Yesterday was a hot day. So was Sunday, but at least I could sit in my lounge with the windows open. Yesterday was a hot working day! After my arrival at the office, I found I faced quite a long wait until I was likely to be sent out on a job, so I tried to keep cool by sitting inside, reading a book, or attacking a newspaper crossword. Drinking lots of water seemed a good idea as well. Around 11.30, I was despatched with a parcel for an Italian café on a retail park in Ellesmere Port.
As I drove down the road from the office, I felt desperately hot. I knew that this was partly because there is nowhere there to park our vans in shade, so it had been sitting in the full sun for over three hours. Although I knew that this extreme heat was only temporary, and that it would ease as I drove along with the windows ajar and the fan on, I still wasn't satisfied, so - despite the adverse effect on being able to hear my radio - I switched on the 'emergency cooling apparatus': a cheap clip-on fan that I'd bought long ago in a supermarket.
This fan has been clipped to the shelf above the passenger door since I've had this van, and ever since the rotating mechanism ceased operating after only a few weeks that first summer, it has been skillfully trained on my head and neck. As I switched it on yesterday, its refreshing cool blast was most welcome. But then it stopped, and my comfort level plummeted.
After I'd gone a few miles, I realised that my SatNav was still working from its internal battery instead of from the feed from the van. I pulled over when it was convenient, to find out why. Now, when I bought this van, I had promptly installed a four-way adaptor for the cigar-lighter (Thinks: no-one smokes cigars in vans - thank goodness - so why should it have such a ridiculous name?) socket. Many people have since commented about the range of switches and the cables that wander across my dashboard from this, and to be fair, they do look much more impressive than they ought. The four sockets were used for i) the reversing sensors (another self-fitted accessory upon the van's acquisition), ii) the SatNav, iii) the charger for the mobile phone's hands-free device, clipped on the passenger sun-visor, and iv) that fan.
I decided that the unusual fact that I had had all four of these items switched on at once had been just too much for the adaptor unit, so I unplugged this, plugged SatNav in directly, and proceded to my delivery, thinking that I should have to get a new fuse this morning. Consequently, first thing today, I went in search of the appropriate fuse and found some at a well-known motor spares chain with an orange-and-black livery. (Why should I advertise Halfords?) I quickly replaced the offending item, and then by way of a test I tried the fan once more. It worked ... but for a couple of seconds only, and when I disassembled the plug again, I found the new fuse neatly blown! What a good job I had had to buy a pack of three; at least there was thus a reserve supply. Another replacement was fitted, and this time I didn't try the fan again! When I got back to the office, I carefully removed it, unthreaded its wiring, and awarded it pride of place in the official rubbish skip. After two years, and having cost me only £9.99, I felt it owed me nothing, and certainly wasn't worth attempting to get it fixed.
Today was cooler, but after surviving yesterday's heat without it, I don't think I shall hurry to replace that fan - the fuss over the fuses was quite enough, thank you!
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Saturday, 25 June 2011
It's a long way ...
Yesterday I went to Camborne. I first knew of the trip was at about 5.0 the previous afternoon. I had time only for some essential admin, a little research, a snack and about five hours' sleep before I was on the road. During the journey I was very glad of the company of my mp3 player and radio. The mp3 facility is a facet of my mobile phone, so I don't run it constantly to avoid running down the battery and denying myself the use of the phone.
I tend to favour Radio 4, and the regular news updates through the day - beginning at 5.30am - told and retold of the conviction of Levi Bellfield for the murder of Milly Dowler, and the unfolding unrest caused by the treatment of the Dowlers in the witness box, and the subsequent dismissal of the case against Bellfield in respect of the attempted abduction of Rachel Cowles. Only so much of this repetition can be endured, and it was soon time to hit the off-button.
In the silence I reflected on the views expressed and reported in this case. Obviously I sympathised with the Dowlers that they'd had to undergo the pain and embarrassment of their home life being revealed to all and sundry amid their lingering bereavement over Milly's death. My thoughts turned to what lay behind all this. Naturally I realise my inability to imagine fully their situation but, subject to this, I marvelled that in the nine years since these events the family seemed not to have moved on emotionally from their initial grief and loss.
