Should have gone to Mallorca: The Great Southwest road trip

Having cancelled a family holiday to Mallorca due to Covid-19, Mark Piggott embarked on a road trip with his wife and kids from London to Cornwall... with mixed results

First stop on the trip: Stonehenge (Getty/iStock)

As keen travellers in our former lives, my wife and I didn’t see why a little thing like parenthood should stop us. We’d already done Trips Down Under, the US and Canada, most of Europe… then came Covid. Last year all we managed was a desultory few nights on a leaking tub with a leaking potty on the Broads; this year, we swore, would be different. After all, Daughter, 17, rarely wishes to be seen in our company; this could be our last big family holiday, ever (I do have a tendency to over-egg things – and I don’t even like egg).

In a panic, we booked a week in Mallorca; then, as the reality of vaccination passports, Delta variants and quarantine costs sank in we double-panicked and cancelled, losing our deposit. Daughter was delighted: she was horrified at the thought of slumming it in a Spanish high-rise. Son, 14, was less pleased; he’d relished the thought of “wild swimming” (or as we 50-somethings call it, “swimming”), sandy beaches, chorizo. Both are dismayed when we reveal our alternative: to Cornwall and back in a battered but trusty C4 also taking its final adventure. It’s a diesel, and in a few short months will be sent to live up country.

“It’s not a staycation,” I explain. “A staycation is where…”

“Yeah, we know, Dad,” sighs Son. “Where you stay at home.”

Sub-text: with wifi and stuff. Travelling, we never seem to have much luck with wifi. The trip is a tough sell, but then God or nature comes to my aid. A vast tree in the front garden crashes down without warning, severing all our cables and rendering the house wifi free. That closes the deal. We depart.

Monday: London-Stonehenge-Salisbury

“Is that it?” asks Son, as we emerge from the trees and regard Stonehenge. Admittedly from this distance, they do seem tiny; I am forced to explain, Father Ted-style, that this is because they are Far Away. Weirdly, as we progress through the fields, the stones appear to get smaller.

“Its 5,000 years old!” I inform the kids excitedly. The kids shrug, visibly and indeed volubly unimpressed. I am less excited about the stones than I am about being in this empty place, where the horizon stretches for miles in all directions, murmurations of starlings polka-dot the sky, and the air is clean enough to breathe. My eyes, after 18 months of screens and streets, relax, contract, refocus.

Usually, Wife and I plan itineraries together, but on this occasion I have left all the bookings to her, secure in the knowledge she’ll get all the best deals, find hotels to our liking, and as a bonus, spend less money than we would have done in Mallorca. Our accommodation this first night is at the Cathedral Hotel in Salisbury, just a few short miles from Stonehenge.

Alarmingly, there is no parking onsite. I drag kids and suitcases inside as Wife parks up in an asphalt wasteland populated solely by tramps. Parking overnight is free; from 8am, any car without a ticket will be clamped. Wife mentions something about this, but rather than mull over the implications I suggest a drink. She suggests we put our bags in the room first. We walk through a somewhat unwelcoming bar and as we climb two sets of wooden stairs I realise why the place seems familiar: I recently watched Deadwood. I look round for ladies of the night in elaborate underwear: am disappointed.

Having requested a family suite with connecting rooms and three beds, we enter our room to a surprise: two beds. Back down at reception we wait a geological length of time behind a guest irate at the filthy state of his room, and another unable to work out how to pay his bill with a credit card. Eventually we confront the receptionist, young, wan, pimpled, who calls his boss. After a prolonged debate, he sighs.

“I’ll have to come to your room to count the beds.”

We urge him to be our guest and trudge up the creaking stairs to our room, where he counts the beds with his finger.

“You’re right!” he says at last, surprised. “There are two!”

Breakfast, when it finally arrives, is so bad it’s good: my beans are colder than a banker’s heart, my wife’s fried eggs as rubbery as a BoJo promise

Pleased that he grasped the gist, Wife enquires why we don’t have adjoining rooms. The receptionist calls his manager, who explains that what is advertised on the website isn’t necessarily what you get. This of course is music to my wife’s ears, and once the manager and staff have been the focus of her hot Scouse wrath for a few short seconds, we are offered an additional room along the corridor.

