By Alexandria Nolan-Miller
Sometimes, even when we think we know how a trip will go, we still manage to be surprised by how different it turns out. The last time I traveled to England, I thought I knew exactly what I was in for. After all, I had been to Yorkshire several times. I had driven on the wrong side of the road, visited tiny peekaboo villages, and chased the cold away in pubs that looked either as though they hadn’t been changed since William the Conqueror or as if someone had tried to redecorate in 1973 without much cash. I had journeyed for cream teas and scones and enjoyed walks through the Yorkshire Dales and surrounding woodlands.
But I had never been with my husband. I had forgotten that if you are not used to traveling, an imperious wife instructing you to drive in an unfamiliar country, on an unfamiliar side of the vehicle, might seem daunting—perhaps even frightening. I had also forgotten that the last time I had been in York, I carried a wee little boy who fit easily in my arms, not a rambunctious 40-pound child who—perish the thought—believed many activities two adults might enjoy in a foreign country were boring. And it had not occurred to me that spending Spring Break in cold, gloomy, rainy England, driving down narrow roads in a strange car, might not be the restful vacation I had envisioned.
So, we landed in London, which was the first mistake. London is quite a drive from Yorkshire, and because I had arranged for us to spend our first night in Aysgarth, North Yorkshire, we had to get from the airport to the Tube, then to the rental car agency, and finally drive hours north in sleeting rain—all on the same day. I can admit now that this was poor planning on my part.
It was a Sunday, and by the time we reached the rental agency, it was closed. Despair—instant and complete. After much banging on doors and repeated, humiliating shouting in the streets of London, a man finally shuffled out and reluctantly agreed to let us have our vehicle. After a hasty credit card swipe and many relieved tears, we were on our way.
But we were exhausted. We had been on a 14-hour flight, taken the Tube, walked half a mile, and still had 3.5 hours of driving ahead. My husband had never been to England—this was only his second trip abroad—and the idea of driving on the opposite side of the road in a strange car, with the two people he loves most inside, on very little sleep, was understandably nerve-racking. A storm began as we drove north, and the farther we went, the colder and wetter it became. Visibility was poor, and we were all fraying from exhaustion and stress.
Eventually, we made it—safe and sound, but running on fumes. Northern England is stunning: sweeping countryside dotted with cotton-puff sheep. But the roads are treacherous to the uninitiated. I wish I could say this drive gave my husband confidence for the rest of our Yorkshire adventures. Alas, we ended the trip with the sweet little Mercedes we had rented covered in scrapes after inadvertently backing along a stone wall in a narrow village alley. The car was caked in mud, leaves, debris, and other unmentionable substances.
Our cost-saving measure of renting a car ended up costing over a thousand dollars in insurance. Still, the memories are priceless—along with the hard-earned wisdom to make better driving decisions in the future.