Then there was the disappointment of Miss Cowles, at not having received justice in respect of the case that had had to be dismissed because of certain matters that had been made public after Bellfield's conviction on the murder charge. I could understand the legal nuances of this decision, but my main reaction was to this lady's quest for justice. What is justice? How does it relate to revenge? If justice is more closely allied to the determination of blame and thence to punishment, then surely (I contend), in her mind at least, blame was already determined, so what about punishment?
And this led my wondering further, to a fundamental point not touched on by anyone else I've listened to. It was reported that Bellfield is already serving a life sentence for other crimes. Unlike many life sentences, which result in the criminal being released after ten, fifteen or twenty years, or whatever term the judge has recommended, this was said to be 'all of life', so he was already committed to spending the remainder of his life in prison. Since death sentences were abandoned many years ago, what further punishment could possibly inflicted upon him ... torture?
Amazingly, I found myself on the brink of dismissing the whole concept of prisoners' rights. Of course there was the need to draw these cases to a close, to ensure that 'it was Bellfield what dunnit!' and that there was no possibility of a real offender escaping unprosecuted. But, I asked myself, - given the impossibility of imposing any further sentence upon him - could this closure not have been achieved in a manner a lot less flamboyant and costly, and the associated pain, indignity and frustration completely avoided?
With my thoughts totally unresolved, and the radio on once more, I headed for home ....
I tend to favour Radio 4, and the regular news updates through the day - beginning at 5.30am - told and retold of the conviction of Levi Bellfield for the murder of Milly Dowler, and the unfolding unrest caused by the treatment of the Dowlers in the witness box, and the subsequent dismissal of the case against Bellfield in respect of the attempted abduction of Rachel Cowles. Only so much of this repetition can be endured, and it was soon time to hit the off-button.
In the silence I reflected on the views expressed and reported in this case. Obviously I sympathised with the Dowlers that they'd had to undergo the pain and embarrassment of their home life being revealed to all and sundry amid their lingering bereavement over Milly's death. My thoughts turned to what lay behind all this. Naturally I realise my inability to imagine fully their situation but, subject to this, I marvelled that in the nine years since these events the family seemed not to have moved on emotionally from their initial grief and loss.
Then there was the disappointment of Miss Cowles, at not having received justice in respect of the case that had had to be dismissed because of certain matters that had been made public after Bellfield's conviction on the murder charge. I could understand the legal nuances of this decision, but my main reaction was to this lady's quest for justice. What is justice? How does it relate to revenge? If justice is more closely allied to the determination of blame and thence to punishment, then surely (I contend), in her mind at least, blame was already determined, so what about punishment?
And this led my wondering further, to a fundamental point not touched on by anyone else I've listened to. It was reported that Bellfield is already serving a life sentence for other crimes. Unlike many life sentences, which result in the criminal being released after ten, fifteen or twenty years, or whatever term the judge has recommended, this was said to be 'all of life', so he was already committed to spending the remainder of his life in prison. Since death sentences were abandoned many years ago, what further punishment could possibly inflicted upon him ... torture?
Amazingly, I found myself on the brink of dismissing the whole concept of prisoners' rights. Of course there was the need to draw these cases to a close, to ensure that 'it was Bellfield what dunnit!' and that there was no possibility of a real offender escaping unprosecuted. But, I asked myself, - given the impossibility of imposing any further sentence upon him - could this closure not have been achieved in a manner a lot less flamboyant and costly, and the associated pain, indignity and frustration completely avoided?
With my thoughts totally unresolved, and the radio on once more, I headed for home ....
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Down Time
"You're a 24/7 courier - don't you ever get time off?" Well, let me correct the presumption implied in that question. I work for a 24/7 firm; that doesn't mean that the individual drivers work 24/7 ... that would be simply unsafe! No, the phones are manned around the clock by a team of controllers, and outside of 'normal' office hours a variety of drivers make themselves available - according to their own individual situations and circumstances - for whatever work comes in.
As for me - I tend to be available from waking to bedtime five days a week, and the occasional Saturday when I have nothing else written in my diary (which seems to mean less frequently these days than when I started, full of enthusiasm!) As a matter of principle, I don't work on Sundays, with a couple of exceptional categories, which are i) to collect a job locally for delivery somewhere on Monday morning, and ii) in case of medical emergency.
