Lunch in a lay-by

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With dizzying repetition dad circles the small field in which our baked bean shaped caravan languishes the remaining eleven months a year, hoping to build enough momentum to pull it - and all our ‘necessities’ for three weeks - up the steep track to start our hopelessly romantic journey. It’s touch and go: a first test of how our very suburban estate car will cope with the not-so-suburban Alps.

The mood is jubilant - we have graduated from the days of traipsing round ice cream farms and gnome farms and cheese farms and searching the caravan park for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow whilst we dodged the chronic, omnipresent Cornish downpour.

My parents’ adolescent dreams to take a rite-of-passage road trip had years ago been interrupted by the early rearing of four children. Now, with us long ago toilet-trained four in tow, buoyed by the intention to fill us each with wanderlust, we set off on the maiden voyage to Italy.

Over the proceeding three days we pass through four countries, one time zone and countless European trailer parks taking the stunningly, indulgent, scenic route. I gasp at the staggering beauty of the mountains rising all around, as though I was cocooned by a film set whilst asleep. Sensing the potential injustice of my sister missing the passing views I nudge her gently: “Look, the mountains.” Her head turns towards the window and back to me, then - the joy I expected replaced entirely with sullenness - she replies emphatically “Great. Thanks.” and returns to her slumber.

Sullenness aside, the oppressive humidity of Italy in August fails to dampen our collective mood during those three weeks. Years later playing out before my mind’s eye the memories are gently distorted by waves of ground-heat rising, by the saline lake water I wipe from my eyes after diving off the jetty into shimmering, emerald green waters.

Over dinner on our penultimate day our parents ask if we have had a good holiday? We glance at one another and reply with reticence “Yes.” “But?” asks mum. “But…it doesn’t really feel like a holiday. We haven’t had lunch in a lay-by yet”.

Next day, enjoying the last opportunity to perfect our various enhancements on the simple dive (cartwheels, belly flops, spinning jumps) we’re summoned to the caravan pitch. “We’re going to the market to pick up some food” Dad announces.

So we drive down the familiar, hair-ily thin lane towards the village. Only this time dad turns off so that we are suddenly snaking along the road which hugs the lake’s shores. And then we stop. “Dad, what are you doing? You know the market’s that way”.

No sooner have the words left my brother’s mouth than mum produces several cling-wrapped rolls. “We thought you might like to stop in this lay-by.” It wasn’t our usual scalding Cornish pasty and crisps fare but a hunk of ciabatta and some prosciutto would do well enough.

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