This is just an example snap of the trip south on the Inverness-Perth stretch of the A9, which I’ve been driving for 35 years and remains a nightmare of frustration and terror, no matter how much meditative calm I try to instil in myself. Caravans! I will never have one again. Camper vans! I’m selling Gloria forthwith. Motorcyclists! Are they/we all deranged? People in big off-roaders who think they can simply push other people out of the way! People in open-top sports cars wearing ridiculous hats to avert frostbite (the people, not the sports cars).
Folk who drive at 45 mph. Folk who try to overtake by increasing their speed to ONE mph faster than whatever they’re overtaking. People who go from the inside to the outside lane at the last minute to turn right.
Have to say I’m impressed with the Citroen C4 I currently sort of own…fantastically frugal (diesel), and thank goodness in the current fuel mania. And fast enough to, at one point today, rattle past a tardy Aston Martin Volante with absolute Gallic contempt. Zoot Alors!
So, anyway. Safely in Glasgow, only to discover that I’ve locked the folding bike and left the keys in Shetland. I’d snip the lock but it’s a Kryptonite and harder than a microwaved lasagne crust.
I guess I’ll have to walk. No driving in the Dear Green Place. It’s even more frustrating and terrifying for car conducteurs than the A9.