So the question remains, 'what do I do with my spare time?' I guess that's almost - but not quite - the same as 'what are my hobbies?' One thing I'm looking forward to at the moment is an event that takes place in a couple of weeks' time. This is the annual gathering to determine the winners of the Eddie Buck Trophy. It's what we bellringers call a 'Striking Competition.' That's not a process of hitting each other, but a test of each team's ability to ring the same bells with an even space between the dings and the dongs. It's (usually) a nice relaxing afternoon in a sunny churchyard, catching up with old acquaintances not seen since last year, or enjoying the company of the friends I see every week.
And then there's the tea! While we wait for the judges to tot up the marks and compile their report on our various performances, what else is there to do but munch and sip? A ringers' tea has to be seen to be believed. There are usually far more sandwiches, with a variety of fillings, than would supply more picnics than would fill a summer, and an equally plentiful provision of (fattening) cakes, too! And alongside these is an endless supply of tea by the gallon although, since I don't drink tea, I make a nuisance of myself and request coffee. Once we have all been refreshed, comes the official meeting of the local Ringing Association, highlight of which is the judges' report, and the all-important results.
My team is not normally lucky enough to be among the winning trio. Once we did come third - but we didn't broadcast the fact that there were only three teams taking part that year! Our tower captain has been going round with a clipboard collecting the names of those who are willing to take part. He only needs six, but it's amazing how many are going on holiday, feel they aren't good enough, or are simply unwilling to subject themselves to the ignomy of being beaten (which is virtually certain, since some teams are so good as to win, or nearly so, year after year.)
Win or lose, work will soon come round again!
As for me - I tend to be available from waking to bedtime five days a week, and the occasional Saturday when I have nothing else written in my diary (which seems to mean less frequently these days than when I started, full of enthusiasm!) As a matter of principle, I don't work on Sundays, with a couple of exceptional categories, which are i) to collect a job locally for delivery somewhere on Monday morning, and ii) in case of medical emergency.
So the question remains, 'what do I do with my spare time?' I guess that's almost - but not quite - the same as 'what are my hobbies?' One thing I'm looking forward to at the moment is an event that takes place in a couple of weeks' time. This is the annual gathering to determine the winners of the Eddie Buck Trophy. It's what we bellringers call a 'Striking Competition.' That's not a process of hitting each other, but a test of each team's ability to ring the same bells with an even space between the dings and the dongs. It's (usually) a nice relaxing afternoon in a sunny churchyard, catching up with old acquaintances not seen since last year, or enjoying the company of the friends I see every week.
And then there's the tea! While we wait for the judges to tot up the marks and compile their report on our various performances, what else is there to do but munch and sip? A ringers' tea has to be seen to be believed. There are usually far more sandwiches, with a variety of fillings, than would supply more picnics than would fill a summer, and an equally plentiful provision of (fattening) cakes, too! And alongside these is an endless supply of tea by the gallon although, since I don't drink tea, I make a nuisance of myself and request coffee. Once we have all been refreshed, comes the official meeting of the local Ringing Association, highlight of which is the judges' report, and the all-important results.
My team is not normally lucky enough to be among the winning trio. Once we did come third - but we didn't broadcast the fact that there were only three teams taking part that year! Our tower captain has been going round with a clipboard collecting the names of those who are willing to take part. He only needs six, but it's amazing how many are going on holiday, feel they aren't good enough, or are simply unwilling to subject themselves to the ignomy of being beaten (which is virtually certain, since some teams are so good as to win, or nearly so, year after year.)
Win or lose, work will soon come round again!
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Pear-shaped
The courier life isn't 100% enjoyment. I have to admit that, while for the most part I do find it most pleasant, there are times when I could do with things turning out differently. Take this week, for example. It started off well, with a job to Manchester on Monday, and I enjoyed a nice chat with the trucker who shared my table for a meal on my way back. Tuesday started off quietly, but that wasn't uncommon, and early in the afternoon I set off with jobs for Northampton and Mansfield.
