Don’t Do It, You Fool: One Family, One Car, and 472 Miles of Regret

They say it’s not about the destination - it’s about the journey.

Only those people have clearly never driven from Scotland to Cornwall with a child who has autism, ADHD, and zero chill when it comes to hot feet or traffic delays.

At the time of writing this, I am technically on holiday. We have the distant hope of sunshine, sea breezes (ok, they've been more gusts of wind and rain so far), and the lingering aroma of pasties and poor decisions.

Yes, Cornwall, we made it. Just. Although mentally? I’m still somewhere around the M6.

So, how did I end up in this predicament? (Not that Cornwall is a predicament, it's a beautiful place, but also a very long way from my cosy office and cats.)

Well, approximately four months ago, we (meaning the husband) thought it would be a great idea, a lovely idea, to drive from Scotland to Cornwall... with a child who has autism, ADHD, and the downstairs body control of a slug who's just hit a salt wall.

Now, for anyone stumbling across this post at a later date, it's currently summertime. I have barely a fart's worth of air con left in my car. A teenager who practically lives in world-muting headphones.

And me? I have the emotional stability of a beef patty at a vegan BBQ.

First time travelling this far, you might think. But noooo. In fact, three years ago, we made the same crazy voyage and vowed never to attempt it again. Only, we have.

And with that, I come bearing what I consider to be invaluable advice: DO NOT DO THIS.

I don’t care how scenic the route is. I don’t care how many people say, “Oh, how lovely, a road trip!”

It is not lovely. It is chaos in a white tin can, held together by fruit pouches and intermittent '80s rock music, depending on whether Amazon Music feels like working.

For context, we’d been on the road for around sixty-four minutes when the head banging started (my son's, not mine).

The sun was then too bright, although that was quickly resolved with his funky orange lens glasses.

But the idea of another hour and forty minutes until our first stop due to unplanned lane closures? Not so much.

I was trying to channel utter calmness, along with my in-car radio. And at both, I was failing miserably.

Urgh. Just urgh.

I’d packed my boy's favourite teddies, Fred and Jack.

I’d planned marshmallow intervals - one of the only food groups he can eat in the car without throwing up ten minutes later.

I’d spent at least seventeen days before explaining the route like we were planning a hostage negotiation.

But still, within three hours:

• The backseat looked like a laundrette with more socks than I remember my son putting on

• The husband, who was travelling separately in his car with his kids and his questionable music taste, had messaged four times to see how things were going... Not well, Sir, not well at all, although I couldn't reply with that because, well, I was driving!

• And the SATNAV had thrown up three long-tail traffic accidents, which by the time we'd crawled through for approximately three rounds of Eye Spy, had magically disappeared. It was as if they were mocking me, in some twisted game of nerves-to-be-wrecked.

By the Birmingham toll, I’d almost fully lost circulation in my left leg. And by Rugby, I was just pleased to be home...

Now I know what you're thinking - exhaustion must have taken over, a delirious state of mind from the sun, old age, pre-menopause brain fog... Because home is Scotland. Right? Well, yes, now, having lived there for ten years. But before that, I was a Rugby lass. A not born nor bred, but rather, an integrated member of society, with folk who stopped to say hello, always a kettle ready to pop on and a feeling of homeness.

We made a pre-booked pitstop for one night, caught up with some friends and ate too much food (holiday mode official commenced!). I then took photos of Ambrose the Ostrich, my new book mascot, on the Rugby Ball statue, and considered pitching a tent there for the entire week.

Only, I hate tents.

I couldn't afford the B&B for seven nights.

And I knew we had to keep travelling south.

So, come Saturday lunchtime, in goes the reluctant child, belt and extra harness clipped in. On goes the now pointless air con, and away goes my sanity for a further four and a half hours.

What I will say, though, is the pre-planning of Changing Room stops - those big old disability-friendly toilets with changing beds and enough room to swing four cats in, was a genius move.

For those who don't know, my kid isn't toilet-trained. He's still in pull-ups with only a vague sign of awareness most of the time. And the thought of having to change him on some grubby toilet floor because of poor facilities was just a big no. I'm not putting him through that kind of humiliation, nor am I questioning what I've just knelt in.

Honestly, if you've got family members who need that extra space and dignity, check out the Changing Places website, which lists properly equipped facilities around the UK - an absolute lifesaver. Anyway, we made it. The car’s seen things it’ll never recover from. The kids are in better moods. The snacks are gone. My hips might be too.

But motherhood doesn’t stop just because you’ve changed postcodes. Instead, it relocates the chaos. And in four days, I get to do it all again… backwards.

But until then, here's to seeing friends and family (aka the dragon-in-law!), to not checking my emails twenty-seven times a day (because I'm pretending to commit to this holiday thing). To never doubting the power of 360 spill-proof beakers in the back seat of a fast-moving car!

And to finding Wild Pianos in service stations for my boy to play and spend just a few moments of happiness at - he's a link to his one-man performance in Keele!

Much love and good vibes from Cornwall.

P.S. If this post made you laugh, cry, or feel just a little bit more human, that’s exactly what my book was written for. You can grab a copy over on Amazon, or if you'd prefer a signed edition, just drop me a message.

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"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

Helen Keller