MISS SAT NAV

      Shortly after my mother passed away we had guests at the Pink Cottage.  They were from California; one of my closest friends, her husband and twenty-one year old daughter.  They were worried it was too soon for visitors but we insisted their visit would be a welcome distraction. It was. 

The largest car in Compton Dundon  

     They were brave enough to rent a car, and navigate the English roundabouts to our doorstep, where they pulled up early one Friday evening.   Tumbling out from the vehicle wild-eyed, Friend’s hands were still clenched in the death grip she’d had on the steering wheel.  We looked at each other and burst out crying. She, I suspect, was happy to have arrived alive, I was happy to have a friend near in a time of sorrow.  Friend’s husband looked around at the trees and fields and sheep and visibly relaxed.  Friend’s L.A. born and raised daughter was like Alice newly arrived in Wonderland.  We unloaded their luggage, quite a lot of luggage actually, from what was probably the largest vehicle in Compton Dundon, tractors excepted.  

     That night we cooked a full-on English dinner for our guests; local organic sausages and mash and veg and salad.  Before we arrived at the Pink Cottage we did not eat pork.  Now, we are on a strict sausage only regimen.  One by one meat groups have been eliminated.   Penny the Peahen reminds us of a giant chicken… so no more chicken.  We pass sweet sad-eyed cows daily on our walks.  No more beef.  Lambs frolic in the fields surrounding the house.
With mint sauce... I think not.
     We comment to neighbours how cute we think they are.  They say nothing, just gaze off knowingly into the distance. One sad day an entire flock disappeared from a nearby field.  They were not holidaying in Ibiza.  No more lamb chops.     
     All we have left are sausages…. which don’t actually look like an animal.  Husband has discovered scotch eggs; a cholesterol death nugget, again no resemblance to an animal.  But pork may go the way of all other flesh.  My friend Emma just told me how intelligent and aware pigs are.  We may soon be down to watercress.  I’ve already lost over ten pounds on the ‘grief’ and ‘walking six miles to the nearest shop’ diet.  I'll be ramping up my cheese intake, goodness knows there's a lot of it.

     On Sunday the blue sky was dotted with puffy clouds floating decoratively above; a perfect day to drive to the dramatic Jurassic Coast, a World Heritage Site one hour south of our village.  We piled into the monster vehicle.  Friend is the only one of us who has driven on the opposite side of the road, having lived in England when she was in her twenties, so the driving was up to her.  Friend’s husband is a wizard with computers.  He set the GPS for Lyme Regis, the hub of the coast and off we went; both husbands in the back seat, Friend’s daughter in the third row at the rear.
     With one driver, Miss Sat Nav, three guides; one with a physical map and one with an iPhone tuned to Google Earth, and all of us chirping in at every turn in the road we managed to miss our first motorway entrance.  No worries, we thought.  Miss Sat Nav will get us sorted out.  Husband mumbled a slew of anti-technology expletives from the rear.  We soldiered on.  
     Miss Sat Nav gave us very clear directions for an alternate route.   We passed the Yeoviltin air base, the Yeovil Golf course, the Lynx Trading estate.  One hour later we were still circling Yeovil… again and again and again, as if Yeovil had a magnetic hold on us.  Roundabout after roundabout we followed Miss Sat Nav’s directions. 
      “This is wrong,” husband pipes in from behind us, "really wrong."
     We ignored him, egged on instead by Miss Sat Nav’s voice, seductive and certain; a siren we dared not disobey.  Following her command we fled yet another roundabout towards what she said was our final destination. Ten minutes later we wound our way through strangely empty cobblestone streets to East Mill Lane in the beautiful town of Sherborne. 
     “We are not even on the map anymore,” husband says, sounding slightly smug.
     Our intended destination was Mill Lane in Lyme Regis.  It had taken us about one and a half hours to travel twenty miles, in the wrong direction, to the wrong town.  We tried to reprogram Miss Sat Nav to the correct town, but something about the area, or the topography irked her and she remained stubbornly mute. 
      Friend’s daughter saved the day, getting us out of Sherborne with Google Earth on her iPhone. Back on the map husband directed us towards Lyme Regis.  Friend's husband resuscitated Miss Sat Nav.  All engines firing… we were Lyme Regis bound.  We passed signs pointing to towns named Queen Camel, Tintinhull, Chilthorne Domer, Brympton d’Evercy, and Haselbury Plucknett. 

     “Haselbury Plucknett!” Each one of us contributed some very rude variations on the name.  Relieved to be heading in the right direction we were practically sing-a-long giddy.  It was short-lived.  Neither map nor Google Earth can predict a road closure.  I could have sworn I heard Miss Sat Nav snigger when the orange signs came into view.  Friend slammed on the breaks.  There was nothing else to do but turn around.  Friend pulled an impressive U-Turn and we sped off on the only road available, the one we'd come in on. 
     “Turn around and go back,” Miss Sat Nav ordered, annoyed at our disobedience, “Turn around and go back, Turn around and go back, Turn around and go back, Turn around and go back, TURN AROUND AND GO BACK!”
      Friend couldn’t take it anymore.
     “Shut up!   Somebody shut her up!”  
     I punched buttons.
     "TURN AROUND AND GO BACK."
     I touched the screen.  Bye, Bye Miss Sat Nav.    
     Armed with Google Earth and a map, minus Miss Sat Nav, we headed down narrow lanes lined with hedgerows higher than our vehicle.  It was gorgeous navigating through rolling Dorset hills, streaks of blue sea appearing and disappearing in the distance as we made our way through farmlands and villages. We stared out the windows smiling like fools.  Finally we arrived in Lyme Regis.  We’d driven forty miles in three hours… but we didn’t really care. 
     By now we were quite hungry, our English breakfast long burned off by nervous tension.   We slid out of the car into a packed parking lot, legs stiff, starving.  Lyme Regis on a bank holiday weekend is like Venice Beach on the Fourth of July.  We took a lovely walk along a jam packed Boardwalk, we in long pants, while locals in swimsuits sunbathed in sixty-eight degree weather, their pale flesh scorched bright pink by the sun on this first official long weekend of the summer. 
     We needed to eat… really needed to eat.  We were testy.  Our collective blood sugar had plummeted. Breakfast was a long time ago, and unbeknownst to us, it would be quite some time until dinner.  Local restaurants in Lyme Regis close between lunch and dinner, from two-thirty until five-thirty.  It was four in the afternoon.  Commerce is not king here, even during a bank holiday weekend, restaurants are not open mid-afternoon.  Dorset is known for its dairy products. We had two options... ice cream on the boardwalk, or clotted cream and scones on the terrace of a lovely cottage on Mill Lane.  We had both.
     When we finally climbed back into the truck we were full and happy and ready for the drive back.  We turned on Miss Sat Nav and dutifully waited for our instructions.
     “Take your first left,” she commanded.
     Husband studied his map.
     “Ahem,” husband clears his throat, “I don’t think that’s the right direction.”