I don’t mind driving on motorways but they are never my first choice of road. While they do, as long as there are no hold-ups, get you from A to B fast, they do not allow for adventures. You cannot stop to admire or explore the land… you can’t see an unknown road and turn down it on the spur of the moment, or head for that odd-shaped hill on the horizon. Once on a motorway, you are pretty much stuck until the appointed exit.
The stretch of motorway that runs between Carlisle and Kirby Lonsdale, though, is seldom busy and passes through such magnificent countryside that I am always glad to drive it. With the hills of the Lake District on one side and the Yorkshire Dales on the other, I know of few other bits of motorway that can compare. And I know it well; I used to drive it every weekend as I delivered the internal mail to a hotel chain around the country. I have driven it on business and for pleasure… and it was here that I kidnapped Stuart and our adventures together first began.
Therefore, although I was reluctant to leave the country lanes and our adventures behind, I dutifully obeyed common sense and got back on the motorway, heading south. I would come off at Kirby Lonsdale, and at least we would have the last hours of the day travelling through Yorkshire… something I am always glad to do.
So quite how I managed to leave at completely the wrong exit, I’ll never know.
I realised straight away and found somewhere to turn around. I supposed I was just still tired, even though I felt absolutely fine. I got back on the motorway and headed south again. And, yet again, inexplicably took the wrong exit. As I had already done that once when we had pulled off in search of a café, in spite of knowing the area so well, this made the third time… and three is a magical number and one that generally requires you to pay attention…
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