Why I hate cars

and why I like Castle Cary

I don’t really hate cars. I just have absolutely no interest in them. All I ask, is that they work. Several times in my past, people, OK men, have bought fancy new cars and have asked if I want them to take me for a spin? Now I know what you are thinking but this is absolutely not a euphemism. They really were just offering to drive me around the block while they pointed at things on the dashboard and made the car rear from 30 to 70, while the G force threw me back in the uncomfortable bucket seat and their ego got a little buzz. And because I am a people pleaser, I would ooh and aah and all the time I would be thinking in my head, I DON’T CARE.

I don’t mind driving around in knackered old cars, besides where we live there is no point having something sleek and shiny when you are continually reversing down country lanes and slamming it into hedgerows so tractors or tourists can pass. I feel terribly sorry for the latter whose eyes are on stalks because they think they are off roading. Sometimes when people visit us, they assume they have taken a wrong turn and approached the village by a disused track. Nope, that is the good road into the village we say. Then they look askance at the thought of what the bad road is like.

We spend much of our lives driving between home and school and the beach, with the occasional 20-minute dash to Bridport. Which is all well and good until we have to leave the county. When we want to go further than usual, which is sort of what a car is for, it becomes a game of vehicle roulette. Which car is least likely to break down.

So yesterday morning, excited to be off on a long-planned trip to Castle Cary, I decided the trusty Citroen aka The Spaceship would do the job, mainly because the driver seat is like an armchair, or it would be if the arm of the chair hadn’t been broken off by a previous owner. Turned out The Spaceship had a slow puncture. Plus, the leaky water tank, which we have been topping up weekly, has sprung a bigger hole and, call me a diva, but I didn’t want to travel with a brimming watering can. So, the first trip I made was to take it down to the mechanic who sold it to us and always welcomes it back with open arms, slapping it lovingly on its rump as if he has lent us his prize racehorse.

Which left me with the second car. The Ford. Or as the mechanic has named it, Mr Fusion. This car is like driving a tin bucket so it’s not an ideal choice for a long journey, but it was that or cancel my plans which included lunch with two writer pals (both Sunday Times bestsellers for goodness sake) so that was not an option. I had to get to that roast chicken come hell or no water coolant.

Mr Fusion is the lowliest member of our elite workforce, easily eclipsed by the washing machine which was more expensive. It has an intermittent engine light that flashes a warning, but the mechanic says not to worry about that until the car conks out. Which is not reassuring if I am taking it on a motorway. I have suggested that we as in he, could investigate the issue but the mechanic, who is in charge of my cars and me, just shakes his head sadly. He says we have to wait for the inevitable and then give the car a good burial in a scrapyard.

The great news is, that after a diversion to buy oil because it seems to gulp it as fast as I down a Friday Campari, there is no warning light on the dashboard. I make it to Castle Cary! I even make a diversion to Castle Cary station where the Grand Poobah of Hospitality, the Newt has set up café and shop in the station building. Which seems like a strange choice, but there is a synergy with the empire being just down the road, so I guess they want people to step off the train and straight into the brand. Except surely their guests don’t travel by train, they must be in aircon, computer run, four wheel luxury in tinted window land rover wagons that could just roll over Mr Fusion in one gentle crushing movement.

I talk myself out of buying a simnel cake for £35 (the tin is so nice, I want the tin, I would be happy if I had that tin, here take the car as payment) and grab a coffee instead. It’s the sort of place where I want to buy everything but can’t justify any of it other than a couple of treats to take home. The smart bag they come in looks incongruous on the back seat of Mr Fusion, next to the dog towels and layer of sand.

Lunch at the Manor House Inn, in Ditcheat, is luxuriously long and joyfilled with the three of us sharing the spatchcock chicken and chips, carving it up and picking over the bones of the bird as we do our conversations, which rumble into a bitter leaf and blood orange salad followed by a lemon posset and candied rhubarb which is just the right side of mouth puckering. Highly recommend. Will return.

Mr Fusion and I head home in the afternoon sun, me with the window down enjoying the one thing that does work about the car. We are minutes from home before I begin to smell burnt toast which turns into the stench of burning rubber. This time the light illuminated on the dashboard is the temperature gauge. On a wing and a prayer and the desperate hope I won’t have to walk the rest of the way because I am in the wrong trainers, we screech back into the village, the fan in the engine sounding like a panicked violin. Mr Fusion is literally fit to blow and I hope the neighbour’s cat doesn’t choose this bonnet to warm up on.

So now, we have no cars and have had to borrow an emergency one from the mechanic, who is hiding from us. At least the washing machine is still working (touches head in lieu of wood)…