Journeying

Admitting that you don’t drive (often assumed to be the same as can’t, but I would argue there’s a subtle difference) often seems to make people uncomfortable. There is a sense that being able to drive is just something that all sensible adults must do. Maybe it’s that quote attributed to Thatcher about a man who finds himself on the bus after the age of 25 being considered a failure. Although after some digging, like many oft-repeated aphorisms, it’s not even clear whether she actually said it. But given that she was a big fan of individualistic self reliance, it’s easy to believe that she wasn’t keen on communal travel. My personal theory is that being a non-driver not only affects your journey time, but also impacts on how you experience the world. Waiting at bus stops has not completely equipped me with a zen like patience, but I do my best to embrace my life as it is.

Last week I took my daughter to visit a private exam centre in Bath. Due to autistic burnout she was absent from school for the whole of Year 11, and sitting any GCSEs at all last summer looked doubtful. At the eleventh hour it became possible for her to sit English and Maths at a small specialist provision, where she is now attending this academic year to sit a few more GCSEs in the summer. That’s right, I’m one of those ‘sharp-elbowed middle class parents’ who is responsible for spiralling SEN spending by local authorities. Don’t worry, I chastise myself regularly, no need to comment. The reason for the private exam centre is that there is one course not offered by her current school, and having learnt all the content and studied at home, she is determined to take the GCSE to prove to herself that she can do it. This is what parents do when their children don’t fit mainstream school, they research and sift through the options and try and build something more suitable, sometimes things get a bit Heath Robinson, but it mostly works.

We live on the eastern side of Bristol, a thirty minute drive to the centre of Bath, but for a number of complicated reasons, I don’t drive. Pre-covid, there was a direct bus to Bath that ran about once an hour from a bus stop on the main road near my house. It took double the time than by private car, but was still a viable option for a day trip when my children were younger. I remember visiting the Roman Baths and my son insisting on listening intently to the whole of the audio tour, he wanted all the facts. A photo from the day seems to show that my daughter was less enamoured. Although given that she doesn’t like busy crowded places, it could have been overwhelm. When my children were young, travelling by train, bus or sometimes bike would often be more of an adventure than whatever attraction we had chosen to visit. Even travelling solo I still have a secret thrill of joy if I manage to secure the coveted front seat on the top deck of a double decker. I would of course always give up this seat to the more deserving passenger, a preschooler who is desperate to ‘drive the bus’. Sometimes I see adults sitting in this golden space and wasting it completely by sitting and staring at their phones. Philistines.

But I digress, back to last week's journey… On a beautifully sunny day we voyaged forth on a 45 right to the end of the line, Cherry Gardens. This seems on investigation to be more of a road name than an actual place, although it does conjure romantic images of an avenue of delicate blossom, doesn’t it? From there it was meant to be a simple matter of crossing the road to another bus stop and catching the 19 into Bath. Except we’re travelling in the public transport universe, where the bus gods do not always smile, and we alight the 45 to see the 19 pulling away. Eager to keep spirits high I bluster that there’s sure to be another soon, which there is, sort of, if you consider forty minutes to be soon. My daughter looks sceptical. To kill time we walk along the road to a nearby garden centre and spend some time looking at the lush rows of plants and hideous garden ornaments, including a smug looking nymph with ridiculously perky breasts and nipples like glace cherries. Allowing ourselves some discreet guffaws we head back to the bus stop to continue our journey. The second bus, another double decker, winds through the country roads leading into Bath, the window displays rolling hills and mellow stone buildings, and bare-branched trees so festooned with globular growths of mistletoe that they look green with leaf at first glance. 

Like so much of my life at the moment, there is duality. I could look at this journey with irritation, as an inconvenience, it would be so much quicker to drive. There is also the reminder that hits me so often, that I and my daughter are off the official path. The only reason we’re visiting this exam centre is due to what happened to her in mainstream school. I’ve mostly come through the rage I felt at the time, but occasionally it bubbles up. We have both had to let go of many ‘shoulds’ on our way to this moment. More recently I have been trying to take delight in being off the beaten track, and living with more ease in this absurd world. And so I sit on the top deck of a bus in the sunshine, in silence and side-by-side.

Photo shows blackthorn blossom, it's bursting out all over near where I live.