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A new motorway service station being designed in the Cotswolds will lead the way environmentally

Motorway services and green design are ­awkward bedfellows. It's not simply the petrol, the ­shopping and the fast food, but ­service stations take up a lot of space. And of course, they're dispiriting to look at.

But the challenge of building new services in the Cotswolds between junctions 11 and 12 of the M5 persuaded the developers to hold a competition. It was won by Glenn Howells, whose Savill Building in Windsor Park was shortlisted for the Stirling prize three years ago.

Designed to "knit" into the landscape so that even the petrol station cannot be seen from the road, it will emit a fifth of the carbon dioxide of normal motor­way services thanks to a kitchen garden, the creation of habitats for wildlife, and the use of ­locally sourced Douglas fir as the ­building material.

The consortium, whose planning application is to be considered by Stroud district council, includes Westmorland, the ­family-run firm behind the much-admired Tebay services in Cumbria, which won Egon Ronay's British Academy of Gastronomes' Grand Prix award last year.

The trouble is, having arrived you might never want to leave. The architect describes it as "a rural oasis", but it's not just the peace and quiet that is so appealing. It's the homemade food, the fresh veg and organic meat that will be sold in the farm shop, and the locally produced art and crafts replacing Marks & Spencer, WH Smith and other brands that will be banned, while profits will be ploughed back into the local community.

Green and foodie credentials aside, it's the design that will put it on the architectural map. The undulating shapes echo the landscape, while the ­timber-clad ­interior looks like the ­business- class lounge of a ­Scandinavian airport, with curvy chairs, low coffee tables and subtle lighting. Bring on the organic apple juice, the carrot cake and the hand-thrown pottery.

Amanda Baillieu is the editor of Building Design.

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People cheered from bridges at the opening of Britain's first long-distance motorway, built to beat the jams

We had seen other people's (those who had been to Italy had seethed with envy when they first saw an autostrada) and now at last we had one of our own. This was not in fact quite the first motorway section in Britain – what was known as the Preston bypass was already working by then. But here, commemorated yesterday in a 50th birthday ceremony at Watford Gap services, was the first inauguration of any great consequence: the initial section of the M1, 62 miles from junction 5 near Watford to junction 18 near Crick. It was opened on 2 November 1959 by the minster of transport, Ernest Marples, soon to be immortalised on this territory when somebody decorated one of his fine new bridges with the legend:  Marples Must Go.

It was fast, it was straight, and as more such roads were certain to follow it held out the promise of one day being able to drive from London to Manchester without sitting for hours in jams somewhere in Staffordshire. The first traffic was cheered by people hanging over the bridges to watch more fortunate people in cars speeding beneath them. It was part of the package that enabled Harold Macmillan to win an election with the claim that the British had never had it so good.

The construction had been an epic, though it took only eighteen months. Men who had never worked on building a road before were pressed into service. My friend Dave, a would-be actor, proudly proclaimed as we sped down the M1 a year or so later: "I built this road," although he had to admit that others had helped him. Many of these were recruited  from Ireland. In his book On Roads, a Hidden History, Joe Moran says that so many came that two Catholic priests were shipped over to hear confessions and say mass in the admin huts.

Of course there were disbelievers. Some thought this thirst for moving around at speed was part of the same disease that the 19th century poet Matthew Arnold identified when he asked what profit it was to move at high speed from Islington to Camberwell, when one simply left a dull illiberal life in the one for a dull illiberal life in the other. Others feared that the road would develop technical problems, as it very soon did, though not quite on the scale some had forecast. Others deplored its straightness. Only the gentlest of curves were permitted, which made for monotony, which might make for sleep, which was likely to make for accidents. That was a lesson learned and honoured in the making of later motorways. Still, it was only the most austere and self-denying of drivers who did not fancy a spin on this new invention. The Queen tried it out with the Duke of Edinburgh driving her in a Lagonda.

There were rituals here which did not exist with conventional roads. They had roadhouses of course, but not the dependable sequence of motorway service stations mustered along the M1, bringing a new degree of national recognition to places such as Newport Pagnell. The Watford Gap entered the language: until then, southerners used to talk of the alien territory "north of Watford"; now terra incognita began at the Watford Gap. As ever, as the novelty ebbed, so did the gratitude. People began to moan over the "bloody M1". Yet anyone tempted to undervalue the motorways should try driving tomorrow, say from London to Swindon, by the route that one had to take before the M4,  juddering through the centre of Reading. We were right to celebrate, and my friend Dave was right to feel pride: 2 November 1959 was a day of liberation.  

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