Ben Aitken - The Gran Tour

Are you one of the drivers?

Thats the first thing said to me. Thats the first impression Ive made. Ive made it on Pat, whos never seen anyone like me on a Shearings holiday before. She says that on her first holiday she didnt play bingo the first night because she thought it was for old people, but that she played the second night and realised that either it isnt for old people or shes an old person, one of the two. Shes been on loads since. All over the country. She says you meet all sorts. She remembers one meal when she was sat with a posh couple that looked stuck-up and not her type of people at all. In the event, they had a blast. I didnt think posh people could be funny. Goes to show: you never know who youll get along with.

On the M275 eastbound, Pat offers me a cup of coffee from her flask, then tells me she has a flat in Turkey that she bought with the lump sum she got when she retired from the NHS, and that I can use it if I give her enough notice and shes not there. I ask what part of Turkey the flats in, east or west or whatever, but Pat says she doesnt know, says she doesnt bother with geography. Approaching Havant, she tells me to sit next to her so its easier to talk.

About half a dozen get on at Havant. Theyre chirpy, even at this hour, a bunch of larks or nightingales, saying hello and good morning to the coach and all its fittings. I dont think Ive been as cheerful my whole life, certainly not before 7.30am. An early indication that whoever said that were happiest as children and elders, with the bit in between made relatively miserable by responsibility and vanity and anxiety and work, might have been onto something. I used to doubt the idea that were least happy in the middle. Youngish adulthood is so routinely associated with pleasure and indulgence and excitement that its hard to believe that according to the boffins, according to the stats its the stage of life that yields the least satisfaction. Whatever the data, and wherever the peaks and troughs, another elders just got on and immediately sent round a tin of Quality Street.

My nan could get on here, at this pick-up point I mean. She lives just round the corner. As far as Im aware shes not been on such a coach holiday. I cant remember the last time she went on holiday, to be frank. She mostly busies herself digging up the family tree. Shes dug up two paupers this week already, while a few months ago she hit upon an illicit connection to Henry VIII. Shes 81. If this trip goes alright Ill drag her along to Torquay or Windermere or something. Somewhere nice. She showed me a picture once that contained the outlines of two women in one image. A sort of visual puzzle. I only saw the younger one. You see, she said, were hard to spot, arent we?

Its hard not to get more interesting as you get older. Thats what Ive come to think, and thats whats led me here. Some manage it, of course, and manage it well. But as a rule of thumb, one can expect a person over 50 to be more interesting than a person under it, if only by dint of having more grist in the mill. And yet for the most part, I ignore this probably-more-interesting section of society, preferring to robotically and thoughtlessly mingle with my own generation, some of whom, indeed many of whom, are about as interesting as margarine on toast.

So over the past year or so I made an effort to shed my millennial skin. I started spending less time online and more time hanging around bowling greens and bingo halls, hoping for chance encounters. Why? Because it appeared to me that my elders had more to offer. Every time I went near a grandparent, or someone of grandparental vintage, I invariably came away from the encounter with some kind of snack and a new perspective on things.

Then a friend told me that his great aunt had been on a coach holiday to Exmouth with a company called Shearings, whereupon she had enjoyed four nights full-board in a period hotel, return coach travel, entertainment each evening, various excursions, a fair bit of wine, and the uninterrupted company of people of pensionable age, all for a hundred quid. I quickly calculated that I could live on such a holiday for less than the cost of renting a room in London, and I just as quickly booked one: four nights in Scarborough, excursions to York and Whitby, twelve courses of dinner, a quartet of cooked breakfasts, plus the outside chance of being mentally extended and winning the bingo. 109. Thats how much my sister paid to get into a disco in Ibiza.

My ambition as you might have deduced wasnt especially earnest or high-minded. I didnt mean to bridge gaps or get a handle on geriatric issues. I didnt mean to examine myself (or anyone else), or take the temperature of anything. I didnt have a quest, or a resounding or convincing existential motivation the sort beloved of publishers. I didnt seek wisdom. I didnt seek revelation. I didnt seek vengeance against any baby boomers that might have stolen my future. Simply put, I did it because I thought it might be nice.

On the A3 heading north, Pat says that its only when she looks in the mirror that she remembers shes 68. She says shes not comfortable with her age, not really. Am I comfortable with my age? With being 32? Not entirely, else I wouldnt routinely tell people Im 30 or 31 or 29 whatever I fancy, so long as its not older than the truth. Theres a film, The Age of Adaline, which is memorable only for its central conceit: the protagonist doesnt age beyond 29, because she cant stand the idea of being 30. I can relate. I couldnt stand turning 30. I denied it. Deferred it. Kicked it down the road. But why? I dont want to live forever. Its not that. I get bored on Sunday afternoons. What would I do with forever? Perhaps its a latent fear of non-existence. I might do a good job of pretending otherwise (a bit grumpy, a bit complacent), but the fact is I cherish life, am uncomplicatedly fond of it, and so I shy away from birthdays, from moving on, from running out. Ive no time for death, and so I distance myself from it, however stupidly, however ineffectively. Time to grow up, Ben.

10.00. London Gateway services at the foot of the M1. This is the interchange, where passengers switch to coaches heading to their respective destinations. Shearings has its own lounge. Its like heavens waiting room or your average GP surgery. I buy a coffee and take a seat on the edge of things, the better to weigh up the scene. I dont want to put too fine a point on it, but its fair to say that this lot are probably better at bridge than me. A couple from Reading are off to Bournemouth. Both are retired but busier than ever, dont know how they ever found time to work. Shes writing a book about a bear whos made in China and gets up to all sorts. For kids, is it? Rather adult, actually, she confides. Her husband, for his part, is a street photographer. He gives me his card, wishes me a pleasant trip, and then the two of them head off. I stay where I am, wondering what the next pair I chat to will be working on perhaps a concept album and a pornographic comic. Everyones got something up their sleeve, I suppose, and I shouldnt be surprised if sleeves get bigger with time.

11.36. Somewhere on the M1. Were eleven in total, but will be collecting another load near Coventry. The driver says: Were a small group today, ladies and gents. Average height, five foot four. Its not a complicated joke but I didnt see it coming so it does a job on me. Im in seat 13A. More or less at the back, more or less alone. With nobody to talk to, I give Scarborough some thought. I know Alan Ayckbourns from Scarborough. I saw a programme about the playwright a few years ago. He was sat in his back garden, which overlooks the town and the beach. I remember thinking: