Chillaxin in Plymouth

Hey there devoted reader, I know you’re there, don’t be shy!

I’ve got this week off on leave chilling out in a rented place down near Plymouth.

The point of this particular post was just about the weird stuff you can usually witness travelling on Britain’s roads. Never can you travel more than a few miles of old Blighty before she presents you with yet another reason to question how the hell half the known world was coloured pink in old maps. Take as an example if you will, the motorway service station.
Here, nestled in the fumes of a nearby motorway can you indulge in such delicacies as the overpriced Ginsters or the truly mystery meat burger.

What really got me thinking was the sheer amount of people we saw at one particular services on our way down here. The place is basically a hut with a Wimpey bar and a Costa stand in it; place was RAMMED! You couldn’t have fit many more in if you’d been a sardine cannery designer. Weird when you think how little there was to offer.

I hear on the continent they have family run stops that have never heard of chains or cheap crap sandwiches sold at Michelin starred prices. Obviously not something the Romans left us with. Roads, yes. Guaranteed worthwhile stops along their lengths….. Well, no.

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