I would walk 500 miles, as the song goes. Well, I don’t know about 500, but in the spirit of observing Shabbat, I have certainly walked a good number; epic schleps for aufrufs, traversing the rain, snow and biting cold for Yom Tov dinners, or multi-hour cross city marathons for special occasions. And I’m not alone; spend Saturday in a Jewish area and you’ll see many others getting their steps in too.

Never mind that in biblical times, the main mode of transport was camel. The rules state that causing a fire to be lit is a prohibited action on the day of rest, and that’s interpreted today to extend to cars that are burning fuel. My electric car, sadly, is no get out of jail free.

As my grandfather would say, it’s meshugannah. Certainly, on a true day of cessation, four wheels represents the most calming form of transport (especially when your convoy involves a recalcitrant toddler with limited interest in being buggy-bound). Or what of a bus, where you are simply a passenger on a preset journey?

Yet for years it was just how I did things; as normal to me as keeping kosher, or hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Peculiar to the outsider, perhaps, but a core part of the preservation of my Jewish identity. A way to keep Shabbat singular; to make observing it more of an active decision.

Mostly, it’s still how I do things, walking those miles, come rain or shine. Either that or staying local, journeying only to nearby parks and declining invitations from those further afield on Shabbat or Yom Tov.

And for the most part, that’s OK. It’s no loss to have been motivated to find a community on my doorstep. It’s nice not to have the pressure to travel on languid Shabbat afternoons or frozen Friday nights; to know that Yom Tovim are days without traffic jams or the bright lights of the A41.

But it is now only for the most part, because of late there have been times where I have driven — or been driven — from A to B on Shabbat or Yom Tov; first when I was nine months pregnant and craving a family Shavuot, then to spend festivals and Friday nights with loved ones without needing to stay overnight or walk my baby home through dark streets on Arctic evenings.

At first, it felt transgressive; crossing a line that had differentiated my Judaism and been a cornerstone of it. Yet increasingly, I’m seeing it as a way of observing Judaism that fits with the person I am and the life I wish to lead. A way to get the best of Jewishness — the shared meals and memories, the ingathering of families — and make Shabbat more special, not less. A Judaism where the letter of the ancient law is less important than the spirit of our rites and rituals.

After all, while I am at home in modern Orthodox Judaism, emphasis is and has always been on the modern, whether in terms of how I dress or what I eat. I have never claimed to be shomer shabbat. In truth, I just didn’t drive because that’s how I grew up. And my behaviour was always hypocritical since I invariably used my Shabbat observance as a beacon; encouraging non-local loved ones to visit. Which, when you break it down, seems no different to me getting behind the wheel.

Of course, these are just excuses. While I know Moses didn’t exactly motor through the desert (would’ve been quicker), I’m familiar enough with Jewish thinking to understand that it’s not about the car, it’s about the ingredients required to make Shabbat special and preserve its sanctity for future generations. I’m conscious that it’s sometimes a slippery slope, and also that once my son is old enough to ask probing questions, the calculations will change. But right now, it’s opened up a Jewish life that is rich and rewarding. Right now, that’s what counts.

The reality is that everyone does Judaism differently. We have our own traditions, our own red lines and behavioural justifications. Plenty of us — maybe not all, but plenty — keep kosher except on holidays, or swear off TV on Saturdays but still peek at the score through the pub window. Driving is one component of that.

The challenge for each generation is to find a level of observance that feels right, rather than just copy-and-paste. Better that than choosing an existence that leaves Judaism out altogether.

Our versions of Jewish life don’t have to look exactly like those of our childhoods. We can change to conserve. Am I there yet, with this decision? I don’t know. It’s a journey.