16 Apr 07
Around the 250-mile mark, my soul shrivelled to the size of an ant's egg and my brain completed its transition into couscous.
But it wasn't the car's fault. It was my fault for setting off on a stupidly long, dull journey by road when I should have been on the train, in the air, on a boat, anywhere other than that endless bit of emptiness just before England turns into Scotland.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. My previous trip to Glasgow had been on a plane from Luton, which drove me up the wall. Flying may be a very good way to travel a long way in a short time, but airports are a very good way to go nowhere fast. Queueing, waiting, watching, queueing, waiting, watching some more... interrupted by a short flight.
Next time, I vowed, I'd drive. And so I did, in the Roomster.
An A8 or XC90 or E-Class or Range Rover would have been more comfortable and relaxing. But those are all much more expensive and thirstier cars. The Roomster wasn't a daft choice for the trip, but going to Glasgow by car - any car - was on the daft side.
