Motorways and Paths Less Trodden
The Cost of Efficiency
It’s November 2025 and the sky is beginning to open up. It’s been wet and windy, as is Leeds—ey up and all that jazz—but as the clouds part, we set off west towards Manchester.
It’s Damnation Festival 2025, which forms part of our bi-annual hang. This one is slightly less graceful tasteful than our time on my little Wicker Man island, where we charm Elliot with song and dance every year.
He’s still asking landlords about their daughters.
We are prepared for grey, traffic, grey, fumes, grey existence.
M62 West shut between J21-J22? Christ, right. Looks like we are missing Castle Rat. This is sad. Iykyk.
We hop in the car and begin what became one of loveliest brunch dates I’d ever been on.
Quick disclaimer: I’m getting married to my lovely fiancee next year, she’s perfect, and as lovely as Elliot is, this is not a love story (Written by Sofia).
Have you ever been to Yorkshire? Halifax? The Dales? Do you even know what you’re missing?
Limestone cliffs, breathtaking valleys, picturesque villages, canals, and the most lovely little breakfast cafe I’ve been to in years. Its name you ask? No clue. Where was it? I already told you—in the Dales!
As you can see, it was all a bit of a daze to me. I was in heaven.
Entering the cafe was like stepping into the RR from Twin Peaks. I should’ve handed them invitations to my wedding there and then.
“How you doing, love?”
Why don’t we say that in the south?
Being called love by a Yorkshire lass in her fifties will always warm my heart and make me feel home. Born in the North and raised in the South, I can’t help but feel I’ve missed out on that warmness an RP accent shields me from.
The building was a small limestone cottage over two floors. Low ceilings, walls evidently painted by the staff, and dishes filled with homemade cakes—probably made lovingly in the owners home kitchen because that’s where the heart is. We chose to sit upstairs to not disturb the locals. British as he is, Elliot is an American soul with laughter that arrives at unspeakable volumes. Two black coffees and a top-10 full English later, we hit the road through the Dales.
Driving through these peaks and valleys, staring out at thick-woolen sheep contained by low limestone walls, I wondered what the journey would’ve been like had we taken the motorway. Whether we’d have had a view to take in, whether the laughter would’ve howled over tyre roar, and which chain restaurant we’d have ended up in at some anonymous service station.
I believed that the drabness of the UK was terminal. Small slices of beauty infected by concrete penny pinching that soured every charming view, and every town square.
If we choose to journey from Leeds to Manchester or London to Southampton via motorways, we’re tricked into believing these cities are all there is, surrounded by an otherwise empty landscape.
To make matters worse, high barriers shield you from what’s outside in the name of road safety, so you can drive at 70-odd miles per hour, staring straight ahead, until you arrive at yet more concrete.
I won’t deny that motorways have worked wonders for commuters, allowing them to live a more balanced life outside the city. We all deserve our little slice of the pie so I have no jealousy or contempt for the commuting classes, but their efficiency has infected us all.
It’s a bold choice to take the longer, slower route to your destination but perhaps the journey deserves that attention.
We arrived at Damnation two hours late but refreshed. Hearts warmed and bellies full.
Never forget, all roads lead to Rome. They said that before motorways.
