Today we are due to make our return trip over Confederation Bridge. On windy days it is closed to high sided vehicles. At 12 feet (or not, see earlier posts) we are classed as high-sided. It is windy. Will we escape? It turns out yes we will, although the cross-winds added an extra dimension to the terror factor. It has been windy since we arrived but today, although still sunny, there is what we would call a howling gale. Next thing we know we will be in Kansas on top of a wicked witch. Oh no, I forgot, we don’t have visas.

We are heading west on road 15. We have opted for a slight detour via Fundy National Park, on our way to St. John’s. This is worth the effort. The Petitcodiac River is nicknamed ‘The Chocolate River’ and the red soil really does make the water look like molten chocolate. No photographic evidence I am afraid – the old ‘nowhere to stop’ syndrome striking again. We come to Alma, which has, apparently, the highest tides in the world, so another superlative ticked off. As we enter the National Park there is a booth where permits are to be purchased. It seems we do not need one of these and better still there is a car park. Chris goes to look at fishing boats and I photograph the no longer particularly chocolate river. There are also some interesting wooden lobster pots – here called traps.

We narrowly avoid another low bridge related incident but as we enter St. John’s, the sat-nav is confused by a new road. A surreal series of left and right turns ensues and I wonder if we will ever get off this magic roundabout. Eventually we arrive at Rockwood Park site. This is part of what, in the UK, would be called a country park. Some children are rock climbing. This appears to be an organised activity and they have crampons and safety harnesses but no helmets! I know I am risk adverse but can you imagine this being allowed in England? We see our first moose, albeit a wooden one and a sundial sculpture in memory of all workers who have been mentally or physically injured whilst at work. This has been set to be accurate at noon on 28^th April when these workers are especially remembered. We have allegedly been put on a ‘quiet’ pitch. This may be a relative term as there is prolonged loud hooting from what we think is a nearby train. The consolation is that I appear to be able to get internet access from the van, rather than skulking in the laundry, as is supposedly necessary. Another 250 miles to go tomorrow, back into Québec. Ideally we would like to make an early start but I am not relishing the thought of the magic roundabout in rush hour.

The night is windy and rainy and there are loud thumping noises as if something is trying to break in through the roof. Are these the bears of which we have been warned or just very heavy chipmunks? It turns out that this is merely innocuous and very light pine cones falling on the roof from the tree under which we are parked.

We attempt to set the Sat-nav for our destination. Hiring the sat-nav was a very wise move. Despite my using half a tree to print off Google maps before we came, without it we would still be somewhere in Toronto. I attempt to set the sat-nav for today’s destination. The sat-nav doesn’t recognise it. Aware that we are entering French speaking Canada and the destination is Trois Rivieres, I wonder if perhaps the sat-nav is not biligual. Even my limited French can cope with Trois Rivieres but the sat-nav doesn’t recognise Three Rivers either. I try several other things including Québec with no success. Surely we don’t have an Ontario only sat-nav. After much fiddling we discover that each province has to be set separately and we are off.

The disadvantage of the sat-nav is that it takes you along the direct route and we are yet to find the ‘avoid highways’ or ‘seek alternative route’ function. My lovely maps had opted for slightly less main roads but we fail to find these. This means that we spend the day on the not especially inspiring and monotonous road 417. This despite being Sunday, gets very busy as we get to Montreal. This journey is turning into the equivalent of one long high-adrenaline theme park ride. Did I say I don’t like theme parks? My stress levels are not reduced by two cars directly in front of us crashing into each other. Miraculously, despite bits flying off in all directions they career blithely onwards and Chris slows down in time, as does the vehicle behind us, so we emerge physically unscathed, if slightly un-nerved.

We are now in to our second Canadian province – Québec. Although we pronounce it Qwebec, it seems we should be saying Keybec instead. I had expected road signs to be in both French and English, a little like Wales but no; French alone. I just about know my droit from my gauche so can cope with most of these, including the ones that tell us we are going to die if we don’t rest. That is as maybe but stopping on Canadian roads does not seem to be an option. Even the slightly less busy sections don’t have lay-bys. There is also a distinct lack of garages and shops. We do eventually find the former and refuel. We press on to Lac St-Michel Campsite, where we opt for the pitch of the receptionist’s choice. This is not the most inspiring and today’s unwelcome wildlife is a plague of flies but we are close enough to the site office to intermittently pick up the free wifi, which is normally only accessible from the public buildings, from the van. It does keep dropping out which is frustrating but its occasional presence may be the highlight of today. We wander to the bottom of the site to look at one of the three rivers (Riviere Saint-Maurice) and then call it a day. I use the sporadic internet access to try to work out how we can continue east on anything except the Trans-Canadian Highway, of which I have already had more than enough.

