Small Roads

Journey . . . Together

Wales • November 2011

Wales • November 2025

The first time I drove in Wales, I started off at London Heathrow after twenty-four hours of travel. So, I took a nap in a service area off the motorway and later a brisk walk to wake myself up. But as the sky grew darker and the roads smaller, my eyelids became heavier.

Driving on the opposite side of the road requires attention. Even now, with thousands of UK and Ireland miles behind me, I still tell myself LEFT at every intersection. You can’t be too careful. But what no one informs you is that your spacial orientation is all off. It’s hard to trust the width of the car or the lanes of the road (if there are lanes) — things we take for granted at home.

We don’t realize how much we do on autopilot — climbing stairs, brushing our teeth, driving — until something changes. All it takes is an uneven step, a new electric toothbrush, or driving on the other side of the road to make us realize how little we pay attention most of the time. So, even if I stumble or my gums bleed or veer over lane lines, I welcome these wake-up calls. Don’t we all spend far too much of our lives half-conscious about everything?

What they also don’t tell you is these small roads have no sidewalks, gutters, or even space. On either side are either hedgerows (tall, dense hedges) or, worse, stone walls.

Which is to say, that first night of driving through Wales was intense. I kept cheating into the middle of the road. But on small roads, the middle means straight into any oncoming traffic. So, I was forced to hug the hedgerows and stone walls. Happily, I made it to my destination with both the mirrors and myself intact. With my shoulders up around my ears, I made it.

The next day, my hosts asked how the drive had gone. I mentioned the “challenge” of driving on such small roads.

“What roads did you take?” they asked.

When I told them, they looked at one another and grinned.

“Those small roads are our main highways,” they told me.

Two weeks later, after driving all over Wales and Ireland on much much much smaller roads, I understood their humor at my expense.

Fourteen years later, all the small roads I have driven have provided some wonderful lessons learned.

Ireland • November 2011

Here’s a recent one. . .

Weak Bridge

Last week in Cornwall, I turned onto a tiny country lane that was created hundreds of years ago for nothing bigger than a two-horse wagon.

A large sign read Weak Bridge Ahead.

I thought, Is that the name of the bridge? Or was this fair warning that this weak bridge might randomly collapse when a vehicle such as mine is halfway across? I had no idea. As I continued driving, I began to doubt. Should I even be on this road? Was I supposed to turn around? Yet I kept on until turning around wasn’t an option, because now we were in one-horse carriage territory.

When we came to the weak bridge, as announced by yet another placard. I could see that the bridge was tiny and made of very old stone. Just how weak was it? Before I had time to ponder this, I was funneled me onto the very narrow bridge itself. At this point, I wasn’t worried about collapse. I was worried about getting stuck.

Fortunately, this past summer, I’d had another experience traversing a narrow bridge while driving a large passenger van. I panicked until my friend Sarah, who drives an even larger van all over Scotland and England for work, talked me through it. One of my passengers made a hilarious video of my string of curses as I crept across with ten cars behind me and another queue facing me waiting their turn to cross.

Now, faced with a much smaller bridge, but also a much smaller car, I reasoned that if wasn’t supposed to take this road, there would have been a barrier. I drove across.

Needless to say, the bridge did not collapse. I can’t say the same about my own thinking. From the time I turned onto that road, I’d been bombarded with constant backtalk: What if I’ve done something wrong? What if someone judges me for doing something wrong? What if something goes wrong?

I wasn’t worried about being hurt or the car sinking or my having to swim. I was worried what I all too often worry about: Will I do something wrong and be judged for it. What a waste of time!

I’ve been contemplating this all week.

Cornwall • November 2025

Oncoming Traffic

Small roads with sharp curves, steep hills, limited visibility and bounded by hedgerows, stone walls, deep mud, steep drop-offs are challenging in and off themselves. They say that rental car agents in Ireland take bets on how many broken mirrors they’ll get each day. But it’s oncoming traffic that’s the real doozy.

You think, “Gosh, I hope no one comes around that corner too fast.” Suddenly, they do — in a sprinter van, or a lorry, or a double-decker red bus! What the actual hell?

The first time this happened I was driving a large passenger van in Wales on a tiny road with hedgerows taller than the van on either side, like I was in some medieval maze. I was creeping along when a lorry appeared right in front of me.

