The journey home started badly, at a junction where there are three lanes of traffic headed towards you. One carves off before it reaches you; the middle one heads south down the A19 to the outer ring road; the last effectively does a U turn towards the Inner Ring Road. I mistakenly took the middle lane first, but quickly realised my mistake and turned round, picked up the correct lane. But as I drove I started to wonder if I'd come the right way. I passed the station and the road was less familiar; still the same York Inner Ringroad but it somehow felt wrong. It took to the point I turned off the Inner Ringroad to work out why; namely that I'd gone the opposite way round than the way I used to go. I'd often driven to the station and that was where my instincts had taken me because at the place I'd picked up the inner ring road you could easily go either way. It wasn't wrong; it was just different, but unnerving.
The place names on the A19 home are fascinating, exotic. Raskelf, Birdforth, Borrowby, Helperby, Thormanby. Osmotherly. I have no idea where they come from but they sound Scandinavian to me and I imagined tribes of Vikings sitting round by campfires, undisturbed for centuries. They kept me interested as the stress of the last few weeks started to hit me. I had to stop for a can of Red Bull to keep me awake, which I'd never tried before. It would have been more sensible for D to drive, but he's not insured on that car, unfortunately. The caffeine worked though and I managed to drive safely, although I conked out after we got home.
Next: driving home in the dark. A trip to Hexham.