In a way, this post follows quite well after the one dealing with our sense of life. Why? Because, having driven five hundred kilometres there and back (five hours there, four and a half back) to be away for the weekend, I can tell you I'm feeling 'all shook up', to quote Elvis. Luckily for me, I was able to travel in a van for the journey back instead of in our small Golf. The difference a larger wheel base makes is quite considerable. Nevertheless, and despite a most wonderful Easter, for me the effects of those vibrations from pounding the pavements still linger. And immediately on arrival back home I felt their echo right through my body.
When Miranda our eldest was four and a half months old, we drove from England, down through France and Spain and took the ferry from Barcelona across to Ibiza. That was before the hippie invasion years. I think Miranda's angel must have been looking out for her because in our London days we drove a Mini Minor. Quite scary, actually, when you were whizzing around Marble Arch or Hyde Park corner, vying with the taxis and looking out a side window to see you were at the same height as the wheels of the busses!
Anyhow, my dear now-departed aunt and uncle insisted on us taking their station wagon for our holiday instead of the Mini and so Miranda was spared a much more severe jolting than would otherwise have been the case.
For babies and small children, it's quite simple. The less car travel they have to endure, the better.
