The summer holidays seem to be drawing to a close. I know this because my local Co-op has just started stocking mince pies and because the number of pictures on social media from friends and acquaintances showing their nice cars in nice places and in obligatory Eurotunnel photos is beginning its pre-autumnal decline. 

This summer, see, I’ve been reminded of a thing people do: they go on driving holidays together. They take a whole bunch o’ nice cars and drive them, or have them trailered, to good roads near good hotels and there they enjoy them. There are even classy tour companies who’ll look after the whole darned caboodle. 

As somebody who enjoys driving or riding, and for whom a few days behind the wheel or the handlebars making up a plan as I go along is just my kind of decadence, I think this is a great thing. Cars for fun. Cars as not just transport, but entertainment. Cars where the journey is just as important, if not more so, than the destination. Sign me right up. Except for one small detail. 

Other people. 

“The best thing is driving with friends,” said a friend of mine. Ah. No, no, no. Not for me. Here’s where we differ. For me, the best thing is driving without friends.