Last night we managed to stay up until 1.30 English time – goodness knows how as I can count the times I’ve been up after midnight in the last year on one thumb. We have however failed to crack the jet lag and at 4.30am Canada time I am working on the job we must not mention, trying to earn enough to buy food for the last part of our trip. I may need that sooner than I think. Whilst Best Western is superior (and cheaper) in most ways to the UK equivalents I don’t really rate their breakfast. Chris happily consumes five sausages, in his defence they were quite small. It is nominally ‘free’ however so I suppose one can’t complain. In the process of said breakfast I manage to spread plenty of Primula on my clothes – this was of course an accident. Who knew that Primula was so jolly indelible? Clothes are already an issue as, whilst we have plenty of thermals we have virtually nothing suitable for the current Toronto heat wave, now I have even less.

We have been given a number to ring at 8am, so the Campervan firm know to come and collect us. At 7.59am we are poised phone in hand (it would have been 7.30am if I’d had my way). The number we have appears to be unobtainable. Reception gives us another number which elicits the automated message ‘this office is now closed’. Amidst rising panic (you knew there would be some) and thankful for free wifi, I Google for alternative numbers – these don’t work either. Finally I get the Calgary office who give me yet another unobtainable number. At this point Canadream’s live chat comes online and I get Sarah, who I am nominating for sainthood. A proper number, a proper person on the other end and she will be with us at 11.30 – even better as we had thought we would have to wait until 1.00pm.

We arrive at the depot and meet our van – all 33 foot of it and with only 15,000km on the clock. Amongst other things the arctic settings are explained – it is now 28 degrees. I appreciate that it is likely to get colder but……. We head out of Toronto on road 400. This is really very large, very fast and very very scary and I am not even driving. After ten minutes I open my eyes but it takes best part of an hour for me to prize my finger nails out of the palms of my hands. I am feeling very guilty at putting my travelling companion through this and quite want the next 21 days to pass in a flash so we don’t have to be doing it anymore. Why didn’t we go somewhere stress free, like Scotland? Oh, I forgot, we tried that last year (see July and August 2014 of this blog for all the gory details). Said companion is however unconcerned – well, he is a little concerned about the apparent blind spots in the wing mirrors. This means I sort of have to help with the driving by checking in the right hand wing mirror for approaching traffic on our near side (I think it is our near side – can’t get used to this wrong side off the road thing – flaming Napoleon – historical reference there for some). There are reasons why I don’t drive on motorways.

Road 400 goes a very long way in a very straight northerly direction. Somewhere en route it becomes road 11 and slightly less scary and smaller. So far Canada is actually a bit like a larger version of Scotland but flatter. We need supplies. Retail outlets that we pass allow us to buy canoes, kitchens, cars or wood and to eat numerous MacDonalds but not actually to buy food. After a stop at a wayside fruiterers, that claims to also be a grocers, to acquired something we can drink, we find Walmart in Huntsville. This is our first encounter with Walmart. Not sure if Canadian Walmarts have the same reputation as the ones in the US but basically this is Asda. I am hopeful of being able to buy something cool to wear but of course this is winter and the clothing range reflects this. One thing Walmart do not do is stint on carrier bags and they pack your shopping for you. Thinking Canadians might be ultra environment conscious I had packed assorted carrier bags to use as rubbish bags, in case they weren’t given out here – that was a waste of baggage allowance then. We discover another van issue, it is very temperamental to start, so far we have managed to get it going four times – eventually – long may this continue.

We turn east along road 60 and arrive at Algonquin Trails Camping Resort. This is a very pleasant forested site. Last night our friends came out to say hello at Best Western and warned us that we are in bear country here. That’s fine, I have Googled what to do when encountering a bear. This helpful and deadly earnest advice includes, ‘identify yourself by talking in a normal voice.’ Seriously? ‘Hello bear, I am Janet’? There are also supposed to be chipmunk and moose but I don’t suppose we shall see any. We really aren’t in any place long enough to see much. We take a short walk through the forest and the best we can come up with is a black rabbit.

