Gyrating

Over several days during autumn in 2005 I drove a loose semi-circle from Gatwick Airport, outside of London, to Edinburgh, Scotland, going first southwest towards Stonehenge, thence north into Wales with its indescribable green hues, before zigzagging towards Manchester through an ancient weave of rural countryside and on, into a secretive Scottish landscape.

I did all of that without any preparation for driving on the wrong Yankee side of the road. None whatsoever. I simply decided to do as the locals did, try not to stand out, and keep Excedrin in the glove box. Foolhardy or brave, the trip lasted nearly a thousand miles and was, gratefully, uneventful. Finding a driveway hidden by hedgerows along a narrow road, on a black night in the rain, under a tailgater's high beams, was the only truly hairy moment. Bumping a few curbs, as I did upon entering a town or two, was to be expected.

The only dread I came to know along the route was the British roundabout. These intersections offer a visiting traveler opportunities to scream loudly and swear vigorously, simultaneously. If you've been in an unfamiliar area, driving twenty miles below the posted speed limit while looking for your destination, all the while feeling the angry glares of other motorists on your neck—magnify that sensation by ten and you begin to understand the nervous adventure awaiting you in a roundabout.

Like their pastries, Great Britain's roundabouts are served in many different sizes. Gluttons will prefer a Magic Roundabout to, say, a trunk road version. More lorries (big trucks) to choose from there. My favorite is the mini-roundabout, comprised of arrows that circle a small powdered painted doughnut hole. Simple, and perfect for narrow streets and small vehicles.

At the conclusion of my British motoring I turned the rental car into the agency, happy to once again be a simple pedestrian loose on the pavement (that's English for sidewalk). As my wife and I trained back to London the following afternoon we enjoyed the passing scenery over lunch (take note Amtrak—linen and silver), and when a busy roadway came into view at one point we saw our last roundabout, choked with gyrating autos, and that was worthy of a bubbly toast.