Tis the season....

Ali car ownership has been a rather jolly affair lately.

After a pretty shambolic summer, now known as monsoon season, the last couple of weeks have proved surprisingly Seven-friendly. The Land Rover has seen plenty of use in keeping with the time of year. But then, that's what it's intended for - the Great British winter.

So it's good to able to report that twice in the last week the Caterham has gobbled up two whole tanks of fuel in the name of recreation which equates to a good few of hundred miles of blatting, even for a Cross Flow.

The first tank of fuel took me and the car to Central London, perhaps not the first choice for a blat. But done at the right time it can be a truly unique experience. And that time is the first few hours of a Monday morning in the run up to Christmas. I'd been toying with the idea of repeating a sight-seeing tour of the Capital like the one I attended in September last year, when over twenty cars met up and made a general but legal nuisance of themselves around town. So, in my own personal version of Jim'll Fix It, I wrapped up warm, donned my best stripey scarf and headed up the M3.

And what a treat was in store for a small car in a big city. Starting at the Royal Albert Hall I zig-zagged west across London, traversing the Thames on numerous occasions. It wasn't the fastest of blats but, with a relatively warm night for the time of year and unusually light traffic due to the impending festive season, it was no less enjoyable than an open-road trip. Speed bumps hindered progress occasionally, as did the Sat Nav's inability to keep up at times. At one point I pulled over in a swanky back street in Fulham to allow Mr Garmin to catch his breath. Expensive Victorian villas lined the street, with a traditional-looking Christmas tree in each bay window complimenting the lights strung down the street. The sodium street lights won through though and bathed everything in an orange glow. It was eerily quiet, the distant sounds of city nightlife mingling in the background. As I sat there, with the car ticking itself cool, a fox popped out from one of the front gardens and trotted nonchalantly along the pavement, completely oblivious to my presence. As he came past the car he stopped and looked - not in a startled way as you'd expect for urban wildlife, just an unassuming glance, almost looking the car over in much the same way most humans do when they see a Seven. The fox looked away briefly as a police car sirened past the end of the street, then looked back again, this time directly at me. It blinked wearily a couple of times before baring it's small but menacing canines in a wide yawn and then scampered away, again with no sign of feeling threatened.

In a strictly blokey kind of way, it was a bit of a touching moment and as the driver of a Seven I felt a certain affinity with the feral dog. We were both out in the middle of the night with just ourselves to consider and not wanting to intrude on anyone else, yet both no doubt frowned upon by local residents and Health & Safety consultants alike.

I pushed on through the City. It was really late by now so just South of Tower Bridge I lapped a roundabout, crossed back over the river then traced the Thames back as far as Westminster where I then cut up to the A4, and headed home.

As I lowered the garage door it was just getting light but it had been a great blat.

The following afternoon, after a suitably lengthy lie-in, I rolled the car out of the garage to clean off the condensed smog from the London blat. But the great weather persisted, so in a spontaneous moment of "Built to be driven, not to be washed" I chucked my favourite bucket back in the shed and strapped in again.

The roads were still bone dry, quite astounding really, and in contrast to the Cityblat the night before, I opted for some rural road time aiming for Petersfield and a frequent target from the summer - the Seven Stars.

During the run down there I noticed the instrument lighting had quit - all of it - though maybe this is no bad thing as the entire driving experience is less distracted although there is the constant fear of running out of petrol. Then again, as a Cross Flow driver one gets used to this even when the fuel gauge is visible.

The off-side sidelights had also failed, immediately suggesting a blown fuse. Bending ungraciously under the dash I gave the fuse holder a quick prod and coincidentally the dashboard lights flickered on. But typical for a Caterham, as soon as I took a step back they went out again.

It's like the damn car has some kind of comedy timing circuit somewhere.

Venturing inside the pub I ordered a Caesar salad, some real ale (ABV less than 5% for legal reasons) and some tin foil.

The beer was refreshing, the salad surprisingly filling and the tin foil very conductive, and ideal for wedging a loose fuse in it's holder.

A plot by Lucas to plunge the world in to eternal darkness.....foiled.

Slow season.

