some dull wooden station, muddy town
We need not have stopped, we knew that we could never get to our friends in Cornish that night if we continued puttering along the way. But puttering is one of the joys of the motorist. For years I looked from car-windows, looked regretfully as we whirled past old farmhouses which deserved a second glance, past brooks that one should sit by, woods one should enter for a while, but the relentless wheels carried us on until we had arrived at some dull wooden station which no one wished to see, bearing on the front the name of a muddy town which no one wished to visit.
In revenge for these years we now stop wherever we wish...
Louise Closser Hale (actress, playwright, novelist; 1872-1933), wikipedia