It was just on 6.0pm when disaster struck. I was just leaving a motorway service area when the van made it quite clear it wasn't going anywhere. My clutch pedal was firmly on the floor and not shifting. First of all, I called the office to get another driver on the way to me to complete the delivery, and then called out the breakdown service. Their care was faultless. I was told they would be with me within 45 mins to an hour - the recovery vehicle arrived before half an hour had elapsed, and by the time his arrival had been guaranteed, my van was loaded up and we were already on our way to his depot.
By the time my colleague had turned up and we had transferred the boxes I was to have delivered to his van, arrangements had been made to bring me home, and I was into bed by 11.0, having left the van with my maintenance garage, whom I visited when they opened yesterday morning to explain what was going on. They too pulled out all the stops to help me, knowing that while the van is off the road I earn nothing. By 4.30 pm, the problem had been identified - a broken clutch pedal - the part obtained, and replacement carried out. Several pounds worse off, I was back in the office, waiting for more work.
This morning, loaded with jobs for Milton Keynes and Carlisle, I had set off on my journey when my agonies were revived - the engine management light came on! It was a hard choice to make. Do I ignore it and press on to recover some of my losses, or abort and return to base? I took the wise course, and once more saw my work fed into someone else's vehicle. I then returned to the garage, where the wonders of computer technology indicated no definite answer. Certainly nothing serious was shown to be amiss, and the presumed explanation was a switch possibly adjusted differently from how it had been before the pedal replacement.
This afternoon has at least produced some work that I was able to execute hitch-free, and now I'm loaded again, this time for an early morning journey to Worcester, in the hope of keeping the time lost to the minimum for the remainder of the week.
It just goes to show that life on the road isn't always plain sailing (or driving!)
It was just on 6.0pm when disaster struck. I was just leaving a motorway service area when the van made it quite clear it wasn't going anywhere. My clutch pedal was firmly on the floor and not shifting. First of all, I called the office to get another driver on the way to me to complete the delivery, and then called out the breakdown service. Their care was faultless. I was told they would be with me within 45 mins to an hour - the recovery vehicle arrived before half an hour had elapsed, and by the time his arrival had been guaranteed, my van was loaded up and we were already on our way to his depot.
By the time my colleague had turned up and we had transferred the boxes I was to have delivered to his van, arrangements had been made to bring me home, and I was into bed by 11.0, having left the van with my maintenance garage, whom I visited when they opened yesterday morning to explain what was going on. They too pulled out all the stops to help me, knowing that while the van is off the road I earn nothing. By 4.30 pm, the problem had been identified - a broken clutch pedal - the part obtained, and replacement carried out. Several pounds worse off, I was back in the office, waiting for more work.
This morning, loaded with jobs for Milton Keynes and Carlisle, I had set off on my journey when my agonies were revived - the engine management light came on! It was a hard choice to make. Do I ignore it and press on to recover some of my losses, or abort and return to base? I took the wise course, and once more saw my work fed into someone else's vehicle. I then returned to the garage, where the wonders of computer technology indicated no definite answer. Certainly nothing serious was shown to be amiss, and the presumed explanation was a switch possibly adjusted differently from how it had been before the pedal replacement.
This afternoon has at least produced some work that I was able to execute hitch-free, and now I'm loaded again, this time for an early morning journey to Worcester, in the hope of keeping the time lost to the minimum for the remainder of the week.
It just goes to show that life on the road isn't always plain sailing (or driving!)
Sunday, 12 June 2011
When I press the 'off' button
There are times on long journeys - and on short ones too! - when the chatter, or the music, or the serious talk coming out of either radio or mp3 player just don't satisfy, and I press the 'off' button. Admittedly, it doesn't stay off for long, and I soon resort once more to the entertainment machine, but now and again it's nice just to be quiet and let the thoughts flow.
Often, I find, such times happen when I'm driving through the countryside, or when I've just been listening to something that has a 'pastoral' flavour. At times like this I find that my thoughts turn back to my childhood in Norfolk, or to how I imagine my parents' life to have been in the twenties and thirties, or during wartime.