Things have slowed right down in the world of aluminium car ownership.
The cars themselves haven't slowed down, I mean come on, if the Land Rover slowed down any more it'd stop.
No, it's a weather thing. The Caterham has remained largely hibernated, whilst the characteristic ease with which Land Rovers shrug off bad weather has become so much the norm lately as to be routine. It's probably why I like it. No matter how heavy the rain, how blowey the leaves or deep the snow, there's always this underlying feeling of reassurance that the square corners and flat front of the Landy will fend off the worst that Nature has to offer without hardly noticing. The thick-set bulk of the Defender feels as right for bad weather as the stripped-out minimalism of the Caterham does for good weather. Or at least, I have a feint memory to this effect.
Two little jobs have got done. Both electrical funnily enough. More than coincidence, this is positively surprising, since fiddling with the electrical system of either car is something as near the top of my favourite things list as a Vauxhall Astra.
Where the Land Rover once had the means to heat one cigar lighter, it now has two. Easy enough wiring, but as with most things in the cabin of any Land Rover, the tricky bit was finding somewhere to mount the Siamese lighter socket. In the end, I completely removed the original single lighter socket and hard-wired the double one, originally designed to be a plug-in accessory, direct to the supply in the dash.
The result of this is a wider choice of gadgety nonsense powered by the car at any one time. Previously, the number of options was just three: iPod, SatNav or phone charger. With the cunning application of a little of the mathematics of choice, the options have risen to six, three of which are natty combinations. I suppose you could say I've doubled the car's capability, all be it in one very small area.
The Caterham has also had a capability expansion, again very easy to install - A high level brake light. This is a brake light set at a high level. Not a light to warn of stopping in the Alps.

Are we sitting comfortably?

Then we'll begin...

Earlier in the year I replaced the seats in the Caterham, with an immediate and noticeable improvement in comfort and ergonomics.

This got me thinking. And it's taken nearly six months for this to produce any results.

Land Rover seats are, like the car itself, basic and functional and most Land Rover drivers are on the whole, like the car itself, heavier than average, robust and built for the outdoors.

These two factors had combined in the Defender to see off the original seats. They were clean enough, but just a little tired and on the driver's side, the frame of the seat back was making a bid for freedom through the upholstery. The driving position in a Defender is an acquired taste too, as long as your taste is a lack of leg room and you have rounded shoulders. I suspect this may be one reason why Land Rovers are mostly bolted together - to facilitate dismantling the car from around the driver when he or she eventually seizes in the unorthodox stance.

Now, as with all things Land Rover, it is possible to spend thousands of pounds on seats and in doing so become an instant armchair expert but I simply can't see the point. Or to be more precise, I can't see the seat when I'm sitting in it so there is absolutely no point in spending megabucks.

And so to eBay. Land Rover parts sourced through the on-line version of Bargain Hunt is always a bit more of a gamble than auctions for other parts, since there will be everything from a set of "wikkid" chrome 52" wheels for a Range Rover Sport to a lump of congealed rust being heralded as a Series II restoration project.

Somewhere in the middle ground I found a pair of non-brand name slightly-used bucket seats. I should add I hate the term "bucket" when referring to seats as it conjurs up two images: An item placed next to a child's bed when they are feeling ill and are in fear of puking and, in a very similar vein, KFC family meals. I mean, who sells food in a bucket?

But anyway, by some remarkable feat of being on-line at the time the auction ended and thus able to stay one step ahead of a secretive rival, "Bidder 15". I bagged the seats for a little over sixty quid and a few days later journied down to Poole to collect them. Upon arrival at the postcode I'd been given, it appeared I'd stumbled on to the set of the next Mad Max film as a sea of broken Land Rovers rolled away to the horizon. Lightweights, Forward Controls, Range Rovers, Discoverys.....all models were represented in this rusty graveyard, some still driveable, others no more than a shell. In the midst of this, inside a large industrial warehouse-style unit, vehicles were slowly giving up their parts to donate to others still on the road, proof that old Land Rovers never die, they simply regenerate. They do fill the air with the smell of EP90 in the process though.

Like all good Land Rover facilities this one was managed by a chap wearing overalls that faded from bright blue at the shoulders to oily black at the ankles. The degree of blackness is usually indicative of time spent fiddling with Land Rovers, the blacker the overalls, the longer the term served. For added kudos, badges of long-since bankrupt British motorfactors can be added.

Now, buying from a photograph can be a little risky but on this occasion I wasn't disappointed. The seats are in fine fettle and relatively new, the only downside being they were liberally dressed with cat hair where the yard's rodent control manager had found a comfy bed. I can see where he was coming from though. The seats came with custom-made runners already attached so within an hour of getting them home they were fitted and straight away it was obvious why Tiddles had chosen them to bed down on. More legroom, better back support and raised sides mean I can now sit in the Land Rover, relax every muscle in my body yet stay upright and not fall out of the seat.

Using a fine wire brush I combed the feline calling card out of the fabric of the seat with ease (wasn't actually that bad), gave both a good Hoovering and stitched up a small split in the driver's back rest. Good as new and so much better.