Immediately, I perceived this as my problem. I imagined him thinking, “That stupid American woman has no business being on this road. Now she’s blocking my way.” Which made me think, “I have no business being on this road. What am I doing here?”

While this useless train of thought was barreling down the tracks of my brain, the lorry began to back up until he reached a slightly (and I do mean slightly) wider spot in the road. I tucked my mirrors in and held my breath. (Do you ever do that? Or duck when going into a low garage? Duck, inside the car!) We passed each other by. No harm, no foul, except in my own idiotic head.

This week, after the whole weak bridge incident, I began thinking about my self-blame. It has gone on far far too long! When I was younger, I used to joke, “If someone told me I had kidnapped Lindbergh’s baby or killed Jimmy Hoffa or shot the Archduke Ferdinand, I probably believe them.”

I’ve done a lot of joyful hard work on myself since then, but the dregs of those false beliefs still clamor for attention. Maybe not in the same way they used to, but why let them in at all?

Time to make a change. I resolved that, immediately after telling myself LEFT at every intersection, I would say, “We’re all on the same roads with the same goal. To get to our destination safely.”

Doing this has been a game changer.

I began to notice all the tiny indentations where we can back up or pull forward to let one another pass. I appreciated how everyone smiles and waves as we squeeze past one another. I realized that I wasn’t the only person mouthing, “Thank you.”

One day at lunch, my young Cornish server asked me how I liked the small roads. When I told her that I was learning a lot from them, she said, “Don’t we all? I have so many scrapes and dings on my car, but that’s just the way it is here. And forget being in a hurry. If you start out late, like I did this morning on my way to work, you’re just going to get later.”

Oh my gosh! Even the locals find small roads a challenge. Who knew? And here I was in my own little bubble thinking it was all me. Ridiculous!

Lessons Learned

These past two weeks, I’ve been shocked at the amount of time I waste worrying that I’m going to fail or not be good enough or disappoint someone or or or. . . all in relation to strangers in other cars I’ll never meet!

I can see how this leaches into every area of my life — creativity, friendships, work, spiritual practice.

Where did this come from? I could waste time blaming my mother (doesn’t everything start with our mothers - LOL) — or I could change my thinking.

Every lie comes to us for life — and we give it all the life it has.

If someone tells me all the reasons I can’t do something, I can choose to believe them or find out for myself. But if I tell myself I can’t do something, chances are, I’m going to believe it. Why? Because I’ve already opened the door in my mind. We have to usher out the thoughts that don’t serve us! How do we do that? By realizing that most of the lies come in through the door marked Ego.

Most people think ego means something either bad or good. Someone has a big head or someone has a healthy ego. But to me, ego means my eye is not on the prize. The Big Picture. It means I’ve made myself the center of my own little universe, and that’s never good.

First off, it’s boring.

Second, it’s not true.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr wrote, “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”

Yes, we are.

On a small road or fast one, driving a motorcycle or sports car or a jalopy or a rental van or a truck, we all want to get where we’re going in one piece. On this one planet, we all want to love and be loved, find joy and feel safe. But the moment, we start thinking about me more than we, we’re screwed. We’re driving too fast or throwing litter out the window or not paying attention and veering into oncoming traffic.

When I’m worrying about anything, no way I can show up with my whole heart. If nothing makes me happier than finding connection, commonality, communication with others, why waste my time in the weeds of ego?

Next time I’m tempted to make myself the sorry center of my own imperfect universe, and then wondering why I’m not enjoying the journey, I’m going to remember life is like driving on a series of small roads where every wave or smile or thank you reminds us we’re on this journey together.

Sometimes we have to back up, sometimes we have to pull over, sometimes we have to squeeze forward.

Sometimes, we find out the speed limit is faster than we can even drive. (Seriously, the speed limit is sometimes 60 MPH on these tiny roads.)

Sometimes we have to slow down, even if it makes us late.

Sometimes we have to remember that we can stop creeping along out of fear and holding up traffic.

But we always all have to make sure to do our part so that everyone (even the animals) get where they need to go.

Different cars. . .same road. Together.

Why not give it try! Treat life like a series of twisty, turny, small roads all heading to the same destination: Home to Love. And always remember, every road is for us all.

Cornwall • 2025