Dinner in the Country

To do with our no doubt shared experience of those early days of GPS

Peter peered into the distance, through the branches of trees, and saw a forlorn but majestic sky clearing up ahead, of clouds stretching out across the canvas like the branches of trees. Capillary clouds spreading an orange glow of shimmering fuzzy ball as it fell into the hillside beyond. The branches of trees were hanging either side of the track abundant with foliage, and they twined to form a canopy over the car and the track, shutting out the light. Peter stopped the car. He peered into his rear view mirror, and adjusting the side view mirrors at the console, switched on the headlamps and made for a three-point turn on the track that was narrow and soft with fallen leaves. The arrows on his screen were turning in a circle with a flashing indicator showing Rerouting.

He drove a mile back down the track the way he'd come, and hung a right at the exit, which was the way he'd been originally going before he'd entered the woods. The arrows on his screen spun like a magnet in line with his new route, giving an ETA of thirty minutes at a distance of approximately twelve miles. He should ring to let them know he'd be about fifteen minutes late. He set up the hands free and dialled into his mobile but it was out of reception. Continuing on the same stretch it was about ten minutes later that the cars started to bunch up behind a slow moving vehicle. How annoying. It couldn’t be helped. He tried patience. He let down the electric sunroof of his SL500 sports car and loosened the top button of his starched white collar, unclipping the bow tie which he’d put on earlier to save time later. Then he checked his wristwatch. It was showing two minutes to eight. A drip of sweat beaded from the side of his forehead, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He watched the cornfields and the wheat fields gradually alternating in yellows and browns, and checking the screen of his car the arrow was still aligned confirming the route straight on.

He turned up the volume on the radio. Heart FM - it was Mariah C, a bit cheesy but just about tolerable, as he looked out to the dramatic sky scene that was developing in front. The sun seemed to have disappeared but it was still slightly illuminating the lofts, which were interspersed with spidery cloud strings stretching across their expanse like rills of pearl grey drifting through a floating sea of purple, fanning through their filmy textured substance. And with the open roof there was a sense of being at one with the elements, as if suspended in mid-air – you and the sky mobile as one, and at the same time meticulously enclosed with the air currents coning just above the air space of the SL. Peter tried out the seat heating, to single button red, and the perforated leather seats were now also functioning as warm air vents.

After about two miles he came to a roundabout, checked the screen and took the third exit, to the right. Thankfully now all clear, and he gunned it down the two lane straight. Yes, better late than never. After another mile he slowed down as he came to another roundabout, where the screen pointed him to the first exit, but that road was blocked with cones and a yellow sign showing a route diversion to the second exit, which he took. This was now the second set of route diversions he'd had to face that evening, so it must be a continuation, or possibly an area of route diversions. As he turned in, to the second exit, the arrow on his screen pinged and aligned to the new route. After about five minutes the cars suddenly bunched up and came to a halt.

Looking out from his driver’s side window, he checked in front. It was temporary lights behind a road works. He checked his screen for ETA, which was now around fifty minutes to destination. Ouch. It must be something to do with the diversion. Still connected to his hands-free, he dialed the number and it went straight to voicemail. He tried syncing the Bluetooth on his phone, but it wasn’t working so he switched over to Radio One. That's better. Looking up the lights turned and the traffic was moving again, and he soon picked up speed. But then suddenly he slammed on the brakes just in time for the yellow speed camera ahead. Lucky that, it would have been a forty in a thirty.

After about three miles he came to another roundabout, and his screen showed second exit, straight ahead, which he took. But this time there was an absence of yellow signage continuing the diversion. After a further mile there was another roundabout, and still no yellow sign, but the screen showed third exit, right turn, which he took.

After another two miles his screen resumed voice-over mode, and announced in its dulcet tones of femininity – as could only have been performed by a machine, that he should in five hundred yards prepare to turn right. Still no yellow signage ... and then in two hundred, then in fifty, so he hung a right. It was a narrow country lane. OK - possibly a short cut and he checked ETA on his screen. Thirty two minutes, so no cause for concern.

Still late, but he was on the right track. As he drove, the road gradually tapered in. The trees thickened and the light narrowed, and after a mile and half a veil of dusk swiftly descended to the floor of the road which was now barely visible but seemed to have formed into a track. He had to slow down and then he stopped the car. There was a fuzzy interference on the radio so he cut it off. The arrows on his screen were turning in a circle, and there was a red flashing indicator showing re-routing. He looked out ahead and also above, and everywhere he was met with foliage, like a canopy of foliage forming a tunnel over the track. He imagined that had it not been for the headlamps it would be near pitch inside. It was silence all around. Barely a breath, other than a gentle breeze rustling through the foliage and shuffling leaves on the track. It was so soundless one could almost hear the pitch of bats echo-locating amongst the trees, or badgers digging under the roots of an oak or a beech. Another dead end for sure.

