At times, I have to travel that wonderful route which can't fail to please. The A64 York to Scarborough road, more commonly known as something quiet unprintable.

Who invented the scheme of it, I wonder? Which planners set it up? I bet they had fun.

There they went, teasing strangers in to believing the dual carriageway continued right to the perfect destination, the East Coast, only to stop 'em miles and miles short with endless jams.

And just in case they were daring to complain about the absurdity of how such countless traffic happily fills two lanes of carriageway each way, then had to contract aggressively and angrily into one, they gave 'em a bit more duel carriageway. Then took it away, then gave it back.

And hours later, after filing through villages whose inhabitants must wonder at the travelling madness, the poor souls - all hot and bothered with kids as fed-up as those in a Harry Enfield script - they finally arrive at the coast, only to find it shrouded in sea fret. Fret? They most certainly do.

You may question my caustic tones. OK, you may not. But I had to go to Scarborough last week to film for Look North (occasionally, the boss lets me out).

Now, Scarborough I love. It's pretty. Even southerners like Scarborough - those who can be bothered to stick to the 300 mile trip north.

But anyway, I had the journey to do and by the end my car was as heated as me. I clocked an average speed of 32 miles per hour and it had taken two hours 25 minutes. Now I am not a boy racer; OK, so I'm not a boy either.

But even without traffic lights, tractors, log jams and juggernauts to slow me down, there was still one other factor in the A64 conspiracy to get me: the caravan driver. Do they travel in convoys?

All cream and beige with go-slower stripes. Extra big wing mirrors, extra big wheels, extra big everything. They should have a separate road, or a separate time to drive. Midnight would do.

But just as I get into this subject my memory reminds me of matters I may wish to forget, but can't. I once owned a caravan.

There, the words are out. It was one of those teacher things when I was a teacher, and only then. We compared brochures in the staff-room when winding down at the end of term.

It was my prize possession (along with my St Peter's cricket bat). My Lunar CT ('central toilet' for those who aren't in the know).

Ah! I was so proud, and the journey we travelled together fearless and free... And I had extra big wing mirrors, extra big wheels, extra big everything.

But back to reality. It'll still be hell out on that A64 come the Bank Holiday weekend. So be warned, caravaner or not.

28/05/99

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.