motoring - Debbie Young's Writing Life

I is for Italy

Posted on September 30, 2011July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

In her quest to find some English-speaking playmates on our French holiday, Laura has turned us all into licence plate spotters. Learning the country abbreviations on foreign cars is certainly improving her knowledge of European geography and languages. While recognising a car labelled I is Italian is pretty intuitive, identifying a German car from a D or a Swiss from CH is rather more of a challenge.

Until now, whenever we’ve been abroad on holiday, she’s bonded happily with children of any nationality, whatever language they spoke. Aged 3, she spent a happy afternoon playing with a French-speaking Swiss girl on a boat in a Greek harbour. The same year, she received her first kiss was from an adoring Greek boy in Athens, transfixed by her blonde hair and blue eyes. She had a memorable afternoon in a Greek playground with a huge von-Trapp like German-speaking family, ranging in age from about 12 to 2. In their contest to see who could stay the longest on the roundabout, Laura represented the UK admirably – she was joint winner with the 12 year old.

But now she is anxious about not being understood. Sadly, she’s just reached the age at which children on longer absorb a foreign language by osmosis. From now on, if she wants to learn another tongue, she’ll have to work at it. I hope her early friendships with foreigners will persuade her that the hard graft is worthwhile.

In the meantime, learning each country’s name in its own language is a good starting point.

While perusing the car park in La Charite sur Loire, I’m reminded of another interesting difference in languages: the names of car models. It’s hardly an original observation – we all know the urban myth of the new car launched under the brand name of Nova. To its American designers, it sounded like a classic brand in the making, with intimations of novelty, newness and being bang on trend – until the Spanish market rejected it as meaning simply “it doesn’t go”. Not a great strapline for a motor car.

The battered silver car now parked adjacent to our van looks as if it won’t go, but it’s actually branded a “Manager”. This might sound prestigious to the French ear, but to me it just sounds daft – talk about damning with faint praise! I speculate as to whether it’s a mid-range car, the poshest model being the President or Chief Executive. The luxury version would be the Commodity Trader or Banker, while lower down comes the Clerk (make that a Senior Clerk if it’s got air-con). And at entry-level for the first-time car-buyer, there’s always the cheap and economical Tea Lady.

But who am I to criticise? If I dared, I could have a sticker on the back of our camper van saying “My other car is a Ka.” The Ford Ka. That’s got to be the worst named car in the world. Now there’s an argument for Esperanto if ever I heard one.

Travel

A Lay-by By Any Other Name

Posted on September 11, 2011March 9, 2013 by Debbie Young

Heading south from Fontainebleau on the N7, we settle into the mindset required to endure a long drive before we will allow ourselves to stop for the night. We sit in companionable silence, which is welcome after the non-stop background music in Disneyland the day before. Laura, exhausted by her 12-hour day there, dozes behind us.

We’ve chosen the non-motorway route for most of our French tour, not only to avoid the cost of the peage (toll road) that is the faster option to Provence. We actively enjoy driving through the quiet towns and sleepy villages that punctuate long rural roads. Passing through farmland and forest, we occasionally exchange observations about little oddities that we spot along the way. But when Laura awakes to demand a toilet stop, a longer discussion begins.

“Why are those two girls just sitting by the side of the road?” asks Gordon as we pull into one of the many convenient lay-bys.

I frown.

“Hitch-hikers, I expect.”

Knowing Gordon, he’ll want to pick them up. He’s a soft touch for hitch-hikers, having used hitch-hiking as his main means of transport in his teens. I realise that for two girls who are not much more than teenagers themselves, a family in a camper van will be preferable to a lorry. Comfy seats, lots of space, a cute child to play with and probably the offer of tea and biscuits somewhere along the way. We’ve rescued similar pairs of passengers from torrential rain when touring Scotland and I resign myself to a noisier journey from here on.

But to my surprise, the two girls barely glance in our direction. Instead, they gaze dully at the oncoming traffic. I feel rejected.

“Probably on the game,” I remark, meaning to be funny, but in a sour grapes tone of voice.

Then a small French car pulls up in front of us, driven by a lone man. Is their driver going to offer them a lift? The car obscures my view of the girls. As our van is English, Gordon has a clearer view of the kerb from the driver’s seat.

“No, I think he’s just gone for a pee,” he says, guessing my thoughts.

Laura is back in her seat by now and as we pull out to continue our journey, Gordon glances in his wing mirror.

“There’s only one girl there now.”

We continue in silence, soon passing another of this road’s generous supply of lay-bys. There’s also a girl on her own at this one, but in a small car this time, parked at right angles to the road. She’s sitting in the driving seat, on the left of the car, so that no passing motorist can fail to notice she’s on her own. I’m surprised at this: if I ever have to sit in a lay-by alone, for safety’s sake I do everything to I can to make it seem that I’m accompanied by a man. Moving over to the passenger seat is meant to be the best safety precaution. Potential muggers and rapists will then assume you’re just waiting for your husband to come back from answering a call of nature. Don’t they have any personal safety public information films in this country, I wonder?

