Hit the road with a map, not a sat-nav, if you really want to enjoy your trip

‘TELL us about the old days, Da. Go on, please. Tell us about bell bottoms. Tell us about your Honda 50. Tell us about the Cheeky Charlies.’ Uh! Uh? I sit up in bed trying to recall what the Cheeky Charlies actually looked like, not that anyone else in the house is interested. The request for reminiscence about the ‘old days’ is a dream, the product of a fanciful sub-conscious. If the offspring wish for some reason to learn about bell bottoms or Honda 50’s then all they have to do is check with Google – they don’t require or desire my tuppence worth on such matters.

Surely though, even the all-seeing search engine might struggle with the Cheeky Charlies. Let’s give it a quick try... Wow! Feck! About 4,910,000 results in 0.42 seconds, including offers from Amazon to supply a Cheeky Charlie stuffed chimp soft toy for less than €20, plus postage. And I thought that the last of the Cheeky Charlies was sold by a hawker at the junction of Henry Street and Moore Street in the run-up to Christmas 1971 or thereabouts. Our mother refused point blank to buy it for Big Sis who received a box of Lego instead in her stocking.

Members of the new generation are quite right not to indulge grumps like me with requests to review those good old days whhen cheeky tits raided the cream from the milk bottles delivered to the doorstep. When there no more than three television channels. When men drank stout and women drank Babycham, a concoction advertised as ‘ the genuine champagne perry’.

I still remember the Babycham jingle and happily perform it given the slightest encouragement. The words and music of the great Milky Bar ad have also remained with me, though the campaign would nowadays be considered a criminal offence, inducing children to consume a high fat, high sugar confection of next to zero nutritional value – ‘ the Milky Bar Kid only eats what’s right’.

It is generally delusional to wallow in sentiment for the past. Let’s face it, vinyl records were too easily scratched or cracked. No one really misses telephones where the caller had to literally dial a number. And anyone who hankers after Sweet Afton, Morris Minors or rayon shirts clearly needs their head examined.

‘It’s called progress,’ said our Eldrick patiently as introduced me to an app which tracks his movements so that, when he goes for a run, it records precisely down to the last metre how much ground he has covered and how long it took him to complete a prescribed distance. Apparently, all the members of his sports team have the same app, so they are all expected to send in reports to the coach confirming their GPS authenticated efforts on days when squad training is replaced by individual exercise.

‘Big Brother, son?’ wonder I. ‘It’s called progress, Da,’ replies he. The advent of GPS has ushered in a wave of route finders to assist the traveller find the way through unfamiliar territory from A to B. No doubt there is a great deal to be said for such devices, even those which come with the voice of a British hotel receptionist forever scolding me to do a U-turn as soon as possible.

They are all fine, I suppose, but though I refuse to mourn the passing of the Soda Stream, of the Man from U.N.C.L.E. or of the Soviet Union, there is one endangered species I earnestly insist should be protected, promoted and preserved – the map so readily dismissed as quaint by the sat-nav generation. The result is that youngsters move from place to place with blinkers on, understanding nothing of where they have passed along the way.

Modern school-goers are coached to remember the names of the counties of Ireland. Without an understanding of maps, however, they cannot relate one county to the next or conceive how they fit together to make an island. Cars these days come not with with real maps in the glove compartments but with screens which light up with route planners, handing navigation over to the satellites where it should be in the hands of the driver.

The map makes a journey real. The map add learning to a journey. The map has a broad horizon where the GPS route finder is good only for finding the correct exit from the next roundabout.

Memo to self: Start dropping hints about being given a new road atlas for Christmas and order Big Sis’s present from Amazon.