Now for food, lighting the oven proves to be another challenge. It requires two people, a torch, the flexibity of a contortionist and brute force. We debate whether or not you can microwave pizza. The enormous microwave suggests that you can but we have no idea how long for. Once we crack lighting the oven, lacking anything suitable to cook it on, we place the pizza on a shelf. This dear readers was THE WRONG THING TO DO! Smoke, smoke alarms and strong smells of burning. What we thought was a shelf appears to have been some sort of element, an element that now has a considerable amount of pizza adhering to it. ‘Saving’ money by agreeing we would clean the van ourselves now seems like a bad idea. I can however vouch for the fact that blackened pizza is edible.

Another all night session from our neighbours, with their stateroom door slamming approximately every ten minutes between 12.15 am and 4.30am. This is like some sort of sleep deprivation torture and I reach the stage of not wanting to go to sleep because I know as soon as I do doze off, there will be a rude awakening. We are beginning to regret handing back all Master Christopher’s tools. By morning and after approximately three hours broken sleep, I am far from my usually tolerant self. We complain (again) to the lovely Emma on Guest Relations – words will be had!

We foregather in the theatre prior to our tour of ‘Tallinn Town and Country’ and join ‘Pink 8’ group, led by Tanel, who is a university lecturer earning extra holiday money. The Old Town of Tallinn was granted UNESCO World Heritage status in 1997 and its Medieval importance was as a key port of the Hanseatic League. Country first though and we head out of Tallinn, learning about Estonia as we go. There are signs of Neolithic settlement in Tallinn, which was then a fishing village. Changes in sea level mean that the site of this area is now inland. In 1246, the King of Denmark gave city status to Tallinn and the limestone fortifications were built, making Tallinn a walled city until the middle of the C19^th, when building outside the walls began. By this time, Tallinn had lost its military importance, so defence was not so vital. The original wall was 3km long and incorporated 60 watch towers. Now only 1km of wall and fourteen towers remain, including ‘Fat Margaret’.

The Dome Church

The Estonian language is very different from most European languages, bearing the closest resemblance to Finnish. Some German vocabulary found its way into Estonian, as German was the language of the upper classes, Estonian being spoken only by the peasants in Medieval times. We are reminded that Estonia is a similar latitude to Alaska and the Shetland Islands.

Lower Old Town, Tallinn

We arrive at Esko Farm, which is a dairy farm that produces its own products for sale rather than selling the milk. They also have some beef cattle and we notice that most of these retain their horns. For Esko, diversification has included becoming involved in tourism and also providing the location for a famous long-running Estonian soap opera – not famous enough for it to have been heard of outside Estonia but famous nonetheless. We sample some of the produce – yoghurt and strawberry jam, Gouda and Feta-like cheese (you can’t call it Feta as it is not produced in Greece). There is also a drink called Kama powder, which is a mixture of rye, wheat, oats, peas, yoghurt and sugar and is singularly revolting – resembling a concoction of Complan and bran flakes. A hero of the Estonian soap narrates a video explaining how Saku cheese is made on this farm; it takes 10 litres of milk to make 1kg of cheese.

Leaving the farm, we drive through Saku, which is also well-known for its beer and vodka production. Hunting has become an important aspect of tourism, predominantly bear, wolves and lynx. We are taken to visit a typical, ordinary Estonian home, although my guess is that ‘typical comfortably-off Estonian home’ might be a better description. Peter, the owner, has obviously learnt how to cash in on the tourists and who can blame him. Mind you, I would not want a coach load of tourists traipsing round every room in my home. Apart from the library on the large landing, this is sparsely furnished and décor is reminiscent of the 1960s. The building itself is clad in plastic, wood-effect sheets.

We move on to the Old Town of Tallinn itself and visit the Cathedral of Saint Mary the Virgin, also known as the Dome Church, which contains many heraldic carvings. We also see the church of St. Olaf, whose spire was once the highest building in the world at 159 metres. Following numerous lightening strikes it is now reduced to 123 metres. Formerly a Catholic cathedral, it is now a Baptist congregation. We pass the Danish Crusaders’ Castle, Toompea Loss and the impressive, Russian Orthodox Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, built in 1900 as a sign of Russian domination. There have been suggestions that this should be pulled down because of what it symbolises. With a population of 400,000, 25% of whom are Russian, Tallinn is the largest city in Estonia. Traditionally Lutheran in belief, the religious landscape includes, Russian Orthodoxy, Baptists and Catholics.

