If there was ever a time to puke, now would be it. We are on the M25 heading to Wales for a few days for half term break. Not sure what the speed limit is but haven’t seen a sign. I’m trying not to feel frantic but this is Rick’s first time behind the wheel, our first time in a car, here in the UK, on the other side, you know. Rick doesn’t show any signs of nervousness, with Chan as his co-pilot and me, well, twirling my hair in the back. Chan scans the map and he and Rick discuss the route. I try to take in the scenery but my eyes keep returning to the road as other cars dodge in front or speed past us on the left. The right, I mean the right.
“Oh, look the hills of Kent,” Rick chimes. “I figure if you can drive on the 401, you can do the M25. Well, Chan, we will have to rent a car in Germany and do the Autobahn.”
Boy replies, “Yes, we are so doing that. Rent a Beemer. No speed limit. Sweet”!
Yep, puking is most certainly in order.
Chan cranks the stereo and Lily Allen sings out.
“Too loud, Chan,” I snap. “Let’s have quiet time for a bit.”
“It doesn’t take long to get up to 75,” Rick notes. “Now is that miles or kilometres? Only problem with going 70 is that it uses more gas and we’re already down.” For heaven’s sake, I thought, we’ve only been on the road 15 minutes. “Where does the A22 go, Chan?” Chan scans the map but a road sign pops up and says Eastbourne and Tunbridge Wells. A van cuts across. “Hey, thanks buddy!” Rick says to him.
The landscape is quite hilly here with farms scattered along the way. I remember as a girl flying over England and the patchwork quilt of light and darker greens and how neatly the pieces fit together. “This guy in the McNichol’s van keeps passing me then slowing down, “Rick says bringing me back to today’s journey. “Drivers are the same everywhere.”
Other than the fact that things are dryer and greener, we could be somewhere in Ontario. It looks very much like driving on the 401 near Colborne. The unusual makes of cars and the signs to Gatwick remind me, however, that we are in fact in England, after all.
“There’s the cut off to Leatherhead, Chan,” Rick pipes up. “Check this town - Dorking, I love it. I wonder what they do there for fun?” he adds.
“Dorking around,” Chan replies.
“I bet you a bunch of dorks live there,” Rick jokes.
Gee, am I glad I have to sit in the back seat while the two dorks in the front seat battle it out for King Dork.
“The J12 for the M3,” Rick thoughts turn to where we really should be going instead of Dorkville. “Do you see that on the map, Chan?” Then a vehicle zooms past us and 2 seconds later a sports car with blue flashing lights pursues. A police car is on a mission and we still can’t see any speed limit signs.
I feel myself starting to step down a couple of rungs on the ladder, but Chan struggles to find Basingstoke on our map when Rick calls it out. “Find Basingstoke or Richmond,” the driver requests as an exit approaches and the tension rises and directions are needed from his trusty navigator.
Instead Chan blurts, “Bracknell, Bracknell, Bracknell!” which is not the highway number Rick needs. But we still scoot off the M25 towards Staines and end up on the M3 West which is exactly what we want. Then Rick lectures Chan and tells him that repeating the town doesn’t help. He needs to listen to what Rick was asking and we cruise along the M3. The rental car tends to veer to the left and sometimes Rick rides the line and comes awfully close to the vehicles that pass on this side. “Easy, Rick.” a hesitant co-pilot warns.
We manage to navigate towards Bracknell, Bracknell, Bracknell and Rick yells out, “Bagshot! Owww, that’s gotta hurt!” Now I see why the Brits give their towns such crazy names. It’s to amuse the men in the world. As we pass through Bracknell forest, Rick shifts gears and brags, “We got the hang of this. We are in Bracknell forest, honey. Hope you are taking this all in. Chances are we’ll never be here again.” Does this mean I’ll have to live without Dorking, Bagshot, and Bracknell, Bracknell, Bracknell? Pity!
The wipers smear across the windshield. “Rain in England? No!” says Chan in a sarcastic tone, and he calls out the A329 to Rick as we zoom in the roundabout.
“What do you think, honey, just like I’ve been driving around England all my life, eh?” Rain comes harder now. And Rick continues, “Well, it’s nice to be in a car and we don’t have to get out and catch a bus or train. We are here and it’s nice and dry.”
Rick speeds up and passes “the world’s oldest woman” and a sign says Bristol 81 and the driver informs us that “it will be right on this highway so we can just settle in”.
Every so often I have to remind myself that we are in England, really living in England. Rick points out the ponies in a field. “I wanna ride the pony,” I tell him and Chan tucks the map away and plugs into his Ipod.
“Bristol’s supposed to be a real nice place,” Rick tells me.
“Oh, good,” I reply.
We come upon a monstrous wind generator which had Ecotricity written on its massive concrete base. Huge blades rotated slowly, scooping through the air. Chan noticed a bird flying towards the blades and he was sure it was just about to get dinged. Oops, nope, okay and he retracts his head back from the window feeling relieved that the bird avoided being creamed.
A lovely expanse of countryside opens up. “This is nice. No houses. Just countryside,” remarks Rick. “So honey, do you want to stay overnight downtown Bristol or do you want to carry on to Cardiff?” and I ask how much farther away Cardiff is from Bristol. Only about 20-30 miles, he tells me. We decide to check out Bristol first. Going to Cardiff, from what Rick understood, most likely involved a ferry and we don’t want to do that in the dark. Rick hums and yawns and I can tell he is happy to be on the road.
“Looks a little like home around here, eh, hon?” Rick asks me. “Kind of like Cobourg.” I agree saying I just wrote about that and I try to think less about puking and more about the sights along the way.