The town where I grew up had survived the war virtually unscathed - in material terms, anyway. A stray enemy fighter had strafed the town centre one lunchtime, I believe, but there had been no intense bombing as in larger places up and down the country. Inevitably there were human casualties of the war, including my uncle, who had died while working as a PoW on the Burma Railway. But by the time of my boyhood (I am old enough to have had a ration card, but not old enough to remember it!) the town had recovered, and was getting to grips with the New Elizabethan age. My parents took possession of a brand new Council House two weeks before their wedding, and my widowed mother was still living there when she died some 56 years later!
Many of the shops in the town centre and local businesses still bore the names of their nineteenth or early twentieth century founders - some engraved into the facades of the buildings! Names like E E Anness, W Gostling, Wallace King and W D Chitty; partnerships such as Aldrich & Bryant, Bateley & Stratton and Watson & Smith were part of the overheard conversation with which I grew up. Even though many of the businesses had since been taken over by sons-in-law, or bought by new proprietors, they were still known by the names they had borne for decades. Change came slowly to country folk - and probably still does!
My parents kept themselves to themselves. Maybe this was because neither of them had been born in the town - although they had lived there for over twenty years when they married! Whatever the reason, this isolation left its mark on me. For good or ill, the outlook that my parents had on life shaped my own development. It gave me a strong sense of independence and self-sufficiency, but I also found it difficult to mix with others ... and still do. Although quite willing to pull my weight, I wouldn't describe myself as a 'team player'. Some of the prominent families on our estate got together in the early 'fifties and formed an Association to enable the people who lived there to gather together socially for outings and the like. One of their achievements was to obtain, and have erected on the green in the middle of the estate, a roundabout and a set of swings to provide a focus for the many children who were growing up there. My parents had never joined the Association, and I was forbidden to play there. There was a definite 'us and them' demarcation, of our own making. It was many years before I realised this, and many more before I was able to get my mind completely around it - long after it had ceased to have any relevance for me!
And then something jerks me back to the present, and the radio goes on once more ....
Often, I find, such times happen when I'm driving through the countryside, or when I've just been listening to something that has a 'pastoral' flavour. At times like this I find that my thoughts turn back to my childhood in Norfolk, or to how I imagine my parents' life to have been in the twenties and thirties, or during wartime.
The town where I grew up had survived the war virtually unscathed - in material terms, anyway. A stray enemy fighter had strafed the town centre one lunchtime, I believe, but there had been no intense bombing as in larger places up and down the country. Inevitably there were human casualties of the war, including my uncle, who had died while working as a PoW on the Burma Railway. But by the time of my boyhood (I am old enough to have had a ration card, but not old enough to remember it!) the town had recovered, and was getting to grips with the New Elizabethan age. My parents took possession of a brand new Council House two weeks before their wedding, and my widowed mother was still living there when she died some 56 years later!
Many of the shops in the town centre and local businesses still bore the names of their nineteenth or early twentieth century founders - some engraved into the facades of the buildings! Names like E E Anness, W Gostling, Wallace King and W D Chitty; partnerships such as Aldrich & Bryant, Bateley & Stratton and Watson & Smith were part of the overheard conversation with which I grew up. Even though many of the businesses had since been taken over by sons-in-law, or bought by new proprietors, they were still known by the names they had borne for decades. Change came slowly to country folk - and probably still does!
My parents kept themselves to themselves. Maybe this was because neither of them had been born in the town - although they had lived there for over twenty years when they married! Whatever the reason, this isolation left its mark on me. For good or ill, the outlook that my parents had on life shaped my own development. It gave me a strong sense of independence and self-sufficiency, but I also found it difficult to mix with others ... and still do. Although quite willing to pull my weight, I wouldn't describe myself as a 'team player'. Some of the prominent families on our estate got together in the early 'fifties and formed an Association to enable the people who lived there to gather together socially for outings and the like. One of their achievements was to obtain, and have erected on the green in the middle of the estate, a roundabout and a set of swings to provide a focus for the many children who were growing up there. My parents had never joined the Association, and I was forbidden to play there. There was a definite 'us and them' demarcation, of our own making. It was many years before I realised this, and many more before I was able to get my mind completely around it - long after it had ceased to have any relevance for me!
And then something jerks me back to the present, and the radio goes on once more ....
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Enough is as Good as a Feast!
