THE ROAD TO HELL
It took one and a half hours to get there, so when I bade farewell to my good friends in Sandy I presumed it would take approximately the same time to get back home.
Trouble is on the way up I had downloaded a blow-by-blow account of how to reach my destination from the good old A.A. It literally delivered me to the doorstep. But silly me, I didn’t do one for the return journey.
Head for signs that say M25. That was all that was in my head. I kept seeing signs that said, London, and I thought, fine, just keep going, you’ve come this way before, you’ll eventually hit the M25. Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell.”
But then the signs changed to Central London. I chose to ignore this slight alteration, and kept the foot down, on and on we sailed until I realised the area was becoming more and more built up.
When an area sign for Holloway appeared I knew I was in trouble. But what do you do when you are a country bumpkin? You don’t panic that’s what and you keep on going.
It was a beautiful evening and I became envious of the people strolling around, with sweaters tied round their necks. Others sat contentedly outside welcoming pubs and sipped long cold drinks. I just kept on driving, I saw signs that said things I had heard of, like Centre point, but when this large, highly illuminated area loomed in front of me I was horrified to read the words Euston Station.
Oh my God, what now. I tried not to grip the wheel as if I was in a rollercoaster.
Should I phone daughter no 4 and get her to talk me out of London, should I phone home and get boss’s son to advise me or should I just get on with it or maybe even consult a friendly copper.
Isn’t it funny how signs vanish when you need them most?
I drove and drove…Nothing!!
Then there it was, M1 North. Bearing in mind I was trying to head south in the direction of Sevenoaks, which is the other side of Dartford, I knew this was well in the wrong direction, but I was past caring, I just needed to get out of the concrete jungle. So off I went.
Now here is the snippet that I simply did not know. I did not know that motorways had no roundabouts. I thought I only had to drive to the first roundabout, go round the bloody thing and I would be in the right direction.
So I drove and drove, and drove some more. I think there were signs for Buckinghamshire, Warwickshire, Northamptonshire and then there it was Birmingham 36 miles. BIRMINGHAM????? Oh no, this is crazy. Where’s the nearest Holiday Inn, maybe I should just get my head down for the night and set off again in the morning. Or maybe I should just give up and drive to Scotland and not bother going back to work.
I kept thinking, maybe if I go off at a slip road there will be a roundabout, so I stopped for petrol, yes I needed some by now, and asked the first friendly looking geezer in the petrol station shop. “Just go off and the next slip road pet and drive ‘til you hit the roundabout, and that will put you in the right direction.”
I smiled and said I wouldn’t embarrass myself by telling him where I was trying to reach, but I took his advice.
Soon I was heading South, so I put the foot down and sailed along, dreaming of my cosy bed. M25 Eureka, I never thought I would be glad to read that sign, but wait a minute what was this? Three lanes of traffic, all going nowhere. You know that awful scenario, half a car length every 3 minutes?
I fumbled for my Travel Sweets, rather aptly named don’t you think I ejected Enrique, sorry Enrique and cranked up Sir Mick with Start Me Up closely followed by one of my all time favourites Brown Sugar. I don’t know why, but it makes life a better place. My little red car, throbbed, pulsated and spluttered on, very, very slowly. Eventually another signed loomed. “August 1st. M25 closed 12.00- 5.30a.m.” What? Closed? Oh bloody hell. This is a joke.
But there we were, Rollers, Ferraris, Cavaliers, Kas and my little red Seat.
Mile upon mile of start stop, start stop. Huge cranes, hard hats, muck and stoor (guid auld Scottish word).
I smiled, sucked another travel sweetie and thought, yes girl, you have made the right decision. Three weeks from now I start a new job back up in my beloved Scotland, far away from closed M25s and enormous cities.
I have never sighed such a relief as when I reached the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, and even there they only had two tollbooths open. This was midnight on a Wednesday night. And all you could see both ways was a serpentine of headlights snaking their way north and south. Thousands of poor other sods, with Sat Navs, tired children and grumpy partners.
I reversed into my little corner at the side of the garage at 12.40a.m.
I left Sandy, Bedfordshire at 7.15p.m. Lots of people reading this will laugh, in fact everyone that I have told the woeful tale has giggled and shook their head, but for me it was still a triumph. I drove in the midst of London, me the original country girl, I didn’t panic and although I took the scenic route home I did get home. But maybe next time I will download the return route directions. Just incase…
And remember motorways have no roundabouts.