Having rashly chosen to dine in the hotel, we descend to the bar and find a quiet table – not hard, because they are all quiet. When ordering drinks I am reduced to marching through the lobby and bar in the vague hope of encountering staff. Dinner, when it finally arrives, is as unsurprising as it is disappointing. My burger is rubbery, bap burnt; Son’s lasagne swims in an inch of translucent fat; Daughter’s fish is burnt to a crisp at one end, and tastes of sour milk. When I manage to locate a waiter, he takes one look at the fish and offers free pudding.

After dinner, we elect to have another drink, but the waiter appears to have been kidnapped, or perhaps chased out of town by the sheriff, so to bed. At least the kids’ room is reasonably large, clean and overlooks the high street; our bedroom overlooks a fetid beer garden and fire escape, which means we are unable to open the window in case of burglars. Disappointingly, I am forced to set the alarm for 7.30 to move the car. We sleep poorly, intermittently, shortly.

Tuesday: Salisbury-Glastonbury-Taunton

Having risen early to put a ticket on the car I return to the hotel and rouse the troops for breakfast. The service is so bad the four of us are growing delirious: we enjoy a flight of fantasy in which the chef is a chimpanzee named Bubbles.

“Sorry breakfast is late, the bus from the zoo got caught in traffic.”

“Breakfast won’t be long, Bubbles has now had his bananas.”

“Bubbles will do the eggs when they get him down from the light.”

Soon we are snorting with laughter, the focus of nervous looks from the few other guests, discombobulated by such a sound in such a place. Breakfast, when it finally arrives, is so bad it’s good: my beans are colder than a banker’s heart, my wife’s fried eggs as rubbery as a BoJo promise. Never a fan of egg my stomach churns, which gets worse when I sip the worst cup of coffee I have ever endured – and I’ve been to Lincolnshire.

Accommodation on the first night is at the Cathedral Hotel in Salisbury, just a few short miles from Stonehenge (Getty/iStock)

Away from its cobbled medieval quarter, Salisbury is a shabby town of charity shops and buskers, so after selfies at the spire we head towards Glastonbury. Our satnav takes us up a series of winding lanes to a field just beneath the Tor. Dozens of cars are parked along a narrow lane and as there are no warning signs or yellow lines we join them. As we walk through a field towards the mound, we approach an ice cream van run by a jovial Italian. Purchasing water, I ask if it’s legal to park in the narrow lane. The Italian’s eyes widen in horror.

“No, sir! It is strictly forbidden! Wardens come all the time, then tickets, and clamping … Do you want ice cream or not?”

To the children’s annoyance, I insist that 99s will only be purchased on completion of the walk. To my wife I suggest that one of us remains with the car to ensure its safety, and generous to a fault volunteer that she ascends the steep hill in the scorching heat as I sit in the shade and attempt to find Radio 2. This is harder than it sounds: a few years back, camping in France during my Dry Year, on heaving the tent on the roof rack I snapped the aerial.

Disappointingly Wife calls from atop the hill and informs me that as she is on her way down, I can make my way up. Waiting until she is safely behind the driving wheel I rush at the hill, determined to show the kids that as a Yorkshireman I can run up. A few minutes later I reach the top on hands and knees, sobbing, to be met and consoled by my children.

Daughter and Son take in the views at the Tor (Mark Piggott)

Since our last visit 20 years ago Glastonbury has transformed itself from a vaguely charming leftfield community into the Las Vegas of New Age tat: every shop sells crystals, astrological charts, joss-sticks and holistic medicines. After purchasing a cheeky bottle of red in a hypermarket we drive on, Jeremy Vine fading irritatingly in and mercifully out.

