Being at Pilsdon for any length of time one tends to accumulate job titles. For instance some of mine are Head Gardener, Senior Vice Cow Milker, Reservoir Filter Maintenance Engineer, Wind Band Director and Arranger, Film Night Organiser, Activist Club Initiator, Official Pianist for Worship Services, Chef, Chauffeur and Minibus Driver.
Every now and then one of the guests needs transporting to some engagement whether it be the doctor’s, Alcoholics Anonymous or the train station, and sometimes the duty of chauffeur falls to me. Occasionally all three cars are available and then it’s the agony of choice. Do I go for the Yaris with its puny engine, the slightly more powerful Honda whose clutch pedal squeaks like a demented polecat, or the venerable diesel-powered Citroen Berlingo which sounds like a tank and in fact did see action in Normandy?
Having selected one, it’s off along the tiny winding lanes up and around the rolling hills of West Dorset’s AONB (that’s Area of Outstanding National Beauty to you, not Arse-end Of Nowhere Borough). Often the road is no wider than the car itself and narrower than a tractor, as the heavy imprints of tracks on both verges testify. Meeting a vehicle coming the other way requires an elaborate but lightning-fast piece of mental dexterity, remembering how far back the last passing point was for you, guessing how far back your opponent would have to reverse, comparing the two distances and judging which is the smaller, all the while keeping an eye on your adversary to see if they start to reverse or have decided to wait for you to back away. An additional variable is the relative dimensions of the two vehicles, size definitely being an advantage here. Tractors rarely reverse for cars, the school bus never does.
This is where driving the minibus can be an advantage. It’s a battered old fourteen-seater Ford with such a high roof you can jump up and down inside trying to touch the ceiling with no danger of reaching it (should you wish to). To qualify as a Pilsdon bus driver I had to spend a full day in a classroom re-learning the Highway Code and take a driving test in it around Bridport. Halfway through my test as I was stopped in traffic, two drivers got out of their respective cars bristling with rage at each other and when words became insufficiently descriptive of their anger they began to use more physical means. As I sat there wondering whether this was all part of my test, my (female) instructor calmly put on her day-glo jacket, got out and separated the two antagonists, instructing them to go on their way. Which they meekly did.
Wednesday afternoons are for the Shopping Trip in which all those itching for a taste of freedom jump on the minibus and spend two hours in the bright lights of Bridport. “Shopping” is something of a broad term, as for several of the guys it tends to be no more than purchasing bets on horses, and for others a rare opportunity to get onto the internet. The driver, who is often none other than the humble author of this blog, spends the time on errands, hurrying from greengrocers to bank to hardware store to Waitrose ticking off the long to-do list before his well-earned Americano at his favourite deli, Jaxson’s.
Out here in the sticks things can sometimes seem a bit unusual to long-time city-dwellers such as myself. Once I was startled to pass a car which was slowly leading a dog on its leash from one window, and a horse from the other side. Stopping for sheep in the road is not an uncommon experience, and if you don’t slow down to near-stopped when passing horse-riders you risk getting an earful. Driving in the countryside obviously demands a whole different set of skills from city-driving but I think I’m getting the hang of it. Soon I'll be taking our cattle out on leashes for a leisurely drive along the lanes.
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