Yesterday was a fun — albeit frustrating — day on the road, starting with picking up a hire car at Heathrow shortly after 1pm, and then heading off from Chiswick on the 70-mile drive to Royal Tunbridge Wells just after 2.30pm…and arriving shortly after 7pm. It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to deduce this was a slow trek to Kent indeed.

And yesterday, there was a punchline, too: more on that later.

It may be that I lulled myself into a false sense of security: an inspection of the map at home in Melbourne showed that provided I found the entrance to the M4 Motorway after collecting my car, the exit to the Chiswick High Road was simply a matter of keeping my eyes open.

And so it proved.

But that same planning session — I freely admit — coincided with a laissez faire assessment of the subsequent challenge of navigating away from London; getting out by car had been a cinch the last time I did a road trip here, and armed with a huge touring atlas book I bought in 2008, Google Maps, and various internet-based directions services, I was confident I could be in Westerham to visit Chartwell, the former residence of Sir Winston Churchill, before it closed at 4.30pm.

Wrong.

Lesson one: don’t trust online maps and directions…they’re hard enough to decipher at the best of times, and one becomes so obsessed over street names and where to turn that any progress actually made evades recognition.

In fact — following Google closely — I missed the turn out of the Chiswick High Road to head south, missed the first three turns and had to do U-turns for a second crack at them (and U-turns in inner London are logistical exercises in themselves), and ended up back at my hotel in Chiswick through another incorrect direction…and had to start again.

Eventually, 90 minutes later, I was confident I had departed Chiswick.

And this milestone (and it had indeed been but a few miles at this point) coincided with the realisation that if I simply ignored the street directions I was being given — and focused instead on heading toward each suburb as directed by various street signs, as I knew their order well even though I didn’t know the roads — then actual progress could be made. Soon enough I had made it through Twickenham, Kingston, Surbiton…moving steadily but inexorably toward the M25 Motorway and England’s south-east.

But even here, I’d sabotaged myself.

The one stop I made on my sojourn through London’s salubrious southern suburbs — at a pub near Kingston, and as much to reassure myself I was finally heading in the right direction as anything else — elicited the advice that I should get off the M25 at the Sevenoaks turnoff, after which the route to Tunbridge Wells would be clearly signposted.

It wasn’t, as I discovered 40 miles later.

A call to the hotel I was staying at elicited further directions that also proved circuitous, and finally — after yet another stop at yet another pub for yet another set of directions, I was given a reliable route to take that had me at the target 20 minutes later: nearly five hours after setting forth on a 70 mile field trip.

But I said there was a punchline: there was a surprise waiting for me when I finally arrived at Royal Tunbridge Wells.

I knew I’d booked an American-themed hotel to stay in for the night at Tunbridge Wells, but I was astonished to see this: it would have been the most natural thing in the world to encounter such an establishment in the Arizona of the 1800s. Or, at least, if it didn’t appear to have been built in the car park of a massive Sainsbury’s supermarket (I later learned the supermarket was built around it).

Having been for a walk after I arrived to the Lower Pantiles — where a friend of mine opened a restaurant six or seven years ago — I decided to eat at the hotel’s restaurant, the Cattle Shack; I had half a rack of barbecued pork ribs, served with a delicious coleslaw laced with chopped chillies, as an entree. I can count on the fingers of one hand (with plenty of room to spare) the number of times I’ve eaten ribs before: tasteless, stringy and tough, they’re something I couldn’t be bothered with. But these were highly recommended by the cheery waitress who served me, and proved such a revelation I’m now contemplating experimenting with cooking them when I get back to Melbourne.

The main course was a perfectly grilled cajun salmon fillet, which came with fluffy Mexican-style rice and some sauteed vegetables (including jalapenos…yum). But the dessert, a lemon meringue pie (I did say I can’t resist ordering lemon tarts when they appear on menus) was about 90% meringue, and what little lemon filling there was had the consistency and appearance of Clag, which many of us will remember from primary school.

And I didn’t partake of any of the American beverages on offer at the bar: as a result of my excursion to the NHS in Hammersmith on Friday, I’m on antibiotics for a few days, and alcohol isn’t a great idea at such a time.

On the whole though, this place was fun, vibrant, unpretentious and very pleasantly staffed, and if Claire’s boss ever reads this, give her a pay rise 🙂 . There was one noisy, noisome individual on staff who seemed to find it acceptable to flatulate fragrantly as he ferried food to customers (and Mr “American Cowboy in Training,” with the long, dark, greasy hair, I’m looking at you) but as Catriona Rowntree once told me — speaking of her own travel adventures — I’m not going to mark a good place down because of one dickhead.

The only other point I’d make is that while the rooms were brilliant, there was no air conditioning, and the heat-retaining old red brick building makes this an unpleasantly warm night in summer: something to keep in mind.

Make sure there’s a stock of toilet paper in the room when you arrive, too: the half-roll I was provided with was pretty miserly.

Overall, I’d give the Smith and Western eight out of ten: it isn’t fine dining and doesn’t pretend to be; it’s a good concept well executed. As for its resident farting lummox, perhaps he should clean up his act, for everyone’s sake. But that’s not my problem and it’s not feedback I’m willing to provide directly. Just think about that for a moment…

And what of the restaurant in the Pantiles my friend started? It was nowhere to be seen. I am going to have to try to find out what happened there while I’m in England if I can.

Today, after heading up to Westerham to see if I can get into Chartwell, given I missed out yesterday, I’m heading to Exeter — a 200 mile drive that, by rights, should take less time than my trip from Chiswick to Tunbridge Wells yesterday — but we’ll see…stay posted.