Our destination is a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Taunton. I wish it wasn’t. However, on entering I am cheered to discover that unlike the Cathedral Hotel, the place is bright, airy and clean, like a vast chemist, with lounges, huge screens and a pool. Our reservation includes both dinner and breakfast. This is more like it, I mutter darkly to myself. Now the kids can surf the net as I sit at the bar, stuff my face and fall into bed: a proper holiday.

“I’m afraid there’s no dinner due to Covid,” explains the receptionist. “There are however a number of eateries in the area, including Harvester, Pizza Hut and McDonald’s. We will of course reimburse you for the price of your dinner – £35.”

My daughter demands we take her to Pizza Hut so she can indulge her vegetarian obsession with dough balls. Having convinced her there will be dough balls at the Harvester, we set out. The Harvester, it transpires, is at the other end of what appears to be the world’s largest industrial estate. Never a fan of Harvesters in general, I am dismayed by this one in particular. Families fight over rotisserie chicken as screaming kids chase one another between, beneath and indeed over tables overflowing with dirty dishes. There is little on the menu that appeals to my daughter – nor me, come to that – and she settles on dough balls. There aren’t any.

As well as its eponymous festival, Glastonbury is also known for its alternative New Age shops (Getty)

I find myself eating sticky ribs, a dish I have always found uninteresting and sordid. Wife follows suit, slurping on her ribs with an enthusiasm I find vaguely unseemly. Daughter – a pesky pescatarian who refuses to entertain even the concept of vegetables – has fish and chips, again. Only Son – a consummate carnivore who when asked what he’d like for lunch as a toddler would reply, “meat” – savours his bloodied plate. The bill comes to almost £100 – though to be fair, when we point out we have been overcharged, this reduces to £85 – just £50 more than we’d have paid for dinner in our hotel.

Thoroughly stuffed, yet strangely dissatisfied, we begin the long trek through the industrial estate to the hotel. The kids are more than happy to go to the room and surf as my wife and I sit in the bar and try to avoid the eye of our fellow guests – mostly truck drivers.

Too knackered to drink the red wine, we sleep poorly, intermittently, shortly.

Wednesday: Taunton-Torquay-Dartmoor

There is no wifi, no TV, nothing but the four of us. Our little family unit. We eat looking out over darkening fields and the hills in the rain, oddly content

For some reason the satnav diverts us off the M5 onto a series of increasingly narrow country lanes. Finally, we reach our next hotel, the Dartmoor Lodge, which is more of a motel, frankly, but refreshingly friendly – we are allowed to check in three hours early. Our room appears to have once been a stable, and smells like it. Rather than eat and drink in the restaurant, as is my fervent desire, we set out in hope of Torquay, Radio 2 crackling. (Side note: aged 16, just left school, awaiting my first dole cheque, I listened to Steve Wright every afternoon. I’m now 54, dad to two teenage kids. He’s still on the radio. Same jokes, same voice. I cannot emphasise how weird this is.)

When it finally arrives, Torquay is a lovely, lively town of elegant hotels, swish bistros and a long, picturesque seafront. It’s younger and zappier than I expected – there’s even a huge fairground with a waltzer and crazy golf. Daughter having tired of fish and chips, we wander in search of a Chinese restaurant that sells prawn rice. The back streets are dowdier, with alcoholics and skate-boarding goths, and in the end we admit defeat and find a takeaway Chinese in nearby Newton Abbott.

Torquay is younger and zappier than expected (Getty/iStock)

Back in our rooms, exhausted, I am about to open the red wine when Daughter remarks that her prawn rice appears to have chicken in it. Wife and I examine with tooth-comb and she’s right. It is now almost 10 and I am exhausted, ravenous, my chicken curry rapidly cooling. We drive back to the nearest village, which remarkably has a Chinese, and order prawn rice without chicken. The girl behind the counter is perplexed – who on earth orders prawn rice without chicken? – but finally we take the tray home for Daughter, and collapse. Still too tired to drink the bloody red wine. The room smells musty, horsey. We sleep poorly, intermittently, shortly.

