Mr. and Mrs. Dog: Our Travels, Trials, Adventures, and Epiphanies

Welsh Roads (A Rant)

135 WelshRoads (ARant) Of course our roads are small. Wales is a small country. F or a thousand years men battled over Welsh soil. Fertilized by men’s blood, every inch of it is precious, and very, very little is devoted to roads. Driving home one evening outside Nantgaredig, my headlights picked up a woman rolling a stroller on the shoulder, which was all of two feet wide. Her husband preceded her and the family’s Border Collie preceded him. I swung wide around this suicidal procession. Welsh village sidewalks are so narrow, lovers walk in single file. On some, Romeo and Juliet sidle along sideways. British “M” roads are like US interstates interrupted by occasional roundabouts artfully designed to terrify tourists. M roads are driveable and Welsh two­lane roads aren’t bad. The one­and­a­half­lane roads are the knuckle­whiteners. The single tracks are wide enough for bicycles and walled with impenetrable eight­ and ten­foot hedgerows so you can’t see around the next bend. Since these lanes skirt ancient boundaries they proceed straight for a hectare or so before making a ninety­degree turn at somebody’s barn. When one meets an oncoming car/tractor/milk truck, each driver tries to recall where the nearest turnout may be. Road signs are in Welsh and English. I became rather fond of the Welsh “araf,” which means “slow,” so the string of cars behind the slowpoke Yank could shaddup and quit with the honking already! In villages, cars park half on the sidewalk, half in the street, and prudent parkers fold their outside mirrors. At the village newsagents and takeaways, customers park half on the sidewalk. The first driver into a narrowing has the right to proceed in the wrong lane until he discovers a gap between parked cars big enough to tuck 136 mr. and mrs. dog into so the oncoming driver can slip by. Clicked mirrors are the Welsh “How­de­do!” All this would’ve been bearable if my car wasn’t bass­ackwards. I got in on the wrong side, fumbled with controls with my left hand, told Luke to lie down (“Damn it! I can’t see through you!”), and adjusted my mirrors, wrong (right) mirror first. If it had rained during the night (surprise!) I rolled my right (wrong) window down to wipe the mirror. And away we go! For me, speed limits were an aspiration; for the Welsh, they’re hated reminders of three hundred years of the English telling them what to do. The speed cameras provide Welsh drivers with 90 mph portraits to place with other prized memorabilia on their mantelpieces. Although I admired Welsh savoir­faire I burned more adrenalin than gasoline. I suppose it’s sound policy to give natives an advantage over visitors: live locally, drive maniacally. Get a grip, Donald! Small women and pensioners drive these roads every day! After a lovely day with David Rees, I turned toward home during what passed for Ammanford’s rush hour. A lorry loomed too close too fast and I misjudged and clipped a parked car’s mirror. Instantly, I was as unhinged as that clipped mirror and my hands jerked the car LEFT for safety, exactly as I would have at home. I dynamited my brakes but smacked a parked car, bounced over the curb, and jerked to a stop five feet from a telephone pole. Luke had slid onto the floorboards. June bounced off the back of the front seat. My air bags hadn’t deployed. My hands shook as a woman tapped at my window: “Are you all right?” I got out and walked back to inspect the damage: her car’s street­side fenders were destroyed. I said we should call the police. She said I needed a cup of tea. Glenda Nottingham was more concerned about me than her car. Since nobody had been hurt, the Welsh police (Heddlu De Cymru) weren’t in­ terested. The rental people asked if the car was driveable. I tried. Nope. I probably broke an axle when I hit the curb. I phoned David but he wasn’t home. Directly, the Nottingham family gathered: Glenda’s husband, her son, Welsh Roads 137 Silas, Silas’s wife, and Glenda’s grandson. The man whose mirror I’d bro­ ken spoke to the rental people too. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Glenda insisted...