I have a strained relationship with the A303. It's full of promise, being the route to relaxing short breaks in Cornwall, yet seems to hold the destination ever at arm's length. The scenery is beautiful in places, at the cost of fast progress. It's far more interesting than the M4-M5 option, but frustrating.
My biggest bugbear about the 303 is the abysmal quality of the food. You might think anything beats motorway services. But this road always covers breakfast time on our early-morning journeys west, and the only eateries open are Little Chefs. Heston Blumenthal, who was named after a motorway service station (possibly) and is the only chef ever to cook a meal in a Little Chef, got his hands on Popham, near the M3, a couple of years ago but unfortunately that's not usually open by the time we pass. Last week, circumstances obliged us to make a reluctant repeat visit to the same one as last time. It shall remain nameless for fear of libel.
I went for the "Healthy Choice Breakfast" and very nearly found myself with a bowl of Frosties. Don't get me wrong, I like Frosties, but when they're presented as a healthy option you know you're in trouble. Last time we were there, Sarah ordered porridge, thinking no one could get mess that up. Wrong. It arrived looking like putty in both colour and consistency. More fool Sarah, she ate it. This time she looked for something even safer and spotted fried eggs on toast. I'm told - I had no desire to sample this for myself - that the egg was rubbery. No complaints from the boys about their meals; I wouldn't expect any as frankly they aren't gourmands. And the tea was OK - it even came in a pot. All this was dumped on our table by a waitress who I remembered from last time for her particularly unfriendly manner. Talk about service with a sulk. Nor was she alone in being apparently begrudging of our custom. Before leaving we used the toilets. Sarah reported the ladies' was in a poor condition. In the gents', the urinals were sealed off with bin bags and an explanation that they were blocked, and the cubicle wall had come detached from the floor. What amazed me was that the "restaurant" was still busy. But they will see not a penny of our money in future. I'd rather forage for overnight roadkill than breakfast there.
On the return journey, in late afternoon soon after New Year, the red and white chap in the hat was not an option. Sarah and I alone would have adjourned to one of the many roadside pubs offering home-cooked food and a suspicious welcome, but the boys were keen on something in a bun. After long delays in the single-carriageway sections of the A303 we eventually found ourselves in a Harvester on a retail park not far from Stonehenge. I'm not a big fan of Harvesters but I've never had a meal there as bad as this one. Our waitress may also have been the cook and the car park steward, for the frequency of her visits to our table. They'd run out of burgers and mashed potato. How can a restaurant run out of mash yet continue to offer chips? By the time we finished our solitary course a full ninety minutes later they were turning away customers because there was nothing for them to eat. Frankly they didn't miss much. Sarah's chicken was overcooked. We easily could have left without paying the bill, so drastically were the few staff past coping.
And that, dear readers, is why, for all the isolated splendour of the standing stones, and the breathtaking passage across the Blackdown Hills, I really can't bring myself to love the A303.