Thursday: Dartmoor-Camelford

A special day, for today we reach Cornwall – eventually. Weirdly, no matter which satnav we use, we keep being directed up tiny, single-track lanes, huge hedges to either side. Each time we meet another car a battle of wills ensues as we stare one another out like Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef. After which I begin the melancholy action of reversing into the ditch.

Today the kids have a special treat in store – a zipwire across a flooded quarry. As we wait in line at the top, which does seem terrifyingly high, Son gets nervous and for a few terrifying moments it looks like I’ll have to take his place. Then he decides to take the plunge and I watch my progeny leap off a cliff, disappearing across the lake into the clouds. Wife having driven the car to the bottom to film their descent, it occurs to me now that I’ll have to walk down in the rain which all of a sudden has hardened exponentially.

Buzzing after their adventure, the kids allow us to drive them to a campsite near Camelford, which consists of one tepee, a cold-water shower and an open barn. Chickens rescued from a battery farm scratch in the dirt; the kids romp through the fields like little Theresa Mays, except with pictorial evidence of their naughtiness. It still being early and there being nothing else to do we set out for Tintagel, where after a desultory trek down a steep hill to look at rocks and a doubly desultory trek back up I become embroiled in an argument with a chip shop lady as Son zooms in with his camera on my exasperated gammon face.

The happy family at a campsite near Camelford (Mark Piggott)

Back at the campsite, Wife makes mince snowballs and fries them over an old tin bath that forms a fire pit, then throws them in a pan of sauce and pasta. Daughter allows me to make her watery pasta soup. There is no wifi, no TV, nothing but the four of us. Our little family unit. We eat looking out over darkening fields and the hills in the rain, oddly content. For me it’s the highlight of the holiday. That night a storm howls and we play cards as sheets of rain wash over the tepee. This seems a good time to break open the red wine, but too late we realise we don’t have a corkscrew. We sleep poorly, intermittently, shortly.

Friday: Camelford-Widemouth Bay-Wookey Hole

Crawling from the tent I see piles of plates and pans by the fire pit. Sadly, the endless torrential rain hasn’t washed them clean: in the saucepan I find three large slugs. Rather than washing up I pile everything in a Lidl bag and contemplate throwing in the bin. Instead I cram it in the car, secure in the knowledge I’ll be able to wash up at home at my leisure. As I pack the boot, I see the red wine and resolve that tonight – this final night of our final family holiday – we will drink it. As a reminder to self I wrap it in a towel.

My daughter’s breakfasts this past week consisting almost solely of brioche, my wife checks the location of the nearest cafe selling pancakes, 18 miles distant in Widemouth Bay. We eat pancakes and bacon butties in a flash cafe overlooking the mighty surf – so mighty in fact that as we watch an air ambulance lands on the sand to whisk off waterlogged surfers.

Widemouth Bay is the furthest point of the holiday (Getty/iStock)

This being the furthest point of our holiday we turn the nose of the C4 round and aim towards Wookey Hole, which, mystifyingly, is some sort of resort, recurring themes being witches, pirates and circuses. The hotel is bland, the room clean enough. Son comes to help bring up the luggage from the car. Or rather, as I heave out suitcases, bags, laptops, chargers, kettle, sleeping bags, assorted foodstuffs and other drek, he stands watching and ponders: “Daddy, what is meant by the term entropy?”

He’s been asking questions like this since he could speak, but for some reason – perhaps the heat, the fatigue, the fact all I want to do is sit in a nice cool bar and enjoy a cold pint – I am thrown and as I remove a towel drop the bottle of red, which explodes on the tarmac causing thousands of other holidaymakers to turn and stare. I nod down at the smashed bottle.

I read recently that a motorbike stripped of silencers roaring through a city at night can wake a quarter of a million people. The sound of my snoring is a bit like that

“That, son,” I tell him wearily, “Is entropy.”

