Autumn is a lovely season for slow travel. The colors and textures are changing hourly, and the roads are emptying out as people return to work and school. The rains arrive just as you are tired of moving about, enticing you to firesides, books, tv, or laptops. The air can be golden and hazy, or crisp and breezy. Here in Devon, the bracken starts dying back, turning the hillsides a purple-brown and exposing layers of rock. While the tracks are muddy, they lure you into the moors, with the promise of Neolithic stones, mossy walls, tumbling brown streams, and galloping ponies.
One would expect I'd be spending every possible moment exploring, instead of welcoming the rains as an excuse for staying indoors. I could, in fact, probably find even more beauties in the rain. Weather is no excuse for sloth. As B's Tante Helga said, "Es gibt kein falsch Wetters, nur falsch Kleidung."
However, there is more to it than sloth or a lack of wellies and rain jackets. Driving on the moors has been a challenge. The roads are narrow, often one-lane, with thick sticky hedges and walls lining the verge. In many cases the roads are also steep and winding, and pull outs for oncoming traffic are nominal. Locals and tourists vie for the right of way, which is not always obvious. But no one wants to back up a winding, hedge-lined lane, even those who are adept at it. And in my case I am not adept, even with automatic transmission and the left-hand drive of my country. Here with my loaner car, I find myself killing the engine as I hastily pull into laybys, and often I end up having to start up on hills, which in my case means riding the clutch and rolling backwards into hedges, killing the engine again. When there is no layby, the situation can be humiliating. One young woman zoomed up in her Land Rover and stopped bonnet-to-bonnet, mutely insisting that I do the honors. She watched my inglorious performance for several minutes before bowing to the inevitable and swiftly and competently backing to her pull-out (which was actually closer than mine.)
At least there are few ditches to entrap the tires. But it can be frustrating to have to focus on the navigation, when every hilltop shows a lovely view, and amazing trees are begging for photography, and ruined barns or houses with thatched roofs and red climbing ivy scream their picturesqueness. And yet there is absolutely no place to stop and absorb. I've found myself promising to return without the dogs and locate a public footpath. But that becomes increasingly unlikely, as my driving angst increases.
There have been a few unpleasant encounters, which have added to my trepidation. Once, on a steep hill, I was following two cyclists, being followed in turn by two cars. There was no layby, and a bus was approaching. I could tell that I was going to kill the engine if I shifted down, so in a panic I decided to squeeze between the cyclists and the oncoming bus. Amazingly, no one was hit, but as I sat breathing deeply and calming the dogs, parked in a layby at the top of the hill, the cyclists passed and shouted "A little more room next time." I was grateful for the British understatement.
Another Brit was not so kind: as I exercised my right of way down a hilly Tavistock street, the driver waiting behind the row of parked cars in his lane shouted "Fuck You!" as I passed. I thought about this encounter for days, double-checking that I had done nothing wrong. Finally I remembered that he'd flashed his lights at me as he pulled up, apparently requesting the right of way; but I was already committed in any case.
Usually people are kinder on the moor, I think. They get that people have to drive slowly, watching for sheep lying in the road or cows walking across or even a gaggle of geese. While sometimes impatient with tourists, locals accept the reality of them. Towns are another matter. There are more places where a stranger can go wrong: roundabouts with unclear (to me) signage, construction, and pedestrians (worse than sheep any day.) My Waterloo took place in a construction zone in Paignton. I was in a queue, inching up a steep incline, stopping at intervals. At the final stop before the top, I observed the car behind me, close to my bumper. So, I already knew I was in trouble, as the roll back was bound to happen. When the light changed, I clutched, shifted out of neutral to first, took my foot off the brake and gave gas while releasing the clutch. And rolled backwards, crashing into the car and killing the engine. The light changed, and I got out to inspect the damage. The driver behind was a short, spare man with cropped grey-white hair, glasses, and an impatient expression. He said the license plate was cracked, and I asked what we should do, and he said in clipped tones to pull out up ahead.
So, I got the car in gear and drove, looking for a pull out. The first possible place was a bus stop. I chose that, but he drove on by. I decided that he was not going to stop after all, and continued on my way. I was flustered, though, and missed my turn to Plymouth at the next roundabout. I took another turn, to get back, and found myself on one of those darn narrow roads with no pullout. When I finally found one, I discovered that he'd been following me. I got out and said, "I couldn't find you." He said, "I wasn't going to stop at the bus stop," and then he proceeded to berate me: "You are driving a dangerous car. What if there had been children?" I thought, the car isn't the danger, the driver is, but said, "The hill was very steep." "It wasn't so steep," he retorted shortly, "the clutch is burned out, I can smell it." I was nonplussed: there was no damage to the cars, and no smell of burning, so I didn't know what he wanted from me. He kept saying "What will happen if there are children present?" I said that the car was a loaner and I was far from its home, so I didn't know what I could do. I didn't say that children were not likely to be present on a main road with construction in process. He finally returned to his car. Looking at me over the open door he said, "Are you Canadian?" I should have said yes, to spare the U.S. reputation another blot, but I confessed to being a Yank. He said shortly, "I'm leaving. I never want to see you again."
The feeling was mutual.
I needed to turn around to retrieve my route, but I didn't want to follow him, so I decided to continue onward. Big mistake. There was more construction and a queue and absolutely no way to turn around. When I finally got clear and alone on the road, I found myself entering a village with houses up against the road, sharp turns, and no walkways. And then back out to the moor road, then into another village. It seemed I would never get out of the maze, but eventually I found a village where there was room to pull over AND a woman willing to look at my map and direct me home. I went through Totnes over towards Plymouth, turning towards Yelverton 12 miles short of Plymouth. I reached Tavistock in the light of a golden late autumn day and crashed. Since then it's been raining, and I haven't touched the car. I may never drive again.
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