A City Set on a Hill

Recently, much of my spare time has been spent driving a thirty mile road to visit and care for one of my grand children. Thirty miles there, and thirty back. It gets tedious doing a regular commute like that (or it does for me anyhow) and I have amused myself by mentally re-naming sections of the road.

Starting from home there is The Track, up which I live and which due to its bumps needs to be driven with exaggerated caution. Then there is The Road to the Village which is well known and a bit tedious. The Moor Road follows and that ends with Dead Pheasant Run, where, for a few weeks in autumn, the new-released game birds enjoy kamikaze games.

Then it is on to the Town, a big village which makes the half way point of the drive. After that comes The Straight, the last chance to overtake a=or be overtaken for a good while. Everybody knows The Straight, and is lined up ready to sort out precedence there. As to whether I am an overtaker or an overtakee depends in large part on how late I am, and if I am stuck behind a gravel lorry or not.

The Straight ends with Death by Drowning. It is a series of ingenious sharp curves just above a loch. Then there is Small Straight where luck once may again favour overtaking. Then there comes the Bends. These would, on a lesser road, be the principle hazard. On this road, they are just Bends.

Another small village, and then the Hairpins. These are actually the nastiest part of the journey, made more hazardous by the fact that, in summer, visitors are taken by surprise by then and find themselves all over the road.

Then comes another Town, with ingenious traffic calming. On occasion this causes an accident and police and horrid diversions. Usually it is simply navigated. Then I move on to the Uphill Straight. That ends as I sweep under the motorway, and a chance to lose cars tailgating me, or cars I yearn to tailgate.

The next stretch of road has the Centrifugal Corner (watch it, or you get swung too far out) and Right of Way bridge. Now the beautiful market town in whose environs my grand son lives has appeared, a City Set on a Hill. I sweep over the beautiful 18c. Bridge, and head up the last stretch to his home.

I am not a natural driver, and it is not my inclination to love driving, but love of my grandchild has somehow hallowed that drive for me.

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