The hotel restaurant being closed due to Covid, we eat across the road at the Wookey Hole Inn, where the food is fantastic, staff friendly, bill palatable. Back at the hotel, kids go upstairs as Wife and I risk a pint in the bar, chuckling at the family across the room harassed by screaming toddlers. How well we remember – how recent it seems. Do we miss it, those tears and tantrums (mostly mine)?

Yes. No.

That night, as my wife and children sleep, I wonder – is this it? Is this the final time the four of us will ever sleep in the same room? It’s a sobering thought – and I’m sober enough already. I toss and turn, trying to catch up with my loved ones as they voyage to the Land of Nod. I sleep – well, you know.

Saturday: Wookey Hole-Cheddar Gorge-Longleat-Home

“You snored really loud last night, daddy,” says Son, holding up his phone. “Here – I recorded it.”

I read recently that a motorbike stripped of silencers roaring through a city at night can wake a quarter of a million people. The sound of my snoring is a bit like that. Now my stomach joins the conversation and I suggest breakfast.

Some smiles, at least (Mark Piggott)

The hotel’s own restaurant closed due to Covid, we are forced to find Captain Jacks, a themed restaurant within the resort where dispirited trainees wander about in tatty pirate costumes for no discernible reason. Breakfast at Captain Jacks is so bad it makes breakfast at the Cathedral Hotel in Salisbury seem a delicious dream. At least Daughter will be able to fill up on hash browns. As my wife and I order a full English, the surly cashier claims not to understand the concept of scrambled eggs; insists toast has no place on a breakfast menu; and worst of all: “Chef says we’re running low on hash browns.”

“That’s fine – our daughter can have ours.”

The cashier blinks slowly, ingesting this suggestion and finding it not to her liking.

“No – I mean we’re running low on hash browns.”

“Yes, as we say…”

Now she practically screams: “THERE ARE NO HASH BROWNS!”

When our food finally arrives, the rolls are without butter, the beans tepid, and my coffee so appalling it’s frankly surreal. Quickly we pack up and head towards Cheddar Gorge which Son is still young enough to be disappointed by if it isn’t made of cheese. Having visited the Grand Canyon, the kids are under-awed, but the gorge itself is certainly dramatic in its way: once Son has vanished up a cliff to take pics we set out for Longleat, then remember and come back for him.

No, Cheddar Gorge is not made of cheese, much to Son’s disappointment (Getty/iStock)

At Longleat, macaques single out our dodgy aerial for the old snap-and-poke treatment: finally, at last, no more Steve Wright in the Afternoon. We crawl through various enclosures of antelope, giraffe and invisible wolf. The lions appear to have been sedated: they sleep in the rain, tails limp, jaws open. The aircon fails to work properly: all we get is a blast of hot, plastic-smelling air. By now I’m so bored I fantasise there will be a fire in the car. No fire: we head for the M3.

As we drive I remember that the best parts of all our holidays have been moments like these – just the four of us in the car, laughing, talking about the things we did and the people we met. The thought that it might never happen again is absolutely staggering, so I try not to dwell.

All in all, it has been a wonderful, if exhausting holiday. Interestingly, the impact of Covid was barely apparent, other than occasional poor staffing which might equally be a result of Brexit, poor wages, poor management, Britain’s unique concept of customer service. In most bars, restaurants, hotels and shopping centres a majority people have been unmasked. The worst of this pandemic, it seems, is over.

Finally, London appears – first as suggestion, then in fact. As usual on reentry for a few moments it seems monstrous, impossibly busy, this strange alien city that is home.

“North Circular or Westway?” snaps my wife, her rearview crowded with trucks and buses. Swallowing nervously my eyes dart from sign to sign, then I brain-fart: “Westway!”

An hour later, as we sit in yet another jam atop a flyover, the heavens open and the cloudburst is so intense we cannot even see the high-rise estates and flashing neon billboards to each side. Which is something. The whole scene is resonant of Bladerunner, the Dull Cut.

Wife glances at me from the corner of her eye.

“I told you we should have gone North Circular.”

“And I told you,” I respond, at least in my head, “We should have gone to Mallorca.”