Flashing fellow motorists on a treacherous road to who knows where

‘HA! What’s yer man flashing at us for?’ As though I didn’t know why drivers coming north while we proceeded south were giving us a brief flare of their headlamps! Could it be that: 1. A flock of sheep had escaped from their allotted pasture and spilled out on to the public thoroughfare?

2. A fuel delivery tanker had left a treacherous slick of oil on the road ahead?

3. A drunk pedestrian pushing a baby buggy was waiting around the next bend?

Life is a series of multiple-choice options since Eldrick declared that he wanted to acquire a driving licence. The days of learning on the hoof are gone, so he must first show that he is capable passing a theory test, examples of which are posted on the internet.

As a result, playing on the driver theory app has become a family obsession, providing endless hours of thought-provoking and educational amusement. Tea-time conversation has been animated by debates on the etiquette for negotiating roundabouts or the correct procedure for overtaking a pedal cyclist.

In this case, the answer was clearly none of 1-3 above. Instead we plumped confidently for Option 4, which suggested that fellow motorists were flashing to tell us of a speed detection van imminent. The gesture was unnecessary because:

1. The Jalopy is incapable of any speed in excess of 74 kilometres per hour and the limit here is 100 kilometres per hour;

2. I am a law abiding citizen who feels he must set a good example for the son sitting in the passenger seat;

3. The GATSO van has been there for the past fortnight and I am a regular along this route, so the warning was wasted anyway;

4. Behaving in this manner was prima facie grounds for a criminal conspiracy prosecution.

The Jalopy rattled around the bend and there, sure enough, was the detector van tucked in on the verge and half-hidden by an overhanging elder tree. No sign of any sheep, any oil or any intoxicated pram pushers. As we creaked past with a cheery wave, I loftily advised Eldrick that whenever he takes his place at the steering wheel, he should follow my example and desist from signalling the presence of radar traps.

I urged him earnestly to consider that speed limits are decreed and enforced for good reason in a bid to save lives. I preached that those who defy such limits deserve to be punished with the full rigour of the law. And I complained that advising offenders of speed vans or of garda checkpoints ahead in this way has eroded the value of flashing as a signal that genuine perils lie ahead.

The young fella was unconvinced, reasoning that any effort to bring road users into compliance with the limits must be a good thing. He also questioned the value of coming the heavy on offenders travelling a measly couple of kilometres per hour over the limit on wide highways. Better for the authorities to concentrate their efforts on building up respect for 50 kilometre per hour limits on roads passing schools or nursing homes, he argued.

We pulled off the national route and on to the windy back road which allows us reach Medders Manor without passing through Our Town. The oncoming driver of a mud-splattered old Land Rover gave us a quick burst of full headlights.

‘That’s strange. I’ve never seen a GATSO on this road,’ I mused as we sailed around a bend, meticulously under the speed limit – though not slow enough, as it turned out.

There was no detector van. And there were no sheep either, just a herd of bullocks being moved from one field to another. There was no oil slick. Instead a patch of gravel was to blame as we were thrown into a sickening skid when I hit the brakes. There was no tipsy child-minder either. The only people present were a farmer with a big stick and a young girl with a small stick.

Their first reaction was to scream as our car careered towards the slow moving livestock. Then they lapsed into broad grins as we came to a halt inches from the first bullock, so close that the animal’s breath clouded the windscreen, masking the terrified look on my face.