Most of the tourist shops are selling amber jewellery and Matryoshka or ‘Russian’ dolls. I pass on one and succumb to the other. As we leave Tallinn to return to the ship, someone lies down in the road in front of the coach. Is this some sort of anti-tourist protest we wonder? Our driver manhandles said individual to one side – apparently he has just imbibed too much vodka.

The evening session is another entertaining one from Cyndi Ingle, on Google Maps.

Ramskapelle

For breakfast I attempt the granola. I have managed to circumvent the normal menu and on request get, guess what, yoghurt to accompany it. Let’s just say that the granola was more like sugar puffs – an acquired taste that I have not yet acquired.

We dock in Zeebrugge, yet another port associated with an appalling sea disaster, this time the Herald of Free Enterprise. Along with two of our dining companions, we join folk with yellow stickers in group 26 for a tour of ‘Scenic Flanders’. Clearly seat belt wearing is not an option on Flemish coaches and off we set on a grey Bruges day. For a while, Flanders is looking anything but scenic but our brilliant Flemish guide, incongruously called José, manages to make a virtue out of driving through a port. He tells us that Zeebrugge is the entrepot for the car industry. Over a million cars have already been transhipped from here this year. 6000-8000 cars are loaded onto each ship for onward transportation; these ships take 100 drivers four hours to empty. We drive through Ramskapelle (Church of the Ram), the site of a celebration yesterday commemorating a Flemish defeat over France in 1302. We also pass the C17^th grain mill at Ramskapelle. Most of the buildings use very small bricks, similar to Elizabethan bricks in the UK.

We see the poplar-lined canals known as ‘The Blinker’ and ‘The Stinker’; the latter is so named because it used to take the garbage out of Bruges. The landscape is predictably flat and there is wheat and sweet corn being grown for animal feed. The tops of several of the Medieval church towers were used as lighthouse beacons. We alight to tour the Medieval city of Damme. The town hall, outside which some kind of horse drawn carriage rally is taking place, was built in 1388. In 1468, the Duke of Burgundy (Charles the Bold) married Margaret of York in Damme. We visit the site of the old herring market, where 33 million tons of Scandinavian salt herring was shipped in. I failed to grasp over what time period. On occasions, this saved the area from starvation, notably when the potato crops failed at the same time as the more well known Irish Famine. A dog appears on the flag of Damme as, allegedly, a dog was once used to plug a hole in a vital dam from which the town gets its name. Damme is the Hay-on-Wye of Belgium and there are many book stalls. We also view the ruined church at Damme, which was sacked and burnt by Protestants in 1582. In the grounds of the church is an impressive sculpture by Delporte.

Next stop is Roose’s chocolate factory. The chocolate making demonstration is carried out by someone who is neither wearing gloves nor head covering. Maybe they don’t have food hygiene certificates in Flanders. We don’t buy any chocolate! We move on to the neo-gothic ‘Castle’ of Loppem or Lophem. This was designed by Pugin in 1856 for the Catholic Baron de van Calden. At this time, a member of the Braund family was working with Pugin and we wonder if he had any hand in the furniture design but we can find no proof. This is certainly neo-gothic in the extreme, with Catholic iconography overload, some very nice tiles and wooden carved banisters that took two men ten years to complete. A stuffed grizzly bear in the entrance hall was once an inhabitant of a local zoo. We learn that the treaty of Versailles was prepared here.

On our return, we listened to a very amusing presentation by Chris Paton on his Scottish/Irish identity crisis, followed by Cyndi Ingle, of ‘Cyndi’s List’ fame. Then a quick change to try to appear ‘formal’ for dinner. Lacking a ‘cocktail dress’, I hide behind Chris and we are deemed acceptable. I have some very appetizing lamb chops and we repair upstairs for a talk by Carol Baxter, which engenders some heated and very interesting, debate about genealogy standards.

Towel Origami

Jeffery, our stateroom attendant, has left chocolates on our pillows and an origami towel creation, which is very impressive.

