Sorting through my late father’s bits’n’bobs, I came across ‘The Open Road’ – a handy little guide to driving in Britain before the advent of Sat Nav and, indeed, the M25.

Chapters include ‘Getting out of London (with map)’ and ‘Crossing Big Towns’ – like Manchester and Birmingham. It comments: “The motorist or motor-cyclist on a long journey for pleasure generally arranges to miss as many big centres of population as he can.”

For those who find themselves unavoidably lost in one such ‘big town’ The Open Road proved invaluable. “It is useful for him to know the names of the main thoroughfares through which he will have to pass to reach the open country again. Information of this character will be found below…..”

Quite how one was meant to study the guide while negotiating Piccadilly or the Bull Ring, I know not – but it did get me thinking about my first encounter with SatNav, something we all take for granted today.

The experience caused me to pen a piece titled ‘The Secret Diary of a Sat Nav virgin, aged 50¾’; (in deference to a certain Master A. Mole who would empathise, I’m sure.)

For those still grappling with modern technology – and there are a few of us left – the following extract might provide some comfort.

Being a bit of a technophobe, I had religiously resisted the urge to join the sat nav generation.
If the likes of Christopher Columbus and Thomas Cook had the courage to sail uncharted waters with little more than the sun to help them – was with a risk the world was flat and they could drop off the end – surely I could manage a few kilometres in France without joining Tom Tom, Garmin and the rest of his Merry Men in their quest for route perfection?

It was only when a helpful – and much younger – trip advisor strongly urged me to beg, steal or borrow a sat nav before venturing onto foreign soil (“as you’ll find yourself in the middle of nowhere, at a crossroads, with no signs….”) that I felt the need to comply. Sadly, I do not have the courage of Columbus.

I should have heeded the warning signs – and the road signs – as soon as we set foot on foreign soil.

Whilst not well-versed in driving on the wrong side of the road (or the right, depending where your loyalties lie), as a booze cruise regular, I am familiar with the coastal roads around Calais. It was with some alarm, therefore, I found Jill-in-the-box sending me not in a southerly direction, but straight towards the Eurotunnel terminal. Without passing ‘go’ (or collecting 200 Euros).

Mistake number one. I had entrusted the said sat nav to my No.1 navigator – in this case my teenage daughter. This girl can work every gadget and gizmo from the i-phone to the x-box (and every other letter of the alphabet in between) so I reckoned a bit of simple GPS would be as easy as ABC.

It was – except that she had accidentally entered ‘home’ (for the home page) and this was exactly where it was trying to take us. Right back through the Eurotunnel – to good old England!

Having cautiously extracted ourselves from the lorry park at San Gatte, and re-set the sat nav, we were on our way.

Over the next two weeks, it took us on a magical mystery tour which included a grass track through the Foret de Compiegne (God knows why they chose this location to sign a critical peace treaty; I’m surprised the signatories were able to find the place without the benefit of GPS….), a one-track residential road complete with traffic-calming road humps, down lanes designed only for farmers and agricultural machinery – and into a private drive.

I alternated between shouting obscenities at our additional passenger, hell-bent on getting her own way, to worrying she had gone to sleep on the job, when we encountered long periods of silence and junctions which she seemed happy to ignore.

The worst periods of conflict arose when she blatantly disagreed with what I thought appeared to be perfectly reasonable road signs heading in the right general direction of our journey. But that was when the worst problems arose. Disagree with a sat nav at your peril, I discovered……

I began the holiday thinking a sat nav was going to become my latest ‘must have.’ By the end, I wasn’t convinced.
I can now sympathise with the convoys of Eastern European lorry drivers who find themselves victims of abuse on our country lanes. Posters in rural villages declare “Ban the lorries!” Locals wave their fists in anger at the drivers, whom I now realise are mere innocents in the game of getting from A to B.

It’s the sat navs that should be banned. Give the drivers a good old-fashioned map and a compass and all will be well.

 

 

 

I’ve been meaning to set up this blog for some time. The problem is, I’ve been too busy travelling…..

Which got me thinking. (I mean, what else is there to do on a long-haul flight once you’ve watched all the films which appeal, read the obligatory in-flight mag and drunk enough wine to ensure you get a decent snooze?)

More of we over-50s are spreading our wings than ever before – and certainly much further. The advent of Spanish holidays was always an anathema to my dear departed Dad, who insisted there was ‘plenty to see in the British Isles without having to go abroad.’

I don’t entirely disagree with him – we have some wonderful scenery in the UK. It’s just a pity we don’t get the wonderful weather to match. (But I’ll save my recollection of a wet two weeks in Wales for another occasion.)

Dad did relent a little in his later years – but never got much further than Malta.  And only then to rekindle his wartime memories.

I guess we are fortunate. Not only do we have more disposable income than our parents – in some part due to their thrift and well-intended philosophy of ‘leaving something for the children’ – but we are also healthier, live longer and are able to enjoy life in ways our forebears  would never have considered.

It’s hardly surprising, then, that those of us who have been caught up in the so-called ‘sandwich’ generation – stuck between caring for kids and ageing parents – relish the prospect of spreading our wings and flying at the earliest opportunity.

As any parent will tell you, empty nest syndrome can be a bit of a bitch. You spend all those years running around after your precious darlings and then they have the audacity to grow up and leave!! Not only are you left with an empty bedroom (or several) but an empty diary. Mum’s taxi is off the road, the school run is a thing of the past and all those hours spent watching football / ballet / brownies*  open up like some massive, yawning cavern.

Around the age of 50 or 60, you’re also likely to find your parents shuffling off this mortal coil, if they haven’t already – and being orphaned is not to be relished, at any age.

So it is that those of us old enough to be grannies and grandads – even if we aren’t – seek new experiences and adventures.

And not just to the Spanish Costas.  Did you read about the 89-year-old Russian grandmother who started travelling to discover new countries and cultures at the age of 83?  She recently returned from Vietnam and Israel.

I’m not planning waiting until I’m 83 – just in case I don’t live that long.

So, TTFN …..I need to start planning my next trip!

*insert as appropriate