DESTINATION ROUNDABOUT

This is a destination roundabout, the place to be, on the very edge of this small town, fields just a minute away. Business park adjacent, near to nowhere in particular. These curved edges of roundabout real-estate are home to a Screwfix, Burger King, Greggs and the place I’ve come to experience, the chain pub. A humble, modest brick building of low-rise, suburban proportions. Mimicking and paying tribute to the estate pubs of old. Adjoining block of hotel rooms comes as standard, £49.99, breakfast not included.

From my outside (undercover) seat I can see it all. Cars, vans and lorries competing for space on the roundabout thunder past to my left, spoiling the ambience somewhat, no-one seems to mind. To the right a line of neatly parked estates and sedans (the oldest of which is a very shiny 2018 Skoda). In front of me, the drinkers and roast dinner munchers, with nothing better to do at 4pm on a Thursday (myself very much included).

Somehow the complete absence of houses, bus routes and pedestrians cannot stop this place. It’s busy and, judging by the amount of reserved signs inside, will do a roaring trade as the evening wears on.

An icy glass of coke, condensation slipping down the sides and my fingers, leaves a ring on the worn, soft wooden furniture. A plate of pie and mash is my preference today, ordered via smartphone, QR code on the edge of the table, no need to interact. My meal is delivered with extra gravy, on a plate that can only resemble a CBeebies character, not quite oval, definitely not round, more a misshapen egg. Anyway it matters not, until I try to balance my cutlery on it’s wonky edge. Maybe an ice-cream sundae after this, I tell myself, forking my way through a side salad.

A group of young professionals arrives in a couple of cars. Perhaps from one of the many offices and industrial facilities I can see through the trees. They gather at two picnic tables, awkwardly heaving one nearer to the other, two to a side, giving up after a foot or so. Pints of lager all round, and crisps for the peckish. Chit chat about weekends and Sandra in IT ensues. 

Back in the day, the estate pub was interwoven to the cul-de-sac, part of the fabric, an insider. The new-build roundabout pub is the complete opposite, kept at a safe distance, isolated, excluded. No noise complaints.

It’s a strange place this, something and nothing. Somewhere to go, but not anywhere particularly itself, a destination for the sake of being a destination. 2 miles in the car for a cider. Standard pub-fare for an audience that actively decided to come here. No locals, no fruit machine, no pool table. A soft play area, rotisserie chicken and 17 different gins. It’s the pub experience yes, but sanitised, neatly packaged and delivered for a profit.

But maybe I’m missing the point here, perhaps the roundabout is what catches the eye, passing motorists swing by enough times to be tempted to duck in for a whisky on the way home, then return with their husbands and kids for a Sunday lunch, or Friday two for one.

Curiously this particular pub has also been the unfortunate scene of several car crashes in the last few years, including one where a Ford ended up scraped up against the side of the brickwork. Pros and cons of being on the verge of a roundabout, perhaps.