Chances are you've read this already, I've had it on facebook for about a year, but if not have a look. Travel writing is definitely something I would love to do, who wouldn't!
The day, as I remember, was relatively mild for an early January morning. We had set off very early, filled with all the excitement that accompanies an eager traveller at the beginning of a long exciting trip. The party consisted of my Mother, her partner Garry and me. Our first destination was London’s Gatwick Airport, and as we lived a good distance from it we had agreed that it would be best to leave early and avoid at least some of the inevitable morning traffic build up on the M25.
For those who have travelled along this treacherous motorway, the ‘M25’, its reputation will have no doubt been reaffirmed by hours of non-stop queuing, resulting in, well, honestly, you have no idea. After waiting hours in a long string of traffic, suddenly the road is open and traffic is flowing once again. Your brain tries to surmise what could have possibly happened to cause such erratic traffic patterns. Maybe drivers were distracted by a squirrel that had wandered onto the road searching for nuts and they felt it best not to disturb it and so waited for it to retreat a safe distance, although I fear that may be a rather romantic theory.
Not being a great sleeper anyway, the thought of this exciting trip had kept me up all through the previous night and so I tried in vain to get some rest before the eventual drama of the ‘M25’ arrived. While stretched out across the back seat of the Ford which was our carriage, my head resting on and regrettably squashing the lunch my Mother had thoughtfully packed for us, my mind turned to the week that lay ahead. Our final destination was the Dominican Republic in the Caribbean; from here we would pick up our ship, the aptly named ‘Destiny’. Several other tropical destinations would then follow, with plenty of rum punch to devour along the way and even the odd hour spent lazing on a white sand beach before having to return home. It was to be the perfect holiday, and unless something was slipping my mind, it had started out in pretty perfect fashion.
The mood in the car was understandably joyous as we tootled along the motorways which lead to London from Lincolnshire. The M25 was approaching. No-one, in the history of the world, has ever travelled this route without some kind of disruption, but it felt like we may just do it, after all this was to be our perfect vacation. Suddenly, on the horizon, appeared the signs that beckoned us onto the notorious London peripheral.
“Deep breathe people” was the call from the front of the car, and so we all obliged. Ten minutes of open motorway fuelled our optimism. We were gonna do it, the future was to be filled with interviews by famous people and endless questions as to how we had avoided the unavoidable. But no, we dared to dream and surely this was our undoing, the horizon suddenly filled with red brake lights and the nightmare had begun. What followed will live in infamy, not in written word, well apart from this account, but in my Mother’s conscience, forever stored, ready at the slightest provocation to be pulled out and used to chastise and reduce me to a quivering wreck. In years to follow, I can see it now; “No Mum, I swear I know what I’m doing!” to which she will reply “Ha! You know what you’re doing! Must I refer you to the ‘INCIDENT’ on the M25?” to which my involuntary response will be to curl up into a ball and plead for mercy.
As we sat there, nervously watching the little analogue clock, it seemed only logical to stretch my legs a little. I exited the car and, while trying to look cool for all the adoring fans peering from behind their steering wheels, stretched out making sure to tense my arms and look as muscular as possible. What harm, thought I, to having a little stroll up a little way to see if I could spy the little squirrel collecting nuts in the middle of the road and holding everybody up? Surely none whatsoever and so off I ventured, off into the mess of very similar looking cars. The more astute readers among you will now have reached a conclusion as to the problem that was shortly to befall me.
After a rather extended leg stretching session and finding no squirrel, my want was to return to the comfort of the Ford’s backseat. And so it began; my fruitless search. To begin with there was little panic; I would find it, eventually. No I believe the panic began when I heard an ominous rev of engines in the distance and then, as the sound grew closer my panic level probably rose from a respectable 4 or 5 to a not so respectable 5 and a half million. As the cars at the side of me started to move I knew I was in real trouble, so being a very astute individual, I moved myself over to the hard shoulder and continued to run. Looking good for my adoring audience no longer struck me as important. I thanked my lucky stars to have brought my mobile phone with me on my ill-fated nature hike along the busiest motorway in Great Britain. I called my Mother, who by all accounts was rather panicky, and after several missed calls and misunderstandings I managed to rediscover the sanctuary of the Ford’s backseat. It turns out I had ran straight passed the car and disappeared into the distance before my Mother could catch my attention.
After a tearful reunion and after I had nursed my pride back to full health the trip continued and rather miraculously we made our flight. The holiday that followed was indeed the perfect holiday that we had envisioned, and I was sure to remain seated the entire car ride home.
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