I sometimes think I could act as a scout for Jane Austen, with the number of 'universally acknowledged truths' I keep discovering. I know - the post was made redundant long ago! The latest realisation is that a man offered something for less than the market price - especially if it's food! - will take it, even if he doesn't really need it. This accounts, I'm sure, for the silhouette of many people who earn a living behind the steering wheel.
The truth of this came home to me yesterday as a cosmopolitan quartet - one Sri Lankan, one Zimbabwean, one of Arab extraction, and myself - sat in the crew room, and agreed with some amusement that over-eating, and its consequence for our figures, is an occupational hazard for drivers of whatever calibre.
My Arab friend had emerged from the kitchen with half a baguette that he had just filled with a healthy(?) mixture of meat and salad, and prompted a Sri Lankan confession of an attack upon an enormous breakfast at a truckers' cafe recently. There had been so much, and such variety, on the plate that he'd been unable to achieve a complete conquest ... though he proudly recorded the despatch of all five rashers of quality back bacon!
The problem is, of course, clock-focussed. We are used to breakfast when we get up, and two or even three more meals spread throughout the rest of the day. If we have come to driving after a more active career - even if, as in my case, only slightly more active - it is difficult to overcome this time-honoured régime. Alongside this, the irregular hours make it difficult to embark upon, or sustain, any regular pattern of additional exercise. Consequently, the calorie intake usually far exceeds the calorie consumption as a result of the physical effort involved in daily life.
Memo to self - if you've had a meal out in the evening, you DONT need that breakfast next day!
The truth of this came home to me yesterday as a cosmopolitan quartet - one Sri Lankan, one Zimbabwean, one of Arab extraction, and myself - sat in the crew room, and agreed with some amusement that over-eating, and its consequence for our figures, is an occupational hazard for drivers of whatever calibre.
My Arab friend had emerged from the kitchen with half a baguette that he had just filled with a healthy(?) mixture of meat and salad, and prompted a Sri Lankan confession of an attack upon an enormous breakfast at a truckers' cafe recently. There had been so much, and such variety, on the plate that he'd been unable to achieve a complete conquest ... though he proudly recorded the despatch of all five rashers of quality back bacon!
The problem is, of course, clock-focussed. We are used to breakfast when we get up, and two or even three more meals spread throughout the rest of the day. If we have come to driving after a more active career - even if, as in my case, only slightly more active - it is difficult to overcome this time-honoured régime. Alongside this, the irregular hours make it difficult to embark upon, or sustain, any regular pattern of additional exercise. Consequently, the calorie intake usually far exceeds the calorie consumption as a result of the physical effort involved in daily life.
Memo to self - if you've had a meal out in the evening, you DONT need that breakfast next day!
Sunday, 5 June 2011
One way or the Other!
If you talk to any professional driver, he or she will confirm that there are at least two ways of getting anywhere. Usually they will allege that whichever is their preferred route is the 'only good way' to go, and that all the others are of less quality, not so enjoyable, much slower, fraught with unruly traffic, or somesuch. So, 'What about you?' I hear you thinking. Of course I'm no different, but I like to think any opinion I might express is based on my own experience, and not simply a reflection of others' opinions.
You may have noticed that it's some while since I last posted something here. So many factors have contributed to this that I can't remember them all, but one reason is the fact of losing the use of three consecutive evenings last week because of a succession of jobs that were either late or long. I was disturbed by the phone last Wednesday just as I was moving from prayer-time to breakfast, when my controller called to ask me to collect an urgent job for delivery in Edinburgh by 5.0pm. The collection point was almost an hour in the opposite direction, and it's an indication of the degree of flexibility (or lack of it!) in this time frame that despite travelling directly there, stopping only for 'natural' breaks, I made it by 4.30. There were accidents and horse-drawn carriages to delay me, and also those inevitable queues that are ... just queues. They disperse as easily as they appear in front of you.
After this, I was glad to enjoy the peaceful reverie of a slower return on what I would describe as a 'good' road, returning by way of Coldstream, Morpeth and the A1. As I did so, I realised that the distance from Edinburgh to the A1 at Morpeth is little different from a journey I'd made recently from the port at Stranraer to the M74 at Gretna. Predictably, the time taken for each trip is about the same as well: around 2 hours for just under 100 miles. So how was it, then, that this run homewards from Edinburgh was so much more enjoyable? For one thing, there was no pressure. I knew that the time I got home would make little difference to the outline of the next few days - I would sleep as long as my body wanted, then go to the office to see what might lay next in store. By contrast, that journey from Stranraer had been in daytime; I was anxious to get home to deal with my post and admin and get to bed at a 'normal' bedtime.
