, with dark emphasis and finality. I always wondered why everyone else managed to travel and survive, when apparently it would be impossible for us.
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| The carrot |
On occasion I would get bucket and spade out, and position them provocatively in the hall. Hoping that Dad would be so transported by the thought of constructing a technically accurate motte-and-bailey in sand, that he would relent (he never did).
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| The stick |
Today I have a taste of the 'traffic' my father dreaded. A two-and-half hour journey takes five-and-a-half hours. It's less physical (much of the time I'm stationary); more mental (shock, denial, anger, service station sweets). By the time I roll into the camping field, I'm mute with acceptance and sugar. I cannot quite believe I have managed to make it.
Here there are tents, and people bimbling about, and a tree-trunk of pork on a spit that needs to be turned. This is a job for me. I am in control of the spit. It continues to move. There are no hold-ups, accidents or dangerous manoeuvres. The horror of the M3 starts to fade away, as I keep turning.
Travelling without moving.
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