Paradise by the dashboard light

Last week I had a wee jaunt down to Englandshire, and that meant spending time in some of my favourite places on earth - motorway services.

Not everyone's idea of paradise, I'll grant you, but behind the exterior of soggy pasties, extortionate prices and urinals that are just that wee bit too close together lies something of great beauty.

Now, I'm not talking about these modern, wannabe service stations sited on or by junctions where any old pedestrian can turn up.  I'm talking about bona fide, between-junction services where there is no other way of reaching them than from the motorway.  There's something about that isolated world that's been magical to me ever since I was a child.

For most of my childhood, we tended to go camping in France, and the long drive down to Portsmouth to catch the ferry meant two things: indulging in a bit of Eddie Stobart spotting and multiple visits to motorway services.

First stop was always the Welcome Break at Abington (not in the class of bona fide services, but I'll let that pass!) as I was always feeling travel sick after the journey over the hills through Lanark.  On occasion, we'd manage as far as the RoadChef at Annandale Water, a particular favourite as it had a man-made lake where I could feed the ducks, second only to the marvel that is the Westmoreland at Tebay.

From there, I would measure where I was in the country by what service station we were passing, offering helpful tips to my parents along the way: "Don't stop here, dad, there's a playground if you keep going till Sandbach..."  My nine-year-old knowledge of M6 service stations could have rivalled any trucker's.

There was an inevitability to each stop: we'd always end up eating in a Granary, I'd always buy a travel version of a game I already had and my mum would always say, "it's just nice to stretch your legs."

I don't know what was so special about these visits.  Perhaps it was the break from Eddie Stobart spotting.  Perhaps it was the giant sized confectionary found nowhere else.  Perhaps.  But I would like to think it was that little bit of magic created by this other-worldly isolated realm, this kingdom with only one way in and one way out, packed with shops and fast-food restaurants and arcade games.  The magic of those little tins of flour-coated travel sweets, miniature games of battleships and cafes on the bridge over the carriageway.  The feeling of being somewhere different, like the feeling you get in an airport departure lounge.  The feeling that in the motorway services, anything can happen.

Then again, maybe it's just nice to stretch your legs...