Travelling by car from Manchester Airport (or London or Birmingham or any other major British hub) to the remote mid-Wales coast – as my family has done for decades of summer vacations –feels like driving into a funnel. With every passing mile, the roads narrow. And narrow. And narrow. The motorways of Britain give way to secondary roads, which eventually fade to twisting country lanes (referred to by the Welsh as highways) that are emblazoned regularly, across their entire width, with one repeated warning: "ARAF SLOW." A hint perhaps, about how to navigate day-to-day life in Wales.
For a Canadian, the stress of hurtling into this ever-tightening funnel is exacerbated by several factors. To begin, you likely arrived in Britain jet-lagged (possibly mildly hung over) to discover rental-car agencies that protest any attempt to waive their expensive insurance policy. When I recently insisted upon trusting my credit-card coverage, the agent's final admonishment – "You are driving away with £28,000 sterling. And responsible for every pound" – played over and over in my head for weeks.
Then, in your haste to get under way, there is a good chance you jumped in the passenger's seat, expecting to see the steering wheel. This embarrassing habit of leaping into the wrong side of the car, only to meekly ease back out and walk to the other door, is surprisingly difficult to break.
Your shiny new ride will have a stick shift; but it lies on the opposite side from home, awaiting your left, not right, hand.
Next challenge: getting out of the parking lot without a ding. In Manchester, the rental stalls are located on the 13th floor of the parking garage, so visitors are forced to corkscrew down a series of narrow ramps, all while sitting on the wrong side of the car, shifting with the wrong hand, staying on the wrong side of the road and occasionally executing 17-point turns to get around particularly tight corners.
From experience, I can guarantee that within the first five minutes, as you lurch through roundabouts and struggle to read tiny road signs, you'll turn the wrong way and find yourself heading straight into confused faces and honking horns.
Yes, driving in Britain – certainly the first few minutes of it – can be stressful for Canadians accustomed to straight and spacious roads. And it is in this stressed state of mind that a Canadian driver enters Wales.
In Wales, the ancient byways were established in the age of horsepower (literally). Following the edges of fields, they change direction abruptly and often. Stone fences rise along both sides (there is no such thing as a shoulder) and blackberry hedges rise above these, blocking any view around the next corner. Clearances are so ridiculously tight that clipping side-view mirrors with a passing car, or careening off a mossy wall, seems inevitable.
The problem is that I bring my North American sense of speed and rush to the mid-Wales coast, where they simply do not belong.
The A493 – a major coastal highway, which runs directly past our cottage – is pinched by stone bridges and slumping miner's homes that press against the roadside. At some places, it's barely six feet wide. I am sure if I laid across the highway, my head would touch one stone wall and my toes the other. There is room for only one car at time.
The roads in Wales reflect – or, perhaps, in part dictate – the demeanour of the population they carry. The one thing the Welsh have in abundance, besides sheep and mist, is time. Stop to ask directions and you will invariably find yourself engaged in a discussion that can last hours, ranging from rugby to genealogy to the decline of real ale.
In Canada, it is not uncommon to drive with a coffee in hand (and perhaps a knee against the steering wheel, a map spread across the passenger seat). Such antics are impossible in Wales. Besides, why drive with your coffee, the Welsh would wonder, in a land where multitasking is not part of the lingo. Drink it while its hot, chat a bit and then set off.
Ultimately, driving amid the ever-tightening funnel of Welsh roads demands complete and undivided attention. You can't daydream about the future, or mull over problems from work or home. There is only room for one thing: driving. It is a refreshingly immersive experience.
Back at home, I often find myself reminiscing about the nail-biting Welsh lanes, especially when the wide road ahead stretches on to the horizon, without a bend in sight.
Special to The Globe and Mail
Bruce Kirkby