We chose our stateroom because it was on the end of a corridor in the bow (that’s the pointy end to you and me) and we would only have one neighbouring stateroom. Unfortunately, our one set of neighbours are the proverbial neighbours from hell. The first night was bad but last night they went in and out of their stateroom about twenty times between 1.00am and 5.30am. This was accompanied by jiggling of locks and slamming of doors. Add to this the loud music and chatter, together with periodic falling against the adjoining wall and no sleep was had by all. It even kept Chris awake, something that I thought was impossible. Mine could be the first after lunch presentation where the speaker falls asleep. I finally got to sleep at 5.45am, only to wake again briefly at 6.30am and eventually get up at 7.50am. Sadly, this meant missing the first session of the day and being semi-comatose for most of the rest of it. Very interesting session by Shauna Hicks on records of emigrants (or from her perspective immigrants) to Australia. Then I retired to try to get some sleep but I find sleeping in the day difficult, so I gave up the attempt.

Back to the fray to listen to Jane Taubman on Family Historian and then after lunch it was my turn. A to Z of family history sources this time. I am competing with an art auction next door but despite mis-pronouncing Wagga Wagga (why it should be said Wogga Wogga I will never know), it seemed to be well received and there was a good crowd. Another session from Shauna Hicks, this time focussing on diaries and letters, excellent once again. Paul Milner’s informative presentation on the Parish Chest and time for our evening meal; Chris continued to work his way through his cow.

After dinner today was Cyndi Ingle talking about her eponymous list, in a very entertaining vein. And so to bed and blessedly only twenty minutes of door slamming at 1.15am this time.

Celebrity Eclipse

Having climbed out of an internet black hole, I can now share the excitements of the past fortnight with my loyal readers. After all the frustrations of the past few weeks, during which I seem to have encountered more than enough incompetence to last me a life time, we manage to leave ahead of time for two weeks as ‘cruise ship entertainers’. The only difficulty seems to be that I am suffering from a surfeit of yoghurt (you may remember that yoghurt appeared in another post recently). Waste not, want not and there was the majority of a large pot left that I was loath to throw away. Consuming it seemed like a good idea at the time. We drive merrily along in our very small but fuel efficient, car, with a ridiculous amount of luggage. I would like to place on record a) that two thirds of one of my suitcases is full of C17^th attire (oh, what a shame, no room for cocktail dresses) and b) that the other suitcase contains books that I am hoping to persuade people to acquire AND it was suggested to me by someone of my acquaintance, who normally does plenty of under the breath muttering when transporting of books is mentioned, that I may need to take more!

We head to Southampton. I have already been reminded several times that this is the port from which Titanic sailed – I was aware of this but probably could have done without it being brought to my attention. Then comes our attempt at making a security officer’s day. We approach with trepidation and a box full of axes, knives and saws.

Security Officer: ‘What is in that trunk sir?’

Master Christopher: ‘Axes and knives.’

Said security officer is clearly thinking ‘We’ve got a right wit here’.

To save my partner from arrest for flippance, I add hurriedly, ‘He’s not joking.’

Numerous security staff flock to the scanner to watch knives etc. being scanned. We are instructed to abandon our precious tools and are assured that they will be collected by security and make their way to the ship. Good luck with that one, they weigh several ton. We will need to keep an eye out for a security officer with a hernia. At the time of writing, I still have no clue whether or not there is a bereft barber surgeon’s kit loitering somewhere in Southampton Port security office.

After a very long and very hot, wait in a queue (this despite advance ‘express’ check-in) we board the Celebrity Eclipse. One thing is for sure, we are going to get plenty of exercise going from one activity to another. Our ‘stateroom’ 7188 is the most basic but fine for us. It is lovely to get to know people I have only previously ‘met’ online. We then have the obligatory but farcical, security muster. The majority of passengers were mustered before the alarm sounded so the crew have no idea how long it would take in a real emergency. We watch a weird cartoon with an annoying jingle exhorting us to wash our hands. Hints on how to abandon ship are provided in English and Spanish (there seems to be a significant Mexican contingent on board) and we are away.

Southampton Water

We watch the Isle of Wight slip past. A very pleasant meal in good company. Chris devours a steak that is so rare that it looks as if it is still capable of meaningful life – he likes it that way. Then an excellent opening presentation from Paul Milner. And so to bed. We have to put our clocks forward an hour. I am already panicking that we may not find ourselves in the right place at the right time for tomorrow’s Scenic Flanders trip.

