His voice shook just a little as he called out the directions, but we were soon at the pleasant little café, Clara standing on the footpath outside. I put a hand on the lad’s arm to keep him in his seat.
“She knows where to sit, son, and you’ve only just left her, so let’s get rolling before traffic time, okay?”
He nodded, but reached back over his seat to squeeze her hand once she was settled into her now accustomed place.
“Plot me a route to the bridge, son. The new one”
“On it”
It wasn’t too bad, actually, only a little bit of ‘city’ driving through Roath until we hit the major road near a muddy river, Maz already peering at the sludge in obvious hope, the glutton. Once we were on the A48, I relaxed, for there would be nothing more in the way of ‘navigation’ until we arrived at Gatwick. The conversation behind me was as expected
“Is Clara going back to our home now, Mum?”
“No, darling. She is staying with us in Aunty Steph’s house until we get the aeroplane again”
“Why?”
“To say goodbye to us, love. It’s what friends do. Now, Ish?”
“Yes, Mum?”
“I know you have the Woodruffs’ number. Could you please let them know we’re on our way, and ask if there are any plans for this evening?”
I could read my wife’s subtext rather clearly: apologise, in effect, for dumping another guest on our hosts, and make sure the evening wouldn’t end up too disjointed. We wouldn’t be the only ones with amended plans.
Past the hole that is Newport, more of a dream strangler than a soul sucker, and onto the long straight of the new crossing, the old bridge gleaming sort-of-white upstream, and then onto the English side. I was settling into an odd autopilot by then, but I still caught the essential words from behind, one being ‘Loo’, which came more frequently just as we approached the scenic wonder that isn’t Leigh Delamere services and its two for the price of three catering.
Needs must. I parked up on the grey wasteland outside and led the way in, our group splitting appropriately with an agreed rendezvous point outside the KFC. I was first back, followed by Ish, and he was looking a little shamefaced.
“Dad…”
“Clara’s not a problem, son”
“Not talking about Clar, Dad. Mum”
“Sorry?”
“Been looking at the map, and it would take a bit of time, and we’d be late, but it’s on her list”
“What is?”
He showed me the map on his phone. My clever, clever boy. I couldn’t help grinning at him.
“Do I say bonzer, ripper, she’ll be right, or all that crap Kul comes out with?”
He grinned back at me.
“Usually ‘You beaut!’ works fine, Dad”
“Well, you beaut, then. Not a word; just sort out the mapping, okay?”
“Yeah, mostly done. Just head off for Chippenham first. I’m just going outside to let the Woodruffs know”
“Good man. Do you want to eat here?”
“God, no! Must be a pub or somewhere on the way. There’s the girls coming back; let them decide”
It was nem con for the food choice, so once we had gathered a few ‘losyn’ (don’t ask me if that’s plural or not) and regathered our son, I was back on the road.
“Darling?”
“Yes, love?”
“I thought we just stayed on the M4”
“Alternative route, love. Save me getting Highway Trance, and we’re going to look for a pub or somewhere for lunch. Some proper food instead of that rubbish at the services. Someone pass me a sherbet lemon, please. Unwrapped”
We bypassed Chippenham on a decent if rather long ring road, and after a series of rather pretty villages, we did the same to Melksham.
“This place is what the pilgrimage is about, Maz”
“What exactly about it?”
“Melksham. Home of Avon motorcycle tyres”
“Great tyres, awful sexist adverts”
“Such as?”
“Well, one of them consisted of the sort of bike Keith and Pen used to have, with the bottom half of a woman who seemed to be wearing nothing bit nylons and a bike jacket, with the slogan ‘If you’ve got the leather, we’ve got the rubber’. Get my point?”
Two women behind me humphed, just as I saw a potential pub stop ahead. The Churchill in Lavington did all I was looking for, even though I was off beer for the trip, and we had a proper full-on roast dinner that left no need for pud. Our clock was still ticking, but Ish had made the right call. We had a couple more delays as Maz insisted we stop twice so she could snatch pictures of thatched houses, but the landscape was starting to rise into that typically Wiltshire landscape of unhedged roads crossing immense swathes of open grassland, and I was pleased that the signs concentrated more on various military establishments rather than our destination.
