None Shall Pass

All those of you who are drivers out there are going to hate this story, but here goes. We were heading south on a minor A road, on our way to form a light afternoon snack for the entire Scottish population of mosquitoes, when we were overtaken by a big estate car. No surprises there: the other half is still trying for the high score on the MPG readout on the car. But ahead of us was a motor caravan and the road was an A road in name only; it barely even ran to a white line down the middle, although there was at least no grass growing down the centre either. And the driver of the caravan was in no mood to let the middle-aged-man-racer past where there wasn’t room to do so. It went nicely into the left on the bends, but where the road straightened, and a suicidal lunatic might possibly have scraped by, out it drifted into the middle. The car behind was weaving frantically, frustration in every line. Meanwhile, the other half was cackling with manic glee. Clearly he’s been screamed past by one overgrown boy racer too many and was enjoying the vicarious revenge.

We turned off before we saw what happened. No doubt the road finally straightened enough that the caravan had to give way, and the estate car got past and hopefully not into the nearest stone dyke. As a cyclist, I’ve long wanted to do what that caravan driver did, but I’ve never quite had the guts, at least not on a bike. I’ve never seen the attraction of a motor caravan holiday, not since the disastrous one we had in my childhood* – in the west of Scotland, now I come to think of it – where it rained for a fortnight. But now, I may have to reconsider.

*and if Huttonian can refrain from mentioning the porta-potty story, I would be grateful. Bringing it up at my wedding was bad enough…