Postcard from the M25

Motorway service stations are like little villages. The village idiot is usually to be found behind the stainless steel counter of a fast food franchise, wearing a name badge that lies ‘happy to help’, a nylon baseball cap in corporate colours, an expression that would curdle the milk were it not UHT and a posture that suggests to the world that they are not at all happy with their current employment status, and that their ambitions are either to throw themselves into the next X Factor audition or under the next HGV that passes.

Actually, such motorway service station village residents are a dying breed, and not just because they are too busy sulking to reproduce. Rather, they have been replaced by young keen people who have worked out that, very much like the British during the Victorian era, a few years in some far flung corner of the corporate Empire will allow you to make mistakes without anyone noticing, indulge in a spot of gin-fuelled vice and then transfer back to civilization with experience far beyond your years, at least one interesting scar, many interesting stories, something of a reputation and a salary band at least three grades above your contempories.

Such a one was the young manager of Costa Coffee at Clackett Lane Services on the M25. Her name badge hinted at a Portuguese heritage, her accent hinted at Portuguese citizenship and her desire to flog coffee accessories hinted at a desire to be sitting behind a big desk in head office before the age of 30. Yes, we did want coffee, no, no biscotti, no, no sandwiches, no, no soft drinks, no, no extra shots…actually, yes, we have a motorway journey ahead of us and I want to be alert to the point of wired.

The barrista was no less enthused (I was wondering if the staff had been overdoing it with Colombia’s second most stimulating export, or whether they just cut to the chase and bang off a couple of lines of the most stimulating followed by a bucket of espresso to take the edge off before each shift), trying to convince us that chocolate sprinkles were an essential addition to any coffee experience.

Such enthusiasm was stimulating and refreshing, the bloody coffee was going to have to go some to compete.

Out on the car park, the media were prowling. The RAC had just today issued a press release, possibly written in crayon for all the sense it made, suggesting that it would be a good idea to raise the speed limit on motorways to 80mph. As we sat in heavy traffic, in roadworks and in tailbacks, it was remarked upon that it might be a good idea to raise the speed on motorways to 40mph before we contemplate any further increases.

As we had pulled into the car park, we had noticed a clean cut chap and a less clean cut cameraman rushing after a middle-aged motorist. Such was their enthusiasm that we tried to see if he was famous, a politician likely to be caught with his trousers down, or a rogue trader. He was none of these, instead he was a middle-aged demographic for their vox-pop. This is where the media had come to record the opinion of the nation about the proposed increase in speed limit.

They didn’t ask us, no matter how slowly we walked or how media-friendly we looked. And I even had my ‘I look intelligent and trustworthy, like a doctor before that bastard Shipman spoiled it for the whole profession’ spectacles on.

The presenter sported a classic look. A sharply pressed blue shirt, neat tie and close shave above the waist, faded jeans and disgraceful but comfortable shoes below. This meant he was either a teevee type or a Divorced Dad Dating Again. The cameraman was the giveaway, unless he’s the subject of a new Channel 5 reality train-crash ‘Divorced Dads’ Dating Disasters’. Also a giveaway was the lack of producer, researcher and sound guy. Five years ago a bloke with a microphone and a bloke with a camera alone would mean that they were doing a piece for the service station’s in-house video show ‘Channel Clackett’. Today and thanks to falling advertising revenue and lack of investment, this was probably ITV or local independent news. You could tell it wasn’t BBC because they didn’t have the normal news crew of half a dozen including guide and interpreter for journeys outside central London. And you could tell it wasn’t Sky, they would have had a helicopter thundering overhead.

Obviously though, I was not pop, or possibly not vox, enough to make up part of this particular vox pop. Possibly they already had the demographic I fitted, we had seen them covering startled pensioners (reaction: it’s far too fast, bring back boys with red flags) and they had probably already covered teenage louts (there’s a speed limit?) and businessmen in BMWs (80mph is far too low) and, given that they want some extreme views, probably had their bases covered. Or possibly, because this was ITV, they considered my lack of tattoos as likely to intimidate their audience.

A Road England

Motorways have changed Britain, and not just by concreting over large portions of it. For instance, they allow yogurt to travel more miles than a comedian turned traveller can rack up filming an entire series of taking a quirky journey while taking a sideways look at the locals, they allow for family bickering to take place in a controlled enclosed environment for many hours and, of course, they provide an opportunity for the driver to look into the people-pods passing left and right and make judgements about the travellers within, based on how many windows are blacked out with holiday gear and children packed into the back of the family saloon, how loved-up the couple making their way to a mini-break look, or how that mini-break went based on how far away the passenger and driver are attempting to get away from one another while remaining in the same car on the journey home.