Will we or won’t we get our car back today? Finding out is an effort in itself as there is no phone signal for ten miles and we have to resort to using the telephone box for which the minimum charge per call is 60p. I am sure it was 2d last time I used one. At 11.00 we are to ring back at 3.30. We decide to be optimistic, pack up the van ready to hitch up and start to head for Skye in the courtesy car, intended to ring as soon as we have signal and turning round if our car is not finished. So we head over the bridge to Skye for the third and in this case unscheduled, time. We top the courtesy car up with petrol. Strangely, the more petrol we put in, the lower the petrol gauge seems to go. Confident that we must have returned the contents of the tank to the required level, notwithstanding what the gauge suggests, we seek an opportunity to contact the garage. Unfortunately phone signal and potential passing places do not coincide. As soon as we spot a signal indicating bar appearing on the phone screen we pull in to a turning, as the road is too narrow just to pull up. Immediately we do so the bar flickers and disappears. This happens several times before finally signal and parking opportunity coincide and we are told we can collect the car in an hour and a half’s time, at 5.30. At this point we realise that we really should have eaten our main meal in the middle of the day. We use the spare time before car collection to acquire some very good fish and chips from Portree harbour, highly recommended. It is raining, what a surprise, so we have to eat these in the car. This means that we have to continue our journey with all the windows open in an attempt to alleviate the smell of fish and chips.

We find the garage and there is our beloved car minus its wheels. Correction, it is Chris’ car. When I see the size of the repair bill it is most definitely Chris’ car. Wheels affixed, we set off, hoping to get to Grantown-on-Spey tonight, some 150 miles away from the garage on Skye. We make good time back across Skye to the caravan site. Van attached and we feel our holiday is back on track. Five miles up the road and the car begins to sound like a jumbo jet, there is also a rather alarming smell of burning paint. Admitting defeat we limp back to the site we have just vacated and settle in for the night.

The next day we return to the phone box for another call to the recovery services. Whatever is wrong seems unrelated to the previous problem and we are told the car will get us home. Ok, I’ll admit, there was no mention of when. I am not clear on the nature of the problem in technical terms – something to do with thrusts or turbos. In practical terms our top speed is 50mph and that’s going downhill, uphill is a very noisy 30mph. This is the highlands of Scotland. The clue is probably in ‘high’; there are a lot of hills. Chris is convinced that it is ‘all downhill’ on the way home; I am sceptical. We have 642 miles to go and Bank Holiday traffic is looming, deep joy.

We begin the journey home as soon as we can, at midday. The weather is that typical Scottish combination of beautiful sunshine one minute and rain the next, although this is probably the best weather we’ve seen for a fortnight – inevitable really. We nurse the car southward, including along past Loch Lomond on a route that we have not traversed previously. After 150 miles and 4½ hours of annoying the traffic behind us we reach our first dual carriageway. We arrive in Glasgow for rush hour. Signs warn us that progress will be slow for seven miles, or in our case four hundred and seventy seven miles. Our not recently updated satnav doesn’t recognise this bit of road. We decide to ignore her instruction to ‘turn around where possible’ in the middle of the M74. We finally give up at Carlisle but at least we are back in England and the site has a television signal so we can watch Who Do You Think You Are?

An early start the next day as we still have 375 miles to go and the sooner we reach the south west peninsula the more likely we are to miss the worst of the weekend get-away traffic. The weather is glorious – no comment. Now we have motorway we can manage a steady 50mph, when the road works, traffic jams and accidents allow. On spotting a caravan that has come adrift from its towing vehicle on the M6, fortunately it seems without injuries, we realise that we could be worse off. In fact looking at the traffic heading north, which is solid from Manchester to Tewkesbury, we could be a great deal worse off. Getting through Bristol, eight hours in to our journey and during the rush hour build up is time consuming. Beyond Bristol things improve for us but there are clearly still serious north bound delays. At last we are thirty miles from home and the end is in sight when we see the dreaded ‘road closed due to accident diversions are in place’. Said diversion was up a narrow (narrowish – our caravan passed another going in the opposite direction without mishap) road and our convoy is being led by someone who has clearly never driven on anything more slender than a motorway. Their response to being on a road with only four foot on either side of their vehicle is to drive at twenty miles an hour; at least we are no longer getting the blame for impeding the flow of traffic. This diversion puts another hour on what has already been a ten hour journey. I reflect that, in the past, ten hours to travel the length of England, without getting wet or saddle sore, would have seemed like a dream; sadly though I have twenty first century expectations. At least I am compensated for the debacle and missing what promised to be some of the ‘best bits’ of the holiday by the fact that half my family are waiting to greet me at home. I have gate crashed their time in Devon but at least I can enjoy being a Granny.