By the time we reach the next lay-by, we’re engaged in an earnest census of the population of lone females. Here we spot not one but two white transit vans, each at right angles to the road, and each with a solitary girl in the driver’s seat. In one van, attached to the driver’s head restraint is one of those large inflatable bath pillows that you can get in the shape of a pair of red lips. With a start, I realise this may be a form of code.

“So what do you think?” asks Gordon, as we pass it by.

I hesitate, considering, not wanting to believe what is uppermost in my mind.

“I think my earlier assessment was correct,” I reply slowly. “They’re on the game.”

There’s a moment of synchronised jaw-dropping before I ask in a small voice: “I wonder what the French is for lay-by?”

Travel

The Camper Van Salute

Posted on September 9, 2011March 9, 2013 by Debbie Young

We realise early on in our ownership of a camper van that there is a special action that drivers of such vehicles use to greet each other. Whenever they approach each other on a road, they must slowly raise their right arm, not really in a wave, but more of a casual, off-duty salute.

It’s generally the duty of the driver to offer up the camper van salute. But if the driver is engaged in a particularly tricky manoeuvre, the front seat passenger assumes responsibility. And when both driver and passenger are in a particularly happy frame of mind, as at the start of a new trip, they may throw caution to the winds and both offer this distinctive cheery wave.

When we first latch on to this tradition, we hail our kindred spirits self-consciously, embarrassed if the approaching van driver does not reciprocate. But now we’re old hands at it, if you’ll pardon the pun, we’re expert. And we rank salutees after they’ve passed us. We’re pleased if we get a double response, dismissive if ignored. When abroad, we check out the country sticker after they’ve passed.

“Ah, les Francais,” we murmur sagely, or “Nederlander”, “Italiano”, as appropriate, if their nationality is the key to their response.

This harmless fun adds interest to a long journey. It soon becomes a habit so ingrained that we sometimes forget that we are not in our van. Pottering through Cotswold lanes in my little Ford Ka, I occasionally raise an arm in fellowship to an approaching motorhome towering above me. Even more foolishly, I’ve done it once or twice on my pushbike. In those circumstances, the camper van salute is about as likely to get noticed as a sailing dinghy hailing a cross-channel ferry (and we’ve all heard stories about ocean liners arriving at their destination with dinghies splattered across their bows like summer flies on a car windscreen). But even if the drivers do notice my gaffe, I don’t suppose they mind. We camperers are jolly, sociable types and we’re very forgiving. I’m just slightly on my guard in case I ever do it to Germans: I’d hate them to get the wrong idea.

On my husband’s recent solo jaunt around the Scottish Highlands, (“This van is my passport to the Munros!”), he befriended a German camper van driver. His new German friend, also travelling alone, confided in Gordon that he’d had an unpleasant experience the night before. He’d just stopped for the night in an empty, isolated car park, when a group of boy racers turned up out of the blue. They proceeded to drive menacingly around his camper van at high speed, shrieking and mocking. Eventually they got bored and drove off, leaving him shaken but unharmed.

“I do not know why they do this,” he told Gordon plaintively. “I worry that it is because of my German vehicle sticker. They see that big D on my bumper and they think of what my country did in the war.”

My husband rushes to reassure him.

“Oh no, it won’t be that, I’m sure. We’ve all forgotten about the war a long time ago.”

He wonders why the German is looking less than convinced.

It’s only an hour later, undressing back in our camper van, that Gordon realises he’s wearing a Dad’s Army t-shirt, bought for a snip in Stornoway at a Tesco’s post-Fathers’ Day sale.

So he’d mentioned the war, but this time I don’t think he got away with it.

Travel

Rage Against the Road Signs

Posted on June 5, 2011July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Buffalo road sign at Delta Junction, Alaska — Image by Arthur Chapman via Flickr

“Please take care whilst overtaking.”

For the next few miles, I’m too busy thinking up less pompous alternatives to “whilst” to pay much attention to my driving technique. (Any passing motorist from The Plain English Society would throw up their hands in horror at this road sign – never a good move behind the wheel of a car.)

Some distance north, another sign urges further caution: “Better late than never. Don’t speed.”

What nagging fishwife has been let loose in the signage department today? Whatever next? “Driving like that won’t get you there any faster, will it?”

These aggravating signs are not confined to English roads. A half-term trip to Scotland yields some prime examples. Driving out of Tyndrum, an area in which my mobile phone has no signal for some miles, I am implored to “Don’t text while driving – don’t risk it!” Chance would be a fine thing. On the M9 near Perth, I am bizarrely urged to “Think Bike!” – even though bikes aren’t allowed on motorways. Heading home, as we near the border with England, we are advised to “Plan ahead – visit trafficscotland”. Surely it would have made more sense to promote this service to visitors entering Scotland, rather than those about to leave?

I really question the value of these new motorway signs, whose big black gantries sprang up all over the country a few years ago, in a flurry of pre-recession investment by the Ministry of Transport. A civil engineer friend enlightened me when I wondered why so many cables were being laid alongside the motorway.

“The new driver information system,” he advised. “They’ll reduce road rage by keeping motorists informed. It’s a good thing.”

