I had a splendid drive to St Audries in Somerset this morning, breakfast on the way, picked up Graham and then drove over to Burnham-on-Sea for lunch in our favourite Bay View Café.
On to the motorway and the drive home, calling in at the supermarket on the edge of Burnham on our way out.
Good progress through to Wales, over the bridge, and then down to the outskirts of Cardiff.
At which point the motorway filled with traffic, went slow, and ground to a halt, with gridlocked vehicles stretching ahead as far as even a very tall person could see.
“What’s all this, then?” Graham asked, as if I were privy to some networked news source.
“Dunno. Some looney has crashed, like as not. Time will tell.”
It did, too, after a little over an hour of stop, stop, inch forward, stop. No emergency services for the first 45 minutes, and even then they weren’t interested in us poor stranded motorist as they passed through to some unseen situation ahead of us.
“I think you were right all along,” said Graham, peering out of the passenger window. It’s got something to do with that pillar of smoke you noticed.”
And then, rounding another curve, I yelled “It’s some bloody irresponsible farmer!”
“How do you mean? Oh. I see.”
It was a huge trailer, pulled to the side of the three lanes, and empty of the over-turned mass of fermenting hay that’d clearly self-ignited and was burning furiously.
It didn’t spoil our day, though, late though we were. Once clear, we pressed on and got home safe and sound, two hours later than scheduled.
So, the important thing being that ‘safe and sound’, I’ll sign off at this point. I’m tired, but happy and quietly joyful that we are all three of us re-united under our own roof once more.
Except… he’s had his arm twisted again and will be attending upon the drinking and social requirements of the trannies again in the autumn.
Curses!