His faith in short-cuts was short lived. He turned on the rear view camera, and sensitive to the cold he switch-closed the electric sun-roof of the car. Then he slowly turned the car round, in the narrow track, in a three point turn, and headed back towards the entrance of the woods, where he hung a right onto the main road which was the way he'd been going before. Lofty road lamps now illuminated the single carriage road and he checked his screen. It was showing an ETA of thirty minutes. Huge relief. He dialled the number again. There was a weak dial tone and it went straight to voicemail and then suddenly it cut off.

Continuing on that road, he came to a roundabout and the screen pointed him to the third exit, which he took. Then there was another roundabout, and the screen was showing first exit, but the route was blocked. Here there was another road diversion marked with a yellow sign - the third set of yellow road diversions for the evening ... or a continuation of the one before, recapturing the route? Passing the blocked first exit he saw the yellow sign pointed to the second exit, which he took. And as he turned into the bend the arrow on his screen pinged and aligned to the new route. He checked the screen for ETA, which was showing around fifty minutes to destination. Ouch. But at least he was on the right track. It was bleak and dark and the road was quiet, and he flicked on the main beam. Peering hard into the road, he was thoughtful of oncoming traffic, and he slowed down for a second as he arced around some road works and temporary lights [showing green]. As he picked up again he was suddenly aware of another yellow speed camera on the left, which caused him to break hard. Running the gauntlet - through those sequential dashes on the road – it was hard, almost jaw racking for a split second. He just about made it through without sign of the camera flash. He felt the surge of relief, straight through the tip of his vertebrae. Yes that could have been a forty in a thirty and another three points.

And at that very moment - it was serene clarity, and his heart bottomed out from under his chest. The penny dropped. It was as if he’d just been winded.

He was doubling over inside, but also hanging his head in shame.

Of course he had been going round in a circle the whole time, carefully following those yellow road diversions, but they were all the same one - precisely the same one single sign, all three - and ditto for the track in the woods.

And he was so taken in. It was like a mirage. But how could he be so stupid? And then now, what to do? Thinking it through, the real route was obviously blocked, and you couldn't just turn back. There were people waiting. Visibility was going to be poor, and what with that endless needle-like coursing around hillsides and promontories of this clearly ancient glacier trimmed landscape, with the constant fear of blinding the oncoming [main beam], it as all a bit of a quandary.

Or, perhaps ... just so long as he avoided going back into that circle ... maybe then?

He decided to go onto the next roundabout. Good - no yellow signage here. Or is it that the road diversion just isn't happening any more. He continued straight over the roundabout, then after a mile there was another roundabout, and still no yellow signage. The arrows on his screen were indicating third exit, to the right, and he thought ... well he took it.

He swung into the turning, and the arrows on his screen pinged into line confirming the new route. Yes, some vague, lingering hope yet. Checking ETA it was showing fifty minutes to destination.

And then it as a great thud, like a thwack.
Oh yes, he had done it again.
No two ways about it, he was back in the circle – that same circle.

My God. And yes, performed with such beatific finesse, such irony – you couldn’t have made it up.

Or did it tell him something about why he'd been stuck in the mud in the first place?

Time out.

And then suddenly it pinged in his head.

His pulse quickened, just a little, as did his heart rate. Peering into the road, he carefully drew up to a lay-by, and stopped. He turned the car around in a three-point turn, and anxiously headed back to the roundabout from where he’d just come. Careful not to pay heed to the GPS – where the arrows were suggesting a U- turn – as if, but not as if, on impulse, he took the third exit, right, so as to be straight on from his original direction of travel prior to the distraction. Suddenly the arrows on his screen pinged back into line marking the route ahead.

Driving on he passed two further roundabouts and continued straight as suggested by arrows on his screen. After several miles there was still nothing, no yellow signage or road signs that looked hopeful. Eventually the arrows on his screen were turning in a circle again, Re-routing.

A vain hope after all.

And yes – in all probability, nothing less than the least to be expected, in the circumstances.

He then came to another roundabout, and there was a yellow sign. There it was - boldly and proudly pinned to a larger sign that was brown. So it was different, but also out of the blue. It had just popped up, of itself and kind of out of nowhere. It was fluorescent in the glare of his half beam, with proud black lettering valiantly pointing to the first exit. Impulse got the better of Peter and like a reflex he drew into it, the first exit. The arrows on his screen spun and re-routed to the new route, giving an ETA of twenty one minutes to destination. This time Peter knew, and he re-dialed the number. It went straight to voicemail, and he left a message to apologise for being late, but he 'd be there in twenty. Clearly they're busy with their guests. He casually reflected he had been very much looking forward to meeting them.