Well, so far, they’ve not improved my mood. The only traffic-related messages I’ve seen on them have borne no relevance to my journey. Each time I see them looming, my heart sinks, assuming they are preparing me for an imminent traffic jam. But driving from Bath to Bristol, they inform me of road closures in Devon. Heading from Bristol to Bath, pile-ups on the M25 seems to be their main concern. It’s as if the person responsible for updating the signs nationwide regularly drops their box of messages and inadvertently muddles them up, with the result that each message is input in the wrong location. As I furrow my brow on the M4, are Devon drivers and M25 motorists puzzling over hold-ups affecting my route?

Then two weeks ago, after joining the M4 at Junction 19, for a single-hop journey home from Junction 18, I finally came across a message that was meaningful to me: “Junction 18 closed – one night only – tonight!” The tone was proud and celebratory, as if this were a special offer and a cause for rejoicing. Too late to change my route, I had to sail helplessly past the closed-off Junction 18, now cheerfully bedecked in orange traffic cones. I had no choice but to continue London-bound, my home metaphorically receding in my rear-view mirror. My twenty minute journey ended up taking over an hour, thanks to the unexpected diversion.

But I’ll not despair. One day I’ll find a motorway sign that really hits the spot for me. And I know just what it will say:

“Caution: Irritating Road Sign Ahead”.

Travel

Have Sat Nav, Will Travel (Less)

Posted on April 23, 2011July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Global Navigation Satellite System (GNSS) surv... — Image by Wessex Archaeology via Flickr

“What’s wrong with just using a map?” has been my constant retort against sat navs. I have always disputed the premise of the popular book title “Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps” (well, the bit about maps, anyway).

Several unfortunate experiences with the GPS belonging to Gadget Man (aka my husband) has left me disenchanted with this particular new technology. It assumes one is always travelling either by car or on foot. Nearly wedging our camper van in a progressively narrowing Welsh lane was enough to make me want to throw the thing out of the window. (In the end, we reversed out to safety).

But this week I’ve changed my tune. Playing around with my mobile in an idle moment (which I get about once every 20 years), I decide my phone isn’t working hard enough for me. This is ironic, because since Orange and T-Mobile joined forces, I’m now for the first time able to get a signal just about everywhere, even in my thick-walled Cotswold cottage. So I’m using it much more than before. But I decide to push the boundaries of technology and see what else it will do for me.

The answer: sat nav. For just a few quid a month, it will tell me very politely how to get from A to B, with options to go via C, D, E and even X, Y and Z if I want it to. Sure, there are a few technical hitches.

FIrst of all, it doesn’t recognise my house, because I don’t have a door number, just a house name. So I’ve made my adoptive home my neighbour’s house opposite. This confuses me on my first sat-nav’d journey home, as I forget I’ve done this, and it keeps telling me to veer away from my house, as if it suspects some unknown danger lurking there.

Secondly, it panics if I’m not on a registered road. “GET ON THE ROAD!” it shouts in capital letters as I set off home from a National Trust car park. You can almost hear it sigh with relief as we hit the A46.

But apart from this, like a toddler, it appears to have no sense of fear, as I discover when using it on a return journey from my mum’s in Bristol. I must have done this journey literally 1,000 times, both us having lived in our current homes for over 20 years, so I don’t actually need its guidance, I’m just curious to see which of my repertoire of routes it prefers. I have a wide range and vary them according to my mood. To my surprise, it takes me in completely the opposite direction to any of them, heading into the centre of Bristol and through the notoriously dangerous area of St Paul’s.

Years ago, driving to work that way, I pulled over to investigate the steam that was arising from under the bonnet of the car. A policeman quickly pulled up behind me.

“I wouldn’t stop here, love,” he advised. “Far too dangerous.”

And with that he jumped back into his panda car and sped off, leaving me stunned, pointing at the steam. Too bad, I thought to myself, it’s a company car, and quickly followed him.

Instinctively I central-lock my doors and try not to make eye-contact with anyone as I follow the sat nav’s instructions. I try not to think about my former colleague’s policeman ex-husband reporting going to a crime scene in St Paul’s where someone had their arms machete’d off.

But the sun is shining and people here are in holiday mood. The worst that happens is a man at the roadside holds up a placard to me telling me to “Beep if you don’t like Tesco’s“. I don’t like Tesco’s, but I don’t beep either. I don’t want to disturb the peace. I tell myself times have changed and not to be so foolish, though I admit to relief when we hit the motorway. We make it safely home, disobeying the sat nav only to turn into the right house in my lane.

Next day, at my sister’s, we watch the local news. There are scenes of overturned, torched cars and smashed windows (Tesco’s). I recognise the street: I passed through it in St Paul’s on my journey home the day before. They cut to night-time footage of fires and violence. Oh my God. The sat nav is fearful of a National Trust carpark, but thinks nothing of taking me through crime scenes.

Suddenly I feel, Dorothy-like, that there’s no place like home. I think I’ll be spending the rest of the holiday weekend at home now. Even if the sat nav does think I’m in the wrong house.