The destinations never are important. It’s all about the ride.

It’s become a staple of each trip home — a place I left behind nearly 20 years ago. The first day back, Dad and I load into the car.

Two weeks ago, we went in search of money — big money.

The northeastern corner of Westchester County contains some of the most valuable real estate and affluent residents in the world. New York City’s wealthy gravitate to such enclaves as Cross River, Bedford Hills and Chappaqua.

The houses are grand and the rolling hills pleasant on the eyes. And the smell of money is nice, too. But we never found the smell of money.

As with most of our journeys, there are no rules or concrete directions. The local radio station lowly broadcasts “hits of the ’80s, ’90s and today” but the noise is just that — just background noise.

Reconnecting is the real destination. Geography keeps us separated. Phone calls are plentiful and pleasant, but impersonal. In a technological society where personal interactions are being replaced by 140 characters or fewer, opportunities to just sit and talk should be seized upon.

The car ambles north through into Putnam County and eventually into Dutchess — the wrong direction if the smell of money really was the motivation. At each stop sign, a turn into the unknown. Crossing railroad tracks brings a smile to his face and he can give history lessons on different lines past and present. The knowledge is unparalleled.

Lunch is eaten near the railroad. The sight of a commuter train city-bound is the cherry on the sundae. Whether we eat in Patterson, Pawling or Purdys doesn’t much matter either. We could stop on a side road for a ham sandwich for all I care.

Our rides never last longer than a few hours, but in those few hours the geographical hurdles we face are non-existent. On these trips, our distance apart is little more than a parking break and middle console.

I’d love to be there today — Father’s Day. I’d love to get into the car for another adventure in another part of New York. Bliss on four wheels.

Men who father children are a dime-a-dozen, but those who become great fathers are priceless. Today, I will greet him with a phone call and well-wishes.

In my mind, though, we will be in Pawling again, waiting on our ham sandwiches and the majestic wail of a train locomotive.

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Sean P. Murphy can be reached at smurphy@vicksburgpost.com