Driving Across the Great Plain (not on a Train) of the UK

It is still dark outside as I lay, half asleep, on my sofabed.  I turn over and click the button on my cell phone.  Its green glow gives off just enough light to see the time (zero six hundred) but not enough to disturb the sightless silence in which I am surrounded.  The deep cold and rain from the northern Scotland winter presses hard against my window and my blankets.  It feels like it is three in the morning.  Everyone else in the house is asleep, unaware.  I lay there, quiet, with nothing but my thoughts.  Today I will put my family in harm's way.  We will take on a great and dangerous adventure, doing something few Brits have the courage to even consider trying.  And it is this fear, given the Brits incredibly pragmatic nature, that raises my anxiety level.

In less than a half hour we are going to get into our rented car, fill it with a full tank of diesel gas, pack it with all of our luggage, along with plenty of snacks and supplies, and drive from northern Scotland to London.  My brother, John, stayed up half the night, memorizing the complicated route we will take, worrying that one wrong turn could land us in the sea or, worse, forever trapped in the black hole of a turnabout.

In fact, so worried were we about our trip, that, in the days leading up to our adventure, we discussed our trip with locals.  They looked at us with a strange sense of fear and dread.  A few did not know what to even say.  One even laughed in complete disbelief.  "You are," he ranted, "just pulling my leg; as no civilized person, who values their life or limb, would do such a thing.... No, tis just that, nothing but a joke.  You Americans are very funny people."  But we were not joking.

As the above map of our treacherous route shows, we were going to get in our car and do something Americans do every day.  In fact, some of them do it just to get back and forth to work.  We were going to drive a full seven hours--five people, all together--in a car. 

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Back on my bed I thought to myself, "I have one last chance to call off this whole thing.  I could simply pretend the alarm on my phone never worked and let us all sleep-in.  We could get up, still safe and alive, turn in our rental car, and take a train."  Ah, but the rain over the past two days had been exceptionally heavy--and, I mean, heavy.  Flooding throughout the UK was being reported.  And that meant one thing: train delays.  I had heard from a few Brits that during this past Autumn they had delayed trains for days because tree leaves had covered some of the tracks.  "No," I thought to myself, "the trains could not be trusted.  We will need to drive."  And so I proceeded to wake everyone up.  Turns out, however, that everyone else was already up, dressed, packed, fed and ready to go--short of my daughter, that is, who only seems to wake up early when you want to sleep in.

And so, we got in the car and were out the door by 6:30am.  The roads were empty of cars, the rain heavy, and the morning fog dense, our headlights giving us only a few feet of vision.  And yet we pushed forward, on into the morning sunrise, passing village after village, city after city, highway after highway, until, seven hours later, we somehow made it London, mission complete.

Rest Stop.  Oh, yes, you have driven too long, please stop and rest

One thing you need to know about my family is that we are a pragmatic bunch.  We like to plan ahead and, at minimum, have a Plan B.  So, being no more than an hour into our drive through the hinterland of Scotland, Jay saw a gas station sign.  "I think we should stop guys.  We may not see another gas station for a while."  If you have ever driven across the desert in Nevada or through the great national forests of the states, you always see signs saying, "Hey, dumb ass, you had better get gas now, cause the next station isn't for another freaking 5,000 miles."  So, Jay had a good point. 

Or, did he?  For example, our drive from Cleveland Ohio, where we live, to my brother's house in New York City, which we drive every couple of months, on only one tank of gas, in my old 2001 Volvo station wagon, is about 450 miles.  Our total drive, today, in a brand new diesel station wagon, which gets about 45 miles to the gallon, was 550 miles.  So, did we really need to stop?  No!  But, the Brits had us so worried, we decided to stop.  Besides, who doesn't want to stop for a cup of tea in such miserable weather?  Even my 11 year old daughter started drinking tea

But, here's the funny thing.  No more than 25 miles down the road we came to another MSA (motor service area, which is British for rest stop), followed by another MSA 25 miles after that, and so on ad infinitum.  It seems the Brits really worry about you making it safely to your destination.  And, there we signs everywhere, telling you to take a rest; take a break; watch your frustration because it kills; keep two chevrons between you and the next car; watch for old people crossing the road (I am not kidding, it was a picture of an old woman pushing an old man with a cane across the street).  And, for those parts of the highway where they did not have overhead street lights, the roads were absolutely covered with reflectors: greens, reds, blues, yellows, oranges.  In fact, at times it was so ridiculous that my brother, John, who did half the driving, laughed, saying he felt like he was landing a plane.  Too much.  Speaking of signs...

Margaret, Margaret, for Fuuuke Sake, What Does that Sign Say?

Like enough reflectors on the road to land a plane, what also melts the mind about driving in the UK are their road signs.  It is a bureaucratic nirvana!  Click here so see a complete list.

First, all their signs are entirely visual.  No words or explanations go with them all.  I am not kidding.  What, for example, do you think the second sign, top row, means?  See it?  The one with the red X and blue background?  If you find out, let me know, cause I still haven't a clue.

Second, and here is the irony, despite all their signs, they almost never tell you what the speed limit it, even as you fly through a speed trap.  I could go on, but I will stop.

No Speeding, Please, As it Just Upsets Everyone

Finally, no discussion of driving in the UK would be complete without mentioning their infamous speed traps.  Every few miles you see signs like the one below.  My brother Warren, during his visit to the UK, was so blown away by the sheer number of these signs that he thought they were polite suggestions by the Brits about where one might stop to take a nice picture--too funny!  No, Warren, they are speed trap signs!!!  

See, by law the Brits have to tell you that a speed trap is coming, whether or not the actual machine is on to catch you.  And, when you get onto a major highway, like the ones on which we drove, the machines look like the one to the left--much like the turnpike bridges in the states, under which you drive to pay your toll automatically.  So, you do not see much speeding anywhere. 

Few people in our, wild, wild west America would tolerate such restraint.   But, the Brits, being the polite people they are, do.  The result? During our entire ride, across this island, nobody flew by us at breathtaking speed, giving us the finger.  No major jams.  And road construction?  Everyone just moves over.  No idiots speeding past everyone else just to "get ahead."  This is the UK; people actually have manners, even in their cars.

Overall, I have to say, I very much liked driving across the UK.  Short of the punishing rain, that just would not stop, and the fog, and the dark clouds, and the endless speed traps, I enjoyed taking a bit of a break here and there, having a cup of tea and a scone, singing to 80s music, and filling up on gas that I really did not need.  Most of all, though, I enjoyed stopping at each pullover and telling the Brits of our journey; and watching react.  For a few short hours I was an Indie 500 race car god, competing in one of those car races across the outback of Australia.  Move over Ricky Bobby; you ain't got nothing on us!