“We’re going to Somerset,” announced my three year old, “in a lovely motor car.”
So off we went, six of us and two dogs, availing ourselves of the opportunity of the moment to hire a car. The dogs had their noses on the sills of open windows sniffing the fresh sea breezes. The sun was shinning brilliantly as we rolled merrily along towards our destination. It must have been in Warwick that we overtook the hearse, a melancholy sight for picnickers enjoying the splendour off a Bermuda Sunday morning. All went well for another miles or so when suddenly the three-year-old, whose nose did not reach up to the window sills and had unfortunately been inhaling fumes in the front seat, was very sick and had to be removed from the car. We waited anxiously for a while for her to recover from her malaise and to tidy up. During that time the hearse passed us; I thought I detected a faint sneer on the horse’s face, but what can one expect from a horse with so dismal an occupation in life?
Half an hour later we all piled in again and again sailed passed that depressing vehicle, but not for very long for the little one was so unhappy in her stomach that it was decided motor trips were not for her and she and her mother were deposited somewhere in Southampton where a kindly friend drove them home by horse and buggy. Again the hearse passed us, this time at a smart trot, and a smile on the driver’s face. Later, it was again overtaken.
To shorten this sad little tale, only two of the original passengers arrived at the Somerset destination, by car.