...cos I come from the Westcountry and I can drive a tra'or.
Yup, I hail from Devon. And although I moved away from that corner of the Earth some years ago, most of my family remain down on the homestead. Therefore, I must visit on a reasonably regular basis and this weekend was one of those occasions.
Well, I say the family remains on the homestead but that's not strictly true. I wish they did. I grew up in the middle of nowhere, an absolutely stunning, secluded spot on Dartmoor which I loved with a passion throughout my childhood. When my parents' marriage faltered, I lost the place I thought would always be there for me and my life is the poorer for it.
So I never go to Dartmoor. I simply go to Torquay where my mother and sister live and by jove, it's a mixed bag. I love seeing my family, I really do. But cripes, I loathe going to Devon, simply because I hate the journey down. People cringe at the mention of the M25 but it's a teddy bears' picnic in comparison to the A303, which can be the most soul-sapping experience any motorist could ever hope to face.
I suppose putting a six-lane expressway straight through some of our country's most beautiful rural landscapes might be counter-productive, but Christ, the A303 just takes the piss. It is the only road in the country which appears to be sponsored by Saga. Every day is a Sunday on the A303 and because it insists on remaining single carriageway for long stretches, the journey from London to Torquay can just feel like one big tail-back in the summer - the motoring equivalent of trying to crawl from John O'Groats to Lands End through a four-inch drainpipe.
It is scarcely better on the way back. By the time I edge the car back into the south east, I have the glow of little red lights permanently tattooed on my retinas and am ready to physically bludgeon to death the next person who needlessly touches their brakes. If ever I go over the edge into proper insanity, it will be on a Sunday evening on the A303, so watch out grockles.
Amid a wide selection of arsehole single lane stretches, traffic-crippling police cameras and eccentric speed restrictions, Stonehenge is the stand-out bastard. I got over Stonehenge a long time ago. Sure, it's a load of big rocks that got there years back and no one really knows how or why. Okay, it's a head-scratcher. But slowing down to 10mph every time you pass and gawping as if you expect a caveman to fall out of a crevice is not going to solve the mystery. It might, however. get your brains scattered by a Haribo-crazed female who can't stand the sight of her own eyes in the rear view mirror anymore and finally succumbs to a Falling Down-style head fuck.
Fortunately, I know a canny short cut around this particularly arse-aching section, but it's a drop in the ocean really. For the rest of the way, you just have to resign yourself to switching off your brain and becoming intimately acquainted with the features of the car in front. Better grow to love the anagrams you can make from its registration number, as for the next four hours, you two are gonna be good, good friends...
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