Friday, April 15, 2011
Exiled in Exmoor
This being my first trip to southern England, I can now see why it's considered to be such a garden spot. The rolling green hills, so like Ireland's, are arresting, and the Exmoor ponies roam freely here, something I've never seen before.
Spring and ducks means lots of duck eggs and Maggie, the owner, handed over half a dozen when we first arrived. They're easily twice the size of the normal chicken eggs we typically soft-boil for breakfast so we've taken to frying them just to be sure. Delicious!
The country roads here are incredibly narrow, only fit for a single vehicle although spaces are carved into the flanking hedgerows to permit one car to scrunch in so another can pass. I've had a few close calls, partly because the locals drive these roads so fast, overconfident in the infrequent traffic, and partly because I keep forgetting to drive on the left side of the road. (Not that these tiny lanes actually have a left side, mind you.)
One afternoon, I hit a log jam inside a tiny village. I approached a very tight right turn I needed to make, angled at no more than 45 degrees. Up ahead was a woman in another car who looked as if she was trying to make the same right turn but was positioned at an awkward angle as her way was blocked by this enormous truck. I sat for several moments waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, I jumped out of my car and approached the truck.
"Uh, what's happening here?" The driver pointed to where I was parked and said he wanted to make a left turn. I looked at the size of his truck and the tight 45-degree turn and blurted out, "Are you kidding me?" He shrugged.
"Okay, what is she doing?" I asked, pointing to the car ahead of me, as I'd seen him chatting to her through the vehicle windows.
"She wants to go that way," he said, pointing down past where he was emerging. I looked around. A number of cars had accumulated behind me.
"Wait here," I said, as if there was any chance he could actually go anywhere. I proceeded to walk back about six cars (there was actually a horse in the queue), asking each driver where they were headed. In about 10 minutes, I'd rerouted one car and had the other five back up sufficiently. Then I pulled forward, slightly beyond the turn I wanted to make so the truck could angle around me. I watched as he see-sawed back and forth trying to make the impossibly tight turn.
Crunch! The truck was so big I couldn't see what he'd actually hit. Neither could he. Backing up, it became apparent—a wooden post about three feet high that had clearly been installed on the corner in front of this village home for just this purpose, to save the home from being clipped by oversized vehicles. The post was badly splintered but the truck took one more shot and was on its way. Hesitantly, cars began to inch forward and jockey for position. We still had a bit of a gridlock, with more cars that had appeared but eventually we all maneuvered successfully around each other.
I was struck by the patience for this situation that had easily taken more than 15 minutes to resolve. Not a single horn beeped, not a single driver gestured in frustration (well, aside from me, that is) and, as Innis later wryly observed when I told her what had occurred, they'd probably still be sitting there patiently waiting had I not gotten out of my car to direct traffic.