By: Blonde Two
Last weekend’s drive to visit Six-Foot-Blonde in Up-North meant the inevitable voyage up and down all of the M5 and a good proportion of the M6. I was lucky (or clever) enough to marry a bloke who loves driving so I had plenty of time to look up interesting motorway facts and wince at big lorries.
The M6 is a little bit older and a lot busier than the M5 – its first section was opened in 1958 by Prime Minister Harold Macmillan. That makes it quite a lot older than me so I guess it is entitled to the cracks and bumps it is now exhibiting. It is also nearly twice as long as the M5 at 504.3km. At 4km an hour it would take you 5 days and 6 hours to walk its length without comfort breaks. And who would want to take a comfort break in front of all those lorry drivers? One of the most important things that you need to remember about the M6 is that it is the route you are likely to take if you are eloping as it ends at Gretna Green.
Despite all these amazing Blonde facts, I can’t bring myself to like the M6. In fact, I have just realised that the only motorway I will drive on these days is its gentler brother, the M5. The M5 has many good points – the best being that if you live in Devon, you are quite likely to be going the opposite way to all of the holiday traffic. I don’t know if you have ever noticed but lots of people (when I say lots I mean the Blonde Family Two) beep their horns when they pass the M5 Welcome to Devon sign. Here is a picture of Daisy our well travelled cow (New Zealand and Iceland) smiling as we do just that.
There are often fantastic cloud formations to see as you drive down the M5 and if you travel through Somerset on a double decker bus in July (doesn’t everyone?), you will notice that there are lovely irises growing in the drainage ditches at either side. We have also seen some stonking M5 storms and, true to form, there was definitely one brewing last weekend.
But the absolutely best, better than a best thing in best land thing about the M5 is the Willow Man who lives near Bridgewater. Willow Man is 40ft tall, made of willow (obviously) and I have a huge crush on him. He is truly gorgeous, the epitome of manhood and I have had many a crick in my Blonde neck trying to ogle his amazingly cute bottom as we drive past. Poor old Willow Man (or darling as I like to call him) has had a rough time – he has been burnt to the ground, been nibbled by birds after nesting materials and now has had not just a housing estate, but a horrendous carbuncle (God Bless Prince Charles) of a warehouse built right next to him. Despite all of these set backs, Willow Man stands tall and proud just waiting for the day that I am brave enough to go up a ladder and kiss those gorgeous butt cheeks.
Motorways can be miserable and scary places but sometimes it is definitely worth the journey …