Then there's the difference in the surroundings. My route last week took me along open vistas, lovely straight roads with rolling hills on either side, and lots of sheep and cows to occupy my interest. For part of it, too, I was travelling through the area where I'd enjoyed a relaxing summer holiday last year, so some of the views carried with them a feeling totally divorced from my present reason for being there. The road in from Stranraer is always associated with a journey home from Ireland, and there's an accompanying resentment at the use of this route instead of that via Holyhead, which is shorter, and therefore quicker, and offers the refreshment of a sleep on the ferry as well.
In the context of the present comparison, the Stranraer road seems always to have a lot of traffic, and there are very few places to overtake with any degree of safety. To be fair, the views are sometimes interesting but the road seems to be quite tree-lined (although I'm open to be proved wrong about this, since it's quite possible that my prejudice causes me only to remember the tree-lined stretches,) and the glimpses of Wigtown Bay and the Solway Firth, though pleasant, are only partially and intermittently visible.
So, be prepared to question what you hear of the 'Best Way to Go.' It's a concept often open to distortion, and not just by traffic conditions. The time of day, personal histories - and sometimes just plain prejudice - can all play a part in its defining.
You may have noticed that it's some while since I last posted something here. So many factors have contributed to this that I can't remember them all, but one reason is the fact of losing the use of three consecutive evenings last week because of a succession of jobs that were either late or long. I was disturbed by the phone last Wednesday just as I was moving from prayer-time to breakfast, when my controller called to ask me to collect an urgent job for delivery in Edinburgh by 5.0pm. The collection point was almost an hour in the opposite direction, and it's an indication of the degree of flexibility (or lack of it!) in this time frame that despite travelling directly there, stopping only for 'natural' breaks, I made it by 4.30. There were accidents and horse-drawn carriages to delay me, and also those inevitable queues that are ... just queues. They disperse as easily as they appear in front of you.
After this, I was glad to enjoy the peaceful reverie of a slower return on what I would describe as a 'good' road, returning by way of Coldstream, Morpeth and the A1. As I did so, I realised that the distance from Edinburgh to the A1 at Morpeth is little different from a journey I'd made recently from the port at Stranraer to the M74 at Gretna. Predictably, the time taken for each trip is about the same as well: around 2 hours for just under 100 miles. So how was it, then, that this run homewards from Edinburgh was so much more enjoyable? For one thing, there was no pressure. I knew that the time I got home would make little difference to the outline of the next few days - I would sleep as long as my body wanted, then go to the office to see what might lay next in store. By contrast, that journey from Stranraer had been in daytime; I was anxious to get home to deal with my post and admin and get to bed at a 'normal' bedtime.
Then there's the difference in the surroundings. My route last week took me along open vistas, lovely straight roads with rolling hills on either side, and lots of sheep and cows to occupy my interest. For part of it, too, I was travelling through the area where I'd enjoyed a relaxing summer holiday last year, so some of the views carried with them a feeling totally divorced from my present reason for being there. The road in from Stranraer is always associated with a journey home from Ireland, and there's an accompanying resentment at the use of this route instead of that via Holyhead, which is shorter, and therefore quicker, and offers the refreshment of a sleep on the ferry as well.
In the context of the present comparison, the Stranraer road seems always to have a lot of traffic, and there are very few places to overtake with any degree of safety. To be fair, the views are sometimes interesting but the road seems to be quite tree-lined (although I'm open to be proved wrong about this, since it's quite possible that my prejudice causes me only to remember the tree-lined stretches,) and the glimpses of Wigtown Bay and the Solway Firth, though pleasant, are only partially and intermittently visible.
So, be prepared to question what you hear of the 'Best Way to Go.' It's a concept often open to distortion, and not just by traffic conditions. The time of day, personal histories - and sometimes just plain prejudice - can all play a part in its defining.
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