Approaching Avalon, Part 2
By Amy Hadden Marsh, Carbondale

Charlie and Maddie were long gone and I was once again cast adrift in the night on strange English roadways, panic stricken and distracted by headlights coming at me from the wrong side of the road, refracting off a rain-smeared windshield. Every time a bus or truck would pass, it looked like it was heading straight for me, adding layer upon layer of anxiety to my already strained emotional capacity.

The only relief lasted about two minutes, whenever I exited the M5 Motorway, an eight-lane freeway that runs south from Birmingham. Those precious two minutes gave me time to catch a breath before plunging into the evil roundabouts. 

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe came to mind as I navigated a particular roundabout a few times before the inevitable honk-and-veer. 

Then, the road narrowed. Giant hedgerows, probably planted just after the Battle of Hastings, loomed on either side, made menacing by the rain, the darkness, and my lonely headlights. At one point, I came upon a crossroads in what felt like the middle of a field. A random driver appeared. I thought maybe he was the farmer who belonged to the field, come to rescue the lost soul driving around his property in the rain.

But, it wasn’t a farmer and I wasn’t in a field. I was on a road. “Help!” I yelled, as I jumped out of the car and stood in front of the headlights, waving my arms like a wild woman. “I’m lost!” The random driver tells me I’m in Bridgwater, wherever the heck that is, and gives me directions that make no sense. Poor guy didn’t know I had just fallen to earth from Mars.

I eventually got to Bridgwater (11 miles south of Burnham-on-Sea and 13 miles west of Glastonbury) where yet another roundabout ejected me into the Twilight Zone. I texted a friend back home for moral support. “I literally have ended up on a rooftop car park in Bridgwater,” said I. “The road came out of a roundabout and, voila, here I am on a (expletive) roof!” 

Remember the roundabout scene in the original Pink Panther movie where Inspector Clouseau, dressed in armor, and his comrade, dressed as a court jester, are in a jeep, chasing two thieves in gorilla suits driving Karmann Ghias? My evening could not have been more ridiculous. I sat in my battered rental, alternately laughing and crying. My texting friend urged me to breathe.

After a few minutes, my hysteria waned. I drank some water and killed off the box of shortbread. I noticed a high rise hotel right in front of me but in order to get to it, I’d have to pull a Jason Bourne and drive straight off the roof. It was, however, a handy reference point on my phone app map, which revealed what turned out to be an elusive route to the M5. I ended up winding my way in and out of the dark, seedy-looking industrial section of Bridgwater, made more depressing by my psychological state. Finally, I stumbled upon a road out of town, not really caring where it led.

After what felt like hours on those narrow, forever winding country roads, I came upon the Windmill Inn, nestled into a wooded hillside near the coast about 20 miles northwest of Bridgwater and 30 miles west of Glastonbury. No room at the inn but the bartender offered to lead me, à la Charlie and Maddie, to a hotel in Taunton another 15 miles east. The guy kindly called ahead to make sure a room was available. But by the time we arrived, it was booked and no amount of cajoling was going to convince the concierge to let me in.

The good news? The bartender had given me directions to another place just in case. The bad news? I got lost.  

After several dead-end streets, I was ready to stay up all night in the local McDonald’s when a Travelodge appeared directly in front of me. And, I didn’t have to drive off a roof to get to it. I giddily skirted the edge of what I hoped would be the final roundabout of the night and parked in front of the motel. But, the lights were out; the office, locked. My shoulders sagged. Glastonbury had never felt so out of reach. The ghosts of the dismal pilgrims had won…for now. I made my way to a dark corner of the Travelodge car park, turned off the engine, and curled up in the back seat. In the morning, the rain had stopped. The mist cleared and I found my way to Avalon.