You curl up as little as you can and close your eyes, listen to the car engine, the wheels on the road. When you wake up your legs have got pins and needles. You were dribbling, says your sister. Was not, you say, wiping the wet seat, grumpy from sleep. The countryside smells.
Silage is what it's called.
And there's bits of paddocks covered with black plastic that's held down by old tyres. You wish you could read your book in the car without feeling sick. In your book the countryside is full of robins and pussywillow and little stone cottages. There's a twinkly old farmer, and winding lanes and streams and primroses. The car bounces again and your stomach lurches.