Open Writing

During a visit to England in 2003, Leon and I drove from a friend’s farm on Horsell Common in Surrey, west of London, to his daughter Viv’s flat in Edgware, north London. Though we were given simple motorway directions, we also consulted a map, which seemed to offer a more direct, shorter route; so we set off. I drove, while Leon navigated through the traffic jams of Saturday morning central London: past Hyde Park Corner and Marble Arch; past Harrods - without a thought of window-shopping - and from one end of the Edgware Road to the other.

After a short while, we began to suspect that taking the motorway would have been quicker and easier, but driving our chosen route was quite an adventure.

After what seemed like hours of driving past signs pointing to places that I longed to visit, I began to view it all through a yellow haze. I needed a pit-stop: soon. The pressure on my brain was so great that, with a sudden and un-signalled twist of the steering wheel, I pulled into the parking lot of a home improvement warehouse, parked the car, hopped out faster than I thought possible, ran inside – and “loo and behold”, was guided to the customers’ rest-rooms. After this unscheduled stop, Leon took over the driving. As we pulled into a parking spot in the narrow road near Edgware station where Viv and her fiancé Rich lived, we both heaved sighs of relief. We agreed that we should have taken the quickest route, rather than the shortest.

The next time we needed to drive to Edgware was for Viv and Rich’s wedding. We’d spent the previous few nights with our friends in Brighton. Nina looked for the shortest route, avoiding the M25 where road works were causing massive traffic-jams. Once again, I drove, with Nina in the co-driver’s seat referring frequently to her computer print-out. Roger and Leon sat in the back seat, trying not to comment. All went smoothly until we left the motorway and headed into the high streets of Greater London. It was Friday afternoon, and all of London was on the move, going in the same direction as us.

For four hours, we sat in the car, grinding along in low gear. My left foot was busy, as I changed from first gear to second and back to first. My right leg became cramped and stiff, moving only occasionally between minimal pressure on the accelerator and heavy pressure on the brake pedal. Once again, we’d taken the shortest, rather than the fastest, recommended route to our destination.

During our most recent visit to England, to meet our beautiful granddaughter Mia, we once again hired a car. Viv and Rich had moved from Edgware to the village of Shenley, just outside the northern border of Greater London. Using the M25 was the only practical way to get there. No high street driving on this trip, we declared. We chose the slightly longer option of going east, as we hadn’t taken that route before. It was our luck, however, to arrive on a day when a fierce gale was blowing; the Thurrock River Bridge over the Thames was closed due to the high winds. As we approached the Dartford Tunnel, the traffic ground slowly to a halt: the tunnel was closed to north-bound traffic while cars travelled towards us. Our car’s engine rumbled quietly, its heater blew warmth on us, and the radio was tuned to Classic fm; we were relaxed, patient and enjoying the adventure. Eventually, it was our turn to drive under the Thames, and for a while the traffic flowed.

Surrounding us were massive trucks whose sides were emblazoned with foreign names. It was like driving in a moving tunnel. Soon, gridlock had us sitting idle again, for at least another half hour, before the vehicles ahead began moving. There was no reason for the halt that we could see. It was a relief to arrive in Shenley – there was nowhere on the M25 to pull in for a quick pit-stop!

During this visit, we drove several times through the village streets to Watford, where Leon’s son, Anton, lives. On these occasions, we had the use of Rich’s GPS – what a wonderful invention. It offered us a choice between shortest and quickest routes. Something about using the “shortest” routes on offer didn’t attract Leon or me, so we chose “quickest”. The GPS system spoke to us in a mellifluous voice which was soothing in the panic of London traffic, giving succinct and timely directions. We named her Agnes, but soon became familiar enough with her to call her Aggie. “At the roundabout,” Aggie would say, “turn right, taking the fourth exit.” If we took a wrong turning, she would prompt, with great patience, “Do a U-turn at the earliest convenient moment. Turn around now.” She only led us astray once, into a road which had been recently closed at one end; we couldn’t blame her for that. She gave plenty warning of turns, so that lanes could be changed easily and signals made for the benefit of other road-users. If, for some reason, Aggie remained silent for a protracted period, I became slightly panicky; I soon realised that at such times we were on a long, straight stretch with no need to turn.

We did encounter one problem in Watford, which had nothing to do with Aggie. “You have reached your destination,” she announced as we parked the car. Leon and I walked to the neatly-painted green door of Number Thirteen. Leon knocked. An Indian gentleman opened the door, letting out a waft of curried air. “Yes, can I help you?” he asked courteously.

“Is Anton here?” asked Leon.

The gentleman looked puzzled. “Anton? Who is Anton?” he asked.

“Anton is my son. He lives here,” Leon stated.

“Oh, I see. How long has he lived here?” the gentleman asked, smiling gently.

“Er – about – a year,” said Leon. Anton moves so often, we weren’t sure how long he’d been at this particular address.

“I’m very sorry,” the Indian gentleman said, “Anton does not live with us here…” and he firmly – though politely – closed the green door, leaving us on the cold pavement.

“Maybe I’d better check the address Anton gave us,” suggested Leon, digging a piece of paper from his trouser pocket and examining it in the light of a street lamp. “Oh.” He looked rather – sheepish. “Well, I knew that,” he declared, “It’s not number thirteen, Isabel, it’s number thirty-one.”

At number thirty-one a young woman opened the door, and at our request to see Anton, ran upstairs, rapped on a door, then disappeared into the back of the house. Anton appeared, pulling on his leather jacket, and hugged us both. It was good to see him again.

From these experiences, we have learned three things: the shortest route isn’t always the quickest way to our destination; having an “Aggie” in the car with us is not only a valuable asset, but also soothing to jangled nerves. Lastly, of course, we realise that knowing the exact address of our destination is distinctly beneficial!

Until next week - “here comes Treble!”

by Isabel Bradley
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