They also provide the opportunity to eat an entire packet of wine gums in one go and spend the next two hours wondering if its possible to sweat sugar. They have given rise to the motorway service station, somewhere to pee and eat warm sandwiches in the car park while wondering if the crab paste smells funny or if it’s just the diesel fumes making you a bit queasy. They do have their charms, such as service stations and the occasional decent view, but set against this you have a seemingly endless ribbon of tarmac, only decorated with the occasional tyre debris where stimulation is rare, if you are lucky you can play games such as ‘what the hell language is that on the back of that truck’ or ‘having been sat in a roadwork filter system for an hour, how angry am I that the roadworks appear to be unoccupied?’.

In-car distractions have developed. As well as radio, tape and CD, there are in-car DVD players, the only things more stimulated than drive-time DJs are lab monkeys with electrodes inserted into their thalamus and of course those knights of the road, the long haul truckers, have sex with prozzers in laybys to relieve the monotony. Sometimes they even close the curtains in the cab first.

Motorways have changed Britain. Before motorways we had main roads, now known as A roads. A-road Britain is a slower, more picturesque and, I think, kinder place that M-Way Britain. Motorways may be a great way to get from A to Z quickly, but the M can often stand for ‘misery’ and, what’s more, there’s a lot to be said for visiting B to Y on the way from A to Z.

Driving to Blenheim Palace I kept seeing signs to Evesham, very near my next destination, Malvern, and somewhere it takes another hour to reach by M-Way. I was rather wondering if the M40 takes a bloody huge loop out of the way, possibly there’s some sort of geographical rift allowing more or less instant access from London to the Cotswolds. Thinking that a fold in spacetime sounded more exciting than the M40, I decided to take the A road route.

And so, I rediscovered A road Britain. This is the way to travel, armed only with an AA book of the road from 1957 and a sense of adventure, one travels at a more human pace than one does on the motorway, and is not shut off from the world by culverts and landscaping. Instead, one passes through towns and villages, under the arms of sheltering trees. One follows road signs and tractors, not the instructions of the sat nav.

There is a lot to see. Oddly, although the journey is probably longer, it feels shorter. There’s a lot to do too, with time to study ones surrounding, you can play ‘name that road kill’. Seeing more flat fox than shredded lorry tyre adds to the rustic appeal of the journey.

And it has to be said, travelling through the Cotswolds is a pleasant way to spend the day. One makes one’s way through villages where each is progressively prettier than the last. Just when you thought that the last village, with its Cotswold stone houses, lovely pub, charming shops and good looking population was just the most charming place ever, you happen along the next village and realise that the one five miles back was, by comparison, a right shithole. All of the villages seemed to be thriving and I wanted to stop at book shops, knick-knacks shops and charming pubs.

One of the villages we went through was Chipping Norton and so, naturally, I was relishing the opportunity of bonneting one of the ‘set’ and doing the world a favour.

But, I pressed on because I was on a mission. The summer had ripened fruit to perfection and in the Vale of Evesham one fruit reigns supreme at this time of the year; the plum. I was looking for a roadside stall selling not so much PYO as PBL (Picked By Lithuanians). I didn’t see a stall but did spot a farm shop and screeched to a shuddering halt as I pulled in (apologies to the no-doubt surprised driver behind me and may I also take a moment to congratulate him on his lightening reactions. Congratulations too to the staff of the farm shop who were unruffled by my hasty entry to their car park, safe to say they have probably never seen a car come to a halt that quickly without it deploying a parachute out the rear).

The Wayside Farm Shop was something of a find. There was a selection of fruit and veg by the door (and yes, plums), but out the back was, basically, a delicatessen. It sold Teme Valley Brewery beer (rather lovely, they do a beer called ‘This’, a beer called ‘That’ and a beer called ‘Wotever next’. Seeing these bad boys lined up, one has to purchase the set. Verdict: oh yes! They also had cider on tap, bring your own bottle. Actually don’t bother with the bottle, they recommend that you bring along your empty plastic milk container and fill that up, as it holds more. Classy. There were cheeses, breads, cakes and, best of all, meringues the size of dinner plates hanging from the ceiling. One of these, a punnet of strawberries and a large pot of cream meant desert was sorted. Went in for a dozen plums, did sixty quid. Farms shops. Not threatening Lidl for market domination any time soon.

Travelling the motorway one arrives quickly but somewhat frazzled and smelling of stress and wine gums. Taking the A road, I arrived relaxed and happy with a box of (bloody expensive) fresh veg in the back of the car, not to mention the beer, which I’m drinking while I write this. Overall, there’s something to be said for taking the road less travelled.

Driven to distraction

The thing about being off work is that you get to be around and about during the day when you normally wouldn't be. What the bloody hell is everyone doing driving round in the middle of the day? Going to Tesco by the look of it. The sheer volume of cars constantly on the road is staggering. The thing is that with the global economic meltdown, folk will be hanging on to their old motors, but will still, presumably, be driving like loonies. The whole thing will be like the shittest version of the Goodwood festival of speed ever.