Once old Mcdonald finally maneuvered the hay-wagon down his lane, traffic began to move. To keep Blue occupied with something other than hay-sayings*, I have him google our route.
“Just make sure it’s picturesque and there’s a pub lunch along the way.” I suggest, feeling some tension release from my neck and shoulders.
Our “quiet country romp” had so far been pretty much a disaster. Blue wasn’t exactly the ideal travelling companion. He couldn’t disconnect from his phone. Doom-scrolling on a road trip isn’t my idea of relaxation.
I got into the driving groove. At least renting the luxury vehicle, so far, was a good idea. Despite the “purified and conditioned air,” it provided in the “front cabin,” I roll down my window. Time to smell the . . .
Blue shrieks, “Gross. Shut the f’ing window.” He pinches his nose, and waves the space in front of his face with the other hand.
“What?” I ask innocently. Having spent summers shuffled off to my aunt’s farm, I anticipated the rural perfume: eau de cow manure no.5.
I comply and am bombarded with statistics about the lethal nature of such smells. This city boy is definitely not fit for country living.
“Turn right,” Blue instructs, barely looking up from his phone. “On the other side of the river, there’s a 5-star peer-reviewed gastropub and microbrewery, The Grub and Bucket. 16 ales on tap, organic and locally sourced food, tasteful music . . . ”
I swing around the corner, only to find the bridge span up, and another line of traffic awaiting.
Blue begins, “’Bridge Over Troubled Water;’” ‘Burning Bridges . . . . . ’”
I’m ready to throw him in the water under the bridge.
*My road trip started with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers, “tumbling in the hay,” and continues with KL Caley’s #writephoto bridge. Though I do admit the bridge is sorta just a finishing flourish. I attempted several other responses, but got the furthest along with this.
image: KL Caley
The prompt also reminded me of some bridge songs: