'You're going the wrong way'

Years ago, when I lived in the Australian bush and had many young cousins, my mother and I would some times look after some of the kin. Usually my mother, as chief aunt, carried the burden alone but occasionally I, the chief cousin, was home from boarding at high school and was happy to help out. The range of foibles presented by these cousins was catered to as best as my mother's stern sense of child-rearing would allow. It turns out that some children survive perfectly well on a diet of luncheon meat (known as 'Devon'), unset red jelly to drink, and the occasional Sao cracker with vegemite on it.
So, generally speaking, to be looked after by Aunty Jen at 'Woodlands' was, I think, a well-tolerated and acceptable option. However, on one notable occasion, Miss JA (aged about three) took violent exception to being carried off in the yellow Kingswood (with a G-U-L numberplate) and wailed in the back seat (no child restraints back then).
"You're going the wrong way," she cried over and over again, as we set off in a westerly direction.
(Things are simple when you are three.)