Our arrival in Budbury doesn’t go quite as planned. In fact, it’s about seven hours later than I’d hoped for, we’re all very hot and bothered, and the dog has been whining for the last thirty minutes. I know exactly how he feels.
It’s also practically nightfall, that strange twilight between-time when the sun could be setting or rising. In this case, it’s definitely setting, sinking as low in the sky as my morale by this stage.
We had a few problems once we left the motorway. First there was the sat-nav fiasco. Or the lack-of-sat-nav fiasco, to be more precise. I decided, in my infinite insanity, that it would be a really good idea to stop off at Avebury. We could see the famous stone circles and walk the dog, and get some air and sunshine that wasn’t filtered through petrol fumes in service-station car parks.
As you can perhaps imagine, if you’ve ever met twenty-first-century teenagers, that idea went down very well.
This idyllic little detour lost us a few of the hours we’d gained by setting off early, mainly because I was convinced that we could find it without using the sat nav. It was on the map. It was a tourist attraction. Surely there would be brown signs or queues of druids in flowing white robes trekking down the lay-by?
Poor Nate was trying to read the road map, with Lizzie hovering behind him, glaring over his shoulder, poking the pages with her finger and yelling comments like ‘It’s to the right, you retard!’
Nate eventually elbowed her in the face, which I didn’t entirely blame him for. He managed to connect with her cheekbone and made her howl so loudly the dog joined in. All the way through these familial delights, I had a tractor in front of me and a Land Rover driving so far up my arse he should really have brought a wedding ring.
By the time we’d circled the same stretch of admittedly very pretty road for about the gazillionth time, we’d all had enough. Lizzie was yelling. Nate was yelling back. The dog was barking. I was trying to retain my zen, but fast losing the will to live.
Things started to really deteriorate when Lizzie shouted ‘for God’s sake, use the bloody sat nav!’ Nate had come out with the traditional response – Sat Nav’s for Slackers – which provoked her to new lows.
‘That’s what Dad used to say,’ she hissed. ‘But Dad’s not here is he? And Mum just isn’t up to the job!’
That hurt, almost physically. It felt a bit like she’d actually stabbed me in the back of the head with a fork and blood was dripping down my scalp.
The worst thing about it was that it was one hundred per cent true. I might be getting my equilibrium back; I might be trying to move on. I might be less of a nervous wreck than I was this time a year ago. But I still wasn’t up to the job – assuming the job was being her dad. Because much as I tried, I would never be her dad – and an epic fail on the road-map front was only a tiny part of that.
In the end I took the very sensible option of pulling over into one of those beauty spots where you’re supposed to take photos of the stunning scenery. As the only scenery in my car consisted of violent kids and a senile Labrador, I refrained from creating a magical Kodak moment and instead simply got out.
I put Jimbo on his lead and practically heard his old bones creak as he threw himself out of the boot. He immediately cocked his leg to pee on a fence post and then tries to eat a small pile of sheep droppings.
I gazed out at the hills and valleys and luscious greenery and completely understood why Ye Ancient People had decided to locate their mysterious and allegedly powerful stone circle here. I just wished they’d thought to leave some better directions.
After Jimbo had sniffed and snuffled a few more times and I’d allowed the gentle sensation of sunlight on my skin soothe me down from the cliff edge the kids had driven me up, I helped the dog climb back into the boot, and slid back in the car.
Both of the kids were very quiet, which is always a worrying sign. I quickly glanced at both, making sure they were still alive, before fastening my seatbelt and preparing to move off.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ came a small voice from the back seat. I felt her hand pat me on the shoulder, which made me grin immediately. It was such a hesitant pat, like she knew she had to do it, but didn’t enjoy it either. Almost as though she might catch leprosy from me if she kept it going for more than a few seconds.
‘For what?’ I asked, not wanting to give in too easily.
‘For what I said about Dad. For being the Mean Girl. You’re doing great, and I’ll read the map if you want.’
I briefly touched my fingers to hers – keeping it quick so I don’t ruin the moment with too much affection – and nodded.
‘Thank you, Lizzie. And it’s fine – we all miss him, and we all get mean sometimes. But you know what? I think you’re right about this one. I think I’m going to have to break Dad’s rule and hope he doesn’t mind. Nate, get that sat nav out of the glove compartment …’
Nate hurried to comply, and within about six minutes, we arrived at Avebury – it appeared that we’d somehow managed to drive past it over and over again without ever noticing.
The visit was fine, the kids had ice cream and we all took photos. Jimbo discovered lots of new things to smell, and all things considered, I’d have to put it in the ‘win’ column.
The rest of the day, though, wasn’t such a winner. It consisted of – in no particular order – our car battery dying and having to flag down passing German tourists to help us; getting lost again (despite the sat nav); Nate getting very, very sick and having to vomit his way through various picturesque lay-bys; getting lost some more; an emergency pit-stop at McDonald’s in Yeovil; getting lost some more and Lizzie having to wee in a field.
‘I’m never, ever leaving the city again …’ she’d muttered, throwing the toilet roll at the car windscreen so hard it bounced off and flew away into the road.
With the various delays, it took us way too long to make the journey. We arrived in Budbury frazzled and irritable and, in my case, squinty-eyed from all the driving.
We spot the turning for the cottage complex – The Rockery – at the very last minute, and I veer suddenly to the left to pass through the open gates, thankful that the one-lane road behind me was empty of traffic.
We drive slowly past the shadowed playground with its colourful swings and slide, and past the games room, lit up inside and filled with what look like old board games, books, DVDs, table football and one of those air-hockey things, and follow the signs through to the cottages.
By the time we park up on a crunchy gravel-topped driveway that circles a large green lawn, the light is greying and I can see both the moon and the sun hovering in the sky. It’s very strange and a little bit like the beginning of some kind of fantasy film.
I climb out of the car, so relieved to finally be here, squinting in the fading daylight as I try and figure out which cottage is ours. Hyacinth House, our home for the summer. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for me to be able to identify why. This is becoming a more and more common sensation as I get older, which my mother tells me cheerily is the beginning of the end for my brain cells.
From what I can see in front of me, there are about seven or eight cottages scattered around the green. There’s a terraced row of three, a couple of semi-detached
