Three or four times a year, my parents would take a trip to visit old friends in Coventry and for us kids in the back it was always an exciting time. On the way there, a routine was followed. A brief stop in the city, buy some barley sugar candies, lemon sherbets and bon-bon’s. Then head out the city and on our merry way.

Listening to music, singing along to whatever was in the tape deck, playing eye-spy or counting cars based on their colour and depending on the time of year, spending a few minutes holding our noses as we went past an extremely pungent section of garlic growing in one of the many fields.

Two days at our God parents, having meals at strange times as our god-mum, while a great cook, was so deeply embroiled in conversations that a 10 minute job of peeling the root vegetables could take several hours. It didn’t matter though, it was the time together, the catch ups, shared news and good company that made these trips so much fun and if it was during the summer holiday period, then we kids would get to stay for an extra two weeks while our parents had some time to themselves.

The return journey’s were usually much more subdued. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure they tried to wear us out so we’d sleep most of the way. But you know kids, always defiant.

Dad loved to drive (and was until I was much older) then only one who could. Happy with some classical music drifting gently from the speakers, he travelled familiar roads from Coventry to Norfolk.

Mum, relaxed yet exhausted from a busy two days, happily asleep about an hour into the return journey and us kids in the back lost in sword fights and dangerous dungeons, fighting warlocks on a mountain top or lost somewhere in the depths of space depending on the book we were reading at the time.

Even after bypasses were built and journey times could be quicker, Dad still preferred taking the same old roads back home. I remember asking him about this once and his response was enigmatic.

“People are in too much of a hurry to get from A to B, they don’t take the time to enjoy the scenery. It’s not just the destination that’s important but the journey you take.”

It was a good answer and one I have always remembered. And though he was talking of our particular trip home, it was always a reminder of life, to enjoy the journey, the moments along the way and not just to aim for what is at the end.

But I digress.

In the twenty years that I had been a driver, many roads changed. Bypasses and motorways were built and the small country roads that took us to wondrous places all but vanished, or so it seemed.

But not for Dad, for our little excursions, he much preferred the old routes and with everyone else taking the faster new roads, he only had to share them with locals and the infrequent tractor or combine harvester.

I would struggle now to tell you exactly where on our journey this next part happens, but it always did and only ever at this one junction.

The countryside routes he took were familiar and he could always find a way to get him where he was going. He was also sensible enough to carry a book of road maps with him. Even when sat-nav became inexpensive, he chose to stick with what he knew and refer to the trusty book if ever he went somewhere new.

And yet, even though it was rare for him to make the same mistake twice, there was one particular part of one specific journey home that always created a smile.

It is almost like déjà vu or would it be a Schröedinger moment? Could I honestly say that Dad wouldn’t have gone the wrong way? No, not that he got a chance.

The road in question ended at a T-junction. A simple choice; left or right.

Yet just as we had started to slow and before Dad could flip the indicator in either direction, Mum would wake up, announce clearly: “You need to turn right.” And just as quick, settle back into her head cushion and be asleep once more.

Dad’s response was always the same, a chortle, followed by a lasting smile. On would go the indicator and once free of any traffic, he’d turn right.