This morning was another corker of a journey.
For the past forty years I’ve been driving up and down from London (until I qualified for a Senior Rail Card and started to let the train take the strain) and the average time, door to door was four hours. No problem, knew the route like the back of my hand.
So why, despite the 6am start, did I not arrive in London till nearly 12pm?
I’d blame the little Smartie but that would be a bit unfair. It’s doing its job, tootling down the M6 without complaint, heater on full blast, radio blaring, boot groaning, driver singing along….. No, it’s not Smartie’s fault that there were roadworks for miles, it was pouring with rain and I needed three comfort breaks (and porridge).
Or that the satnav sneakily told us to keep in the right hand lane when we should have been in the left, heading for Potters Bar. It wasn’t Smartie’s fault that we then had a fifteen mile detour along winding country lanes before we finally rediscovered the M1.
Nevertheless, as always, the drive was worth it, because this is another place where I know I can get more than my fair share of TLC before my next seaside stop.
My childhood home, complete with the parents. Full of food, warmth, hugs, love and all good things. Just what I need before part two of my adventure.
Believe me, you’re never too old to be fed by your mother, who, despite evidence to the contrary, worries that you might waste away without half a fridgeful of food inside you.
Up to my room where I check for the flowers that always greet me. All’s well with the world.
An early night ready for another epic journey tomorrow (supposedly two and a half hours but who knows?).
Great Yarmouth, prepare yourself.