Kurt spends his time trotting the world seeking the finest. He’s a respected reviewer with over 20 years experience, so knows a thing or two about it and isn’t shy to give his opinion – Ed.
I’m told that there is a sign, when you come off the car ferry to the Island, warning folk that Driving is Different here. And a very sensible sign it is, for it tells nothing but the truth.
For those mainlanders, used to getting into their car, skating, in an almost reflex action, in five seconds up to fifth gear, and staying there till breakfast-time, it must be quite a culture shock to come to a place where fifth gear is pretty much unusable, and where you spend much of your time dancing between one, two and three … and stopping.
Well, of course, to let the other fellow past!
What am I in for?
The first time I – accustomed to the broad and fresh-tarmac roads of New Zealand — came here, and crept Red Fred nervously out of South Wight Rentals, through Shanklin and off towards Rookley, I wondered what the heck I was letting myself in for.
Argh! There was a gigantic green bus coming straight for me! We would never pass! Dolcoppice Lane? How would even my wee car fit up there. No wonder cars on the Island are so scratched, I thought, they must spend half their time with their wing-mirrors in the roadside brambles! I went to Ventnor.
Climbing up ZigZag Road was like scaling the Eiger. And finally, the day came when I was forced to go to Newport, to the Records Office, and I encountered that nameless monster which cannot rightly be called a roundabout.
Is there an expression for a sort of cluster of semi-roundabouts mixed with, for heaven’s sake, traffic lights! Apart from ‘chaos’.
The Wightish Waltz
Of course, nowadays, I tootle merrily up Zig Zag Road and Dolcoppice Lane, I can squeeze past buses with centimetres to spare, and I have become an expert at the Wightish waltz. ‘Slow, slow – slow-slow-slow’, as one weaves in and out of the cars parked, in all defiance of common sense, at the side of every road no matter how slim.
I have become an expert at the cheery wave of acknowledgment to fellow drivers performing the same waltz, my buttocks no longer notice the bumpy bits where the macadam has been bitten by age or snow. I have, in fact, almost qualified for a Wightish driving licence.
How slow can you go?
But I still get confused. Everywhere you go it says ‘Slow’ in shabby letters on the road. Is this a command, ‘slow down’ or is it a general statement. Coming out of Whitwell, direction Ventnor, if you decrease speed from your initial 40 at each exhortation, you end up at 30, with a line of traffic behind you.
But folk are patient here, nobody has scowled me, and on the rare occasions I’ve seen a Car Behaving Badly — such as the livid green sportything named Fox that swished past me at 70mph near Havenstreet the other day — I assume it’s a Foreigner.
Give back my crown, Jack!
Who else would need or want to go 70 on an Island which can be sedately crossed in thirty minutes? Actually, if I could find that crown of mine (Steephill Jack has probably hidden it), I’d decree a global 40mph max for all single carriageways – especially the Whitwell-Ventnor bit! – and 30mph for any road less than a certain width, or where cars are parked. Make that 20 at places like Calbourne, where you have to dodge manouvering charabancs from Deal.
Patient, polite, sensible .. and kind
So, ‘different’ you certainly are. But I reckon ‘different’ is good. Since I bought my first car (age: 50), I have driven only in New Zealand. And mostly in the countryside, at that.
I have pondered the idea of attempting in other countries, but have almost always shuddered out. But I now drive in two places. And this is my ‘other’. I like driving here. You are patient, polite and sensible … and nobody laughs at my pathetic (and so far unsuccessful) attempts to parallel park.