As he approached Bibury it was four turnings to the left and six to the right but not in that order, then down the hill, and then right again, into a steep downward incline which was a private road bounded by trees either side. At the end he could see lights from the windows of a house, and the house was thronged by parked cars. Peter slowed down and singly negotiated the bumps that were tree roots protruding from under the road, each one in turn, it was like driving over a two hundred metre long wooden coil, coil by coil. Eventually he parked up and got out of the car, and retrieving his dinner jacket from the suit cover hanging near the passenger rear left side window, he put it on. Checking his wristwatch it was ten p.m.. From the half- light of the house he could see the surface of the front and sides of his obsidian blue metallic SL was caked in leaf and clods of mud. The windscreen was paint-gunned in dead flies.

Peter was greeted at the door by David and his wife, who were the hosts, and assailed with reedy exclamations of how hellishly worried they'd been for the last hour or so when he hadn’t shown up. He explained he'd been having some problems with German engineering, or the GPS to be precise.

Inside they were all at desserts, eleven of them, and one said he shouldn't have been so shy and could have rung for directions. He said he'd tried but it had gone straight to voicemail. They asked him if he'd tried the landline, he explained that he hadn’t been given it. David said he had texted it to him when he was late. But Peter said he’d somehow never received the text. Seeing they were mostly in tweed, and he in Black Tie, he apologised for being overdressed. They said not to worry about that at all. They asked him if he fancied a white or red. He said he'd better have a fizzy non-alcoholic or something as he'd be driving back to the Tunnel House where he was staying. The hosts offered to put him up in the spare room. He apologised again and explained he'd already prepaid for the room at the hotel. One of the party peered out of the window and said they used to have a car like that – a 55 AMG - and it was splendid they could have sworn by it. He couldn’t explain he didn’t swear by his, or that his wasn't quite an AMG, or indeed that he wouldn’t have been able to get an AMG on finance.

After about half an hour people started to make their excuses as they had children and babysitters. Peter said that was fine he was leaving too. David and his wife said if he couldn't stay they insisted he come for lunch the next day, as they’d be hosting. Peter smiled and said he'd very much look forward to that.

As the guests left Peter thought what a terrific bunch, they were all so well-groomed in the country. But he was also exhausted, and a little anxious.

As he left the house, at the end of the drive he checked the car for scratches, but it was difficult to see beyond the caked leaves and mud. He opened the passenger door of the SL and punched in the postcode for the Tunnel House Inn, and walking around the car for a quick double-take before getting into the driver’s side.

Going round the houses again, it was least three lefts, and four rights, but not in that order, and again he ended up in a narrow country lane, but one that seemed to be heading in some sort of a direction. The screen was giving an ETA of eight minutes to destination. There was a fork and then suddenly it was unclear. He took the left fork. The arrows on his screen turned but now started flashing, indicating they were Re-routing. Peter had no choice but to make a three point turn on the narrow road, and backing up once again after that he decided to take up the other fork. As he turned into the fork the arrows were still showing Re-routing, and now there was no longer a signal. He continued for about a mile and a half when finally he came to a main road, where he swung a right, second-guessing. After a further half a mile there was a smallish brown road sign ahead on the left marking the Tunnel House Inn at 500 Yards to the right. As he approached the turning it seemed to be a track bounded by trees or the road in to some kind of a wood. Coming right up to it Peter veered into the gap in the road’s central reservation, and flicked on the indicator and signalled right. Out of the corner of his left eye he could also see a sign further up ahead on the main road showing, in large letters, M4 Junction 15 - 7 Miles, Swindon 15 Miles, London 97 miles. In that split second he cancelled his right indicator and veered left, swinging back out of the central reservation and diagonally and straight across and through the road for a half-second before straightening up the car. He pressed his foot hard on the pedal sending the RPM as far into the red as it could go. He was heading straight out for London and the M4. He then switched on the radio and tried to tune in.

***

Peter felt the sound of the engine leap as he paddle-shifted out of fifth, into sixth, and then seventh. As the carburettor roared he could hear the sound of his coronary skirr, while his eyes pulsated with the sheen, and his forehead steam-rollered wrinkle-free. As he applied the pressure his posture stiffened like a brace, and the lumbar like a magnet pinioned the small of his back into the deep of the perforated black leather of the seats of the SL. And in that moment his irises fired out sparks anew - of a glowing, soft defiance. As he glissaded past the trees, and the farmland, and the pylons – decks of shuffling silhouettes of scenes scattering behind him in the twilight of that wind-swept road, the wings of his car opened out to a candlelit sky, and steel-blue and braided with static, he found lift- off.