I'm in the back seat as usual:
Able to look out either side
But the road ahead obscured
By two bobbing and swaying heads.

Trees passing by in bundles, their branches disappearing above 
the window glass beside me. Their trunks emerging from scrubby grass in
in a light grey dust that reminds me of our back yard at home in London.

When it starts to rain there is the stuttering sound
of the windscreen wipers venturing across the glass in fits
and starts.

Granddad bends forward in his seat to look through the blobs of water that trail ever downwards. 

I can tell we've slowed down.

The wheels s-w-i-s-h along and occasionally w-h-o-o-s-h through puddles.

I can't wait to see the water splash up and to the side as we rumble through them, and there's still the bridge that granddad will speed over so my tummy lifts.

The leather seat feels chilly on the skin of my legs. Their stickiness
stops me sliding into the luggage as we round the bends.

I dig into my pocket and retrieve my tube of Spangles.  

The next one is green.  
Not my favourite.  
I think it tastes more yellow than green. 
I'm not keen on lemons.

Grandma says we'll be stopping soon for lunch.

I daydream of Ty Pennar and Miss Colebrook, wondering 
what story book she'll have ready to read. 

Auntie Jess will have lots of paints for me to play with. 

I like the huge sheets of paper she sometimes has. 

Thomas, her ginger cat will loudly purr and twist between my legs, his tail
tickling as it passes.

The rain stops and the sun comes out. Granddad hastely pulls a shade
down from the roof to shield his eyes.

My grandma says thank goodness the rain has stopped.

My tummy rumbles.

The front seats squeak as Granddad steers the car off the road and onto the bumpy verge.

We stop. And I wait for someone to open my door so I can get out.

Granddad opens the door on the other side and drags the picnic basket
that has been my eggy companion traveller up till now. 

There is a rush of fresh air when he opens that door and Grandma opens mine.

The blanket gets layed on the damp grass, and we seat ourselves around
the picnic basket eating our eggy sandwiches. They are drinking tea
from the pale blue flask, I have a plastic beaker of Tizer poured from the
big orange bottle. 

The bubbles tickle the the roof of my mouth before I swallow.

When they pack away the remnants of our lunch, Grandad takes me through the farm gate so I can pee in private. Pee done, we trudge back to the car, and Grandma cwtches me in in with a coat over my legs. That's when I become impatient for this annual journey back to 'the valleys' to be over. I just can't wait.  

From here on, the damp woolen blanket in the picnic basket will smell like the cloakroom at school.

I'll doze for a bit before it'll be time for my incessant  "Are we nearly there yet?" 

© griffonner 2026