A couple of weeks ago, Mr and Mrs Squirrel found themselves on the northbound carriageway of the M40, making the not insubstantial journey by car from Gatwick Airport home to Glasgow.  Having just stopped off for lunch at the Oxford services, they returned to their vehicle at a leisurely pace, taking in the sun which they were relieved to see was shining on Blighty too.  Squirrel noticed the colourful array of motorbikes parked around the service station.  Why not indeed?  It was a gorgeous summer Sunday and to the accompaniment of Radio 3, the Squirrels began once more to tootle up the road knowing that by early evening they would be home in bonny Scotland. 

Being seasoned travellers of the length and breadth of their little island, the Squirrels had known to expect a bit of traffic around Oxford, and when the cars grew a little thicker around them they barely exchanged a glance.   Even when the traffic stopped altogether they had no cause for comment.  After all, they had formerly spent whole days of their lives stuck motionless on the M25 in the pouring rain.  It was only when their fellow drivers began to climb gingerly out of their cars, that the Squirrels noticed that the southbound carriageway was as empty as the queue at the cold meat counter in the Paisley branch of Morrisons (http://www.theherald.co.uk/news/news/display.var.1615452.0.0.php) and that the northbound carriageway resembled a car park. 

Never backward in coming forward, Squirrel got out of the car and asked around to see if anyone knew what all the fuss was about.  No-one did.  She whipped out her PDA and checked the national transport information websites.  Nada.  Niente.  Something was definitely up, but no-one had a clue what, or more importantly, when it might be down again. 

Half an hour later there was still no information.  Time ticked on.  The sun beat down.  Well practiced in the art of sloth after their holiday, the Squirrels abandoned their expectations, opened their doors and rolled their seats right back.  Some people sat down on the road outside and took their shoes off.  The Indian family in the car beside them turned their traditional music up, just a notch.  It tinkled in the air like sun glinting on water.  One by one, ladies started disappearing off into the trees beyond the hard shoulder.  Some boys a few cars ahead took their football out and started a game on the southbound carriageway.  Someone fed their dogs on the tarmac.  It was altogether delightful. 

It struck Squirrel that there are very few times in life these days when everyone really is in the same boat.  When the person in the car beside you has time to indulge in idle, fruitless, friendly chit-chat and you have the time to listen.  When strangers play football together in the street.  When life-long xenophobes re-discover the warmth of humanity.  When a country Squirrel thought had ceased to exist, re-emerged briefly like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

What happened that day?  It was almost magic.  

Of course, most people who listen to the UK news will know exactly what happened that day on the motorway and what was the sad catalyst for the unusual events that afternoon (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/coventry_warwickshire/6943213.stm).  But in the innocence of ignorance, and for just a few short hours, the M40 felt like the garden of Eden.