if to north Wales for Easter, as per usual, and
so it's up the M1 and then the M6 and all the way it's 'Are we nearly there?' and 'I need the toilet' and 'I'm hungry' and I'm thirsty' and I'm bored' and 'I feel sick' and 'How much longer to go now?' and 'But you said two hours the last time and that was 20 minutes ago!' And so on and so forth until finally my son loses his temper and says, 'Mum, just shut up.' Oh fine, that's all I need, to be chastised by my 11-year-old son, on top of the hunger and the thirst and the fullbladder situation and the nausea and the misleading ETAs and the boredom, boredom, boredom and Talk Bloody Sport on the radio when I would rather listen to Talk Anything But Bloody Sport, even In Our Time with Melvyn Bragg, which is totally beyond my understanding. 'OK,' my partner finally concedes, 'we'll stop for a break.' Oh, goody, I am an entirely hopeless traveller. I don't mind being in places, I just hate getting there. So any kind of relief is particularly welcome, and especially so if it involves food. I even look forward to the food on planes, start getting excited when I hear the jangle of the trolley, start counting how many rows until it gets to me. How sad is that? And it's the same with motorway service stations, even though I know that I'm going to get stung mercilessly for hilariously appalling food: soup that's invariably tepid Heinz tomato served with 'snip and tip' croutons; fry-ups that have baked into congealed disasters under the hot lights and are served with fried bread that squirts fat down your chin; titchy servings of more-pastry-than-apple pie: help-yourself-coffee served with helpyourself UHT milk portions (mmm, savour that lovely, unfresh, stinky UHT taste). I once met the bloke who used to oversee service stations for one of the major providers and I asked him how he could justify such high prices for such pitiful food. He said, as I recall, 'Well, we have to pay to bus the workers in, keep the toilets clean, keep it open 24 hours, manage the car park, but the bottom line is... You've got a guaranteed supply of customers, so sod value for money, let's rip 'em off? 'Exactly,' he exclaimed happily. I wish I'd thought of it. He wore a Rolex watch.
However, all that said, the-times-theyare-a-changin', as not only Bob Dylan would have it, but also RoadChef, the third largest Motorway Services Area operator in the UK, with 21 sites including, by the way, Watford Gap. 'Watford Gap, Watford Gap, plate of grease and a load of crap.' That's the Seventies singer-songwriter Roy Harper, whom RoadChef might be less keen to quote, but there you go. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. On the M6, the new toll road, where RoadChef have their latest site, Norton Canes, which promises a `new era in improved motorway services' as part of an 'ambitious move to bring highstreet quality to the UK motonvays'. I can't wait. Truly. I really do need the toilet.
So it's on to the slip road, where a sign announces 'services for the discerning traveller' rather than 'services for the traveller whose bladder is about to burst and can not discern much else', which describes the state in which most people arrive at motorway services, and then the service station itself looms up, and it is rather impressive, being a vast, swooping glass and steel structure with an alfresco eating area that includes burbling fountains. Burbling fountains set in stark concrete, admittedly, but Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. I think the Bay City Rollers said that. Anyway, Norton Canes cost £15 million, further promises to 'change people's perceptions and expectations of motorway services' and boasts the following: special fragrances pumped through the toilet areas; a 'spectacular food theatre' where you can watch your food being cooked; a vast army of full-time 'hygiene attendants' and something called 'BT Openzone' for businessy people with important businessy things to do.
In we go, through the covered walkway. Inside, it is full of light, miraculously clean and the loos are gorgeous (very aromatic, with two hygiene attendants attending to hygiene, as hygiene attendants should) but the rest is rather depressingly familiar: a Wimpy; a Costa Coffee; a shop called reStore that sells the usual sweets and cassettes and toothpaste and £4 sandwiches, and the restaurant, onRoute. Now, here's the thing. It's coming up to Easter bank holiday. The place is packed. There's a queue at Wimpy. There's a queue at Costa. There's a queue in onRoute for the underthe-heat-lights food (where customers can watch their own food congeal and dry out!). But there is no one, no one at all, at the 'spectacular food theatre' which, it turns out, consists of a single wok behind the counter, But still. Don't people want freshly cooked food? Apparently not. Have we become habituated to eating badly on motorways? Do we ultimately get what we deserve? Maybe. Whatever. when I ask a spotty young chap if the 'spectacular food theatre' that is the wok could be cajoled into putting on a performance, he says, 'Certainly, madam' and so we are off. I order the stir-fried vegetables while my partner orders chicken and noodles in chilli sauce and my son goes for a Malaysian-style curry. All are £6.99, which is moderately overpriced, rather than the usual riDiculously overpriced. We then take a number and sit at a table, where the food is bought to us in a few minutes.
I must say, my stir-fried vegetables are bloody good. Although the variety is rather limited — green beans, baby corn, water chestnuts, broccoli — they are crunchy, fresh, quite spicy. My partner is overjoyed with his chicken and noodles. I'd happily eat this in a proper restaurant. Even the noodles are good. Not overcooked or soggy at all. And lots of chilli.' My son wolfs his curry. Good? 'Very good,' he says. I have a coffee which actually tastes of coffee and comes with a little jug of fresh milk. My partner's tea, amazingly, is hot and strong and comes in a stainless steel teapot not smeared with the last customer's fingerprints. Norton Canes is an improvement on most motorway services, but that's not saying much, as you know. Still, it has to be a step in the right direction, surely. Let's rejoice. Now, a quick visit to reStore to buy some sweeties for the rest of the journey ('Let her have them, Dad. They might keep her quiet'), then it's back on the road, Are we nearly there yet? Are we, are we, are we? They turn the volume up on Talk Bloody Sport. I think I might need the toilet. And you know what? They wouldn't let me have one game in the arcade. Bastards.
Norton Canes, M6 Toll Road, specifically for discerning travellers, although I'm guessing undiscerning ones won't be turned away.
Previous page