The big white sign before the roundabout told us we were at Airman’s Corner, with roads leading to Larkhill and Salisbury. It was the much smaller brown sign behind it that made my wonderful wife squeal like a teenager.
“You wonderful, wonderful husband, you!”
“Credit goes to Ish, love. His idea, entirely”
“You wonderful, wonderful son, you, then! But you’re still wonderful too, my love”
It was, of course, expensive, but I kept repeating that old mantra ‘Suleiman’s money’ as I paid. I was actually excited to be there, as it is a fascinating place, and much, much bigger and more complex than just the stones themselves. The Cursus stretches some distance, passing the Cuckoo Stone, to a seasonal encampment at Durrington Walls, where winter festivals or gatherings were held, for thousands of people, going back past 2.600 BC.
Stonehenge itself is just the most visible part of a vast complex, and we could spare around an hour for it.
Arsebollocks, as I had heard Eric and Annie say so many times.
LC wanted to know if the rocks were for climbing. She clearly had her own priorities sorted out.
We posed, took the pics, but our scramble for departure, unlike that so clearly shown in the faces of the coach tourists, was due to available time rather than boredom and disappointment. I realised that there was a strong parallel between them and the twitchers so pitied, or perhaps even despised, by Maz and Debbie. Not so much 2Today’s Tuesday, it must be Belgium’ but more ‘It’s twenty two minutes past one on Tuesday, it must be Stonehenge’. And it started to rain again.
Cheer up, Rhodes. I looped back round to the A303, and then onto the M3, before I had my own moment of inspiration, and detoured through the middle of Woking. Once again, the queries arose.
“Get your cameras ready, folks. This is going to be a very quick stop”
“What’s here, Mr Rhodes?”
“Where the Martians landed, Clara. War of the Worlds”
My lad jerked awake at that one.
“Ooh! Really?”
“Yup. I am going to make a very naughty and therefore quick stop for a picture from the car. Ready?”
I could hear the ‘shutters’ clicking away at the Martian tripod fighting machine, and then the first horn went behind me. Sod it; there was a parking space just coming free. I pulled in, gave clear instructions about limited time, and let four people scramble for shots of tripod, cylinder and signage, before heading back out of the town for the M25 and our final leg.
I needed a pint.
We finally arrived at the roundabout with all the hotels, heading left for Charlwood and Woodruff Towers. My back was starting to ache, for all the side trips had made it a much longer journey than planned. Each time I checked the rear view mirror, I caught a glimpse of three sleeping girls, and I had to elbow the boy to ensure I didn’t miss the turnings after Gatwick. Finally, finally, we were crunching across the gravel of our hosts’ drive, and it was with more than a little relief that I killed the engine for the last time. I simply sat in the driver’s seat as my passengers extended from the doors and started to drag out whatever they felt was immediately necessary, which, for LC, was what was left of our sweets. In the end, though, I had to emerge.
“Hiya! What kept you all?”
Maz giggled.
“My husband loves me! Stonehenge!”
I waved at Ish.
“He thought that idea up, love. Credit where credit’s due”
Ish struck a pose.
“Yeah, but, Dad took us to the Martian. Credit where credit’s due. My Dad loves me!”
I stretched once again.
“I do indeed. But I think I need some self-love right now--- shit. Sorry, Maz. Double meanings are supposed to be your job. What’s the evening plan, Steph?”
“Up to you, Mike. There’s a sort of regular instrumental session on tonight”
I groaned.
“It’s in a pub”
“Hmmm?”
“They do curries”
“Ah”
“It’s just about next door”
“Ah!”
“Sound like a goer?”
“Sounds like a wheelbarrow job”
“Sorry?”
“Sounds perfect, but I might just fall asleep by the end”
“Come on in, mate. Cuppa and a natter, aye?”
Sotto voce she added, “And some ideas about how to handle young love’s dream”
I just nodded. Spoon count was heading towards zero, but a seriously good cuppa helped, and then, finally, after the dumping of the luggage, we were out of the door and heading for that first pint.
It was Nepalese rather than Indian curry, but I didn’t care. The beer was more than acceptable, and our group only expanded a little with the arrival of Annie, Eric and Darren. We ate, we drank, some of us played, and I slept until ten the next morning.