Between a Rock Wall and a Hard Place

"Remember, this is a two way street," I falsely reassure my passengers as we drive down a one-car-width Welsh country road. "I should probably gun it through so we don't run into anybody."

I don't speed up at all. We wind around the tight corners. I note every pull-out, the distance we might have to back up if another car approaches.

"Oh, good," I note, "a bridge."

The bridge is skinny even for one car, and steep enough that if someone was driving the other way, we wouldn't see them until the crest.

We're lucky: nobody on the bridge. There are a couple of cars going the other way, but each time there's a wider place one or the other of us can pull off. We reach our destination, exploring the ruins of Candleston Castle and the nearby sand dunes.

We're not so lucky on the way back. Just as we approach the stone bridge, another car pulls over the crest, blocking the way.

Knowing the drill, I pull sideways and back up. But while on the far side of the bridge, there's a wide spot, this side just has rock walls on either side of the narrow road.

I pause, exchange glances with the other driver. She shakes her head: not going to fit.

I move to back up, but in the meanwhile, a red car has pulled up right behind me, and a black one behind it. Maybe more, I can't see from the driver's seat.

Rick, in the passenger seat, tells me there's about a foot between my car and the rock wall on my left, so I jockey over more. The other driver also jockeys over more. A silver car comes over the bridge behind her. She wants me to come through. Maybe it's wider up where she is, I can't tell. But I really don't want to do it.

We, all of us in all the cars, sit in silence. A jogger runs through from behind me and over the bridge. A bicycle arrives behind the silver car and simply waits.

"Do you want to do it?" I offer to Rick.

He doesn't. He thinks I can, though.

I roll my window down and talk to the oncoming driver. "I don't think I can do it," I state flatly.

"You can!" She encourages, patient.

She's right, in the end. After a minute more of still, silent chicken, it's clear this is mine to solve.

"Okay," I tell Rick, "you keep track of the left side."

His window is rolled down so he can see the scant inches been the vehicle and the rock wall. Mine is too: I roll forward slowly, just barely not touching the car I'm trying to pass.

"Don't come any more this way," Rick says. "No, don't come any more this way!" We don't scrape. The car proximity sensors beep in full flatline. Inch by inch, I creep past the oncoming car, the silver car, the bike. Over the skinny bridge.

Deep breath. There's still a lot more narrow lane to go.

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