One of the best things about driving anywhere is the journey home. I know I probably sound like a total home-bird, homebody, covered in self-raising flour, in a hand-sewn pinafore, destined for a future of small, fat children who never leave my kitchen because – why would they want to go anywhere that doesn’t contain me and, you know, cake?
As it happens, the reason I’m usually at home is quite simple: I get lost so easily.
That said, the journey home is always easier than the journey to somewhere new.
The journey to – tends to include remembering the name of a road or a town, desperately hoping for a friendly cyclist to point the way, or searching the sky for a seagull to give a clue, at least, where the seaside and some chips might be.
The journey back usually involves simply aiming the car in the right direction and watching for a familiar-looking tree or bend in the road. Easy.
Now, I used to think the journey home was easy because all I had to find was a gorse bush. All the way from Hampshire, right the way down to Cornwall, the road is strung together with gorse bushes. If I see a gorse bush, I know I’m headed the right way.
Except, of course, that they’re everywhere. Dotted all across the country. There’s probably not a patch of England that doesn’t have a gorse bush. And yet, if I see one, I immediately feel like I’m on the right road.
Still, I can usually find my way back. I only once wound up headed into Wales when I was looking for Swindon. And on the road back from Coventry, I nearly sent myself to Birmingham when looking for the west country.
It’s all an adventure.