“Are we nearly there yet?” We’re on a bank holiday road trip to North Norfolk, and frankly, no, we’re not. The five year old is getting bored in the back seat, despite the DVD player, drawing materials and books laid out around her, and the constant loop of ‘Mr Small’ on the stereo. We’ve left at 5.30am to beat the traffic, and mercifully she’s slept for the first two hours of the journey. But there's still some way to go.
“Not yet. There’s still a long time to go”.
It takes me back to annual trips to Northumberland with my parents, to our cottage on the coast. Time never passes so slowly as when you’re under ten, and involved in a long car journey. Then you start recognising the journey’s-end landmarks, and you can indulge in the thrill of nearlythereness. The figures on the rampart of Alnwick Castle, the monkey-puzzle tree on the turning into the village. Nearly there now.
It’s a nice little break in Norfolk. We see some seals wallowing on the sand flats in an estuary on the north coast, and hire a chug-along electric motorboat on the Broads. We visit a working windmill and Norwich Castle, and eat a lot of fish. The rain starts coming down on Sunday afternoon, and doesn’t let up. Too soon it’s Monday morning, and we’re back in the car for the long journey home. When the inevitable question starts up from the back, a couple of hours into the journey, with at least three to go, the phraseology has changed. We’re on our way back to normality; we’re not heading into the unknown. It’s more of a plaintive voicing of dissatisfaction than the desire to wallow in the joy of imminent arrival. The trips to the cottage in Northumberland are etched into my memory. I can’t remember any of the journeys back.
“When are we going to be there?”
“Not for a long time yet, honey”. AL