A traveller's travails

I don't much like travelling and just recently it seems travelling doesn't like me either. Three weeks ago I spent around 15 hours going to Houston. Two weeks ago I spent about 15 hours coming home again - the better part of the deal, I have to say. Three days later a reorganisation rendered the trip pointless.

On Sunday we spent around seven hours driving to Cornwall, with our niece in tow, for a sunny holiday. On Wednesday evening we spent around six hours driving back, after three days of almost uninterrupted rain. In Cornwall, anyway; we are told that here in Kent it was quite pleasant, even approaching balmy on Monday. Whilst Adam discovered the joys of a 25-foot drop slide at Dairyland near Newquay, twice, because it was one of the few indoor activities we could do (and the return visit was free), I can't honestly say it was 700 miles' petrol well spent. Sarah had already done over 400 miles collecting Emma from Stoke-on-Trent and our poor little car, accustomed to spending long evenings parked outside our house, didn't know what had hit it.

I should probably make clear it's the act of travelling that I don't like, rather than being in a different place. Indeed, often it's only the arriving in a different place that compensates for the journey. Put me on a train and I will fall asleep in minutes. Coaches are nearly as bad. And as a car passenger I will nod off for sure on the motorway. Fortunately I find it easier to stay awake when driving, although that's not an activity I particularly enjoy either. It's very much a means of getting from A to B and at the moment with fuel so expensive, the closer A and B are together and the closer my speed is to 55mph, the better. Flying (as a passenger at least) must be one of the most boring activities known to man. A couple of hours here and there is OK, but two meals, three films and still two hours till landing - it's a threat to sanity.

The return from Cornwall was brightened - literally - by the most incredible thunderstorm. Sheet lightning, forks appearing to go up, flashes between cloud layers, horizontal spears, this had the lot, across the full width of the visible sky all the way from Wiltshire to Kent. And where exactly was the storm? Right above our house.

We will be tootling off to Berkshire at the weekend, sans children, for a wedding. And whilst another 150 or so miles on the motorways of the south will be unwelcome, I still dare hope the event (and the overnight stay) will be more worthwhile than our recent trips.