There is only one small snag....

They're bright red. Mind you, red on silver has a classic Mercedes look about it and as I said at the outset, when I'm sat on the seats, they're hidden anyway.

Simple. And Plain.

The past couple of weeks have proved how simple aluminium cars are to look after. The Defender how has a new intercooler, the fitting of which was simplicity itself. The front of the Land Rover simply unbolted and came apart to allow enough access to remove the small matrix from the car, and to then insert the replacement item. Fitting was easy enough although this was a bitter sweet solution as the old intercooler, although clearly bleeding somewhere, refused to reveal where exactly. Having removed it from the car I sealed the outlet then filled it with water and sure enough it dripped from one corner, but not with enough severity to disclose the leak. Upping the ante slightly I then tried reverting to schoolboy bicycle inner tube maintenance and filled the bath with water, sealed the intercooler then submerged it, awaiting a stream of bubbles from the hole or holes. But nothing. Had the leak been revealed I might've considered a repair, but based on the obscurity of the problem I decided to cut to the proverbial chase and replace rather than repair.

Result is a smoother, cleaner and slightly more frugal Defender. Only slightly mind, it's still a brick on wheels.

Next up was a repair to the driver's side B-post where the door latch is attached. This was starting to tear itself out of the B-post, with a long crack running upwards from where the latch is bolted through the aluminium door frame.

Again, a simple little job. Cut a panel from some scrap ali sheet, clamp it to the back of the damaged area, drill a few strategically placed holes, pop rivet repair plate to back of door frame, job done. It really was that simple, although I now have a line of rivet heads visible just inside the drivers door. But is this really a problem? I'd suggest not.

One of the joys of aluminium car ownership is that because the cars themselves are so simple and have a few exposed bolt heads, bare metal and mysterious rattles, a very basic repair is usually sufficient and entirely in keeping with the cars' original construction techniques. It's a visible reminder (and in my case because of the location it's virtually a daily one) of the longevity of a Land Rover. It's a little like chips served in newspaper. Being a simple but satisfying dish, they require nothing more complicated in the way of packaging, hence the reuse of crosswords and sports pages seems somehow appropriate and anything more would be a distracting extravagance.

With the Land Rover all fixed up and intercooled again, I took it for a day out across Salisbury Plain, a location which by definition is where simple cars belong.

Some you win, some you lose...

It's been a few days of contrast in the world of aluminium car ownership.

After the success of the Caterham's MOT a few weeks ago, the Land Rover faired less well and although entrusted to the care of Keith Gott Land Rover for the week, it needed more than a little attention to see it through the annual examination. This was doubly disappointing. Normally, Gotts are very good, especially their service manager Trev, in agreeing what needs doing, what can be left, and then what's a simple enough job for me to tackle, and what might need their specialist tools and facilities. For the MOT there was nothing that would've been beyond fixing at home, simple bolt-off, bolt-on repairs, but with Trev on holiday it was all done by the book without exception. Can't complain really, the total bill came to a few quid short of £700 which for a light commercial vehicle (and let's face it that's what a Land Rover is) isn't too bad. With a bit of luck it should be pretty solid for the next couple of years. One worrying discovery was a hole in the intercooler. How long it's been there I really can't say, but it's compromising performance, economy and cleanliness as pressurised oily boost air is simply blowing overboard.

In light of the unexpectedly high cost of the MOT, I've left the intercooler for now. The car isn't being used day to day, so it can afford to sit until I can source a suitably priced replacement item.

The Caterham on the other hand has seen plenty of use. On Friday I blatted down to Soberton for the second Solent Sevens meeting. Great little drive out, but no trip to Brighton this time.

Then on Saturday I dashed across to Penn for the appropriately named Penn Sevens meet. Again a great day out, the only problem being the good weather drew the rest of the English-speaking world on to the UK's roads.

Then this morning, I took a cross-country blat to the other side of Petersfield to collect some heavy duty axle stands from Felix, a fellow Blat Chatter.

Friday and Saturday were good drives, today was just brilliant. I used a satnav and, on the way home, created my own rural blat by deliberately ignoring the satnav commands and turning left when it said to go right, and right when it said to go left. The result was a thoroughly involving drive down some interesting lanes around Petersfield, East & West Meon and Alresford, complete with horse poo land mines, the waft of freshly harvested hay and that rich silage aroma in places.

Going over Butser Hill afforded some great views. Alas I didn't have a camera but trust me, it was great, and if ever somewhere deserved to be a location for a Carry-On film based on name alone, I think Butser Hill is it.

Some of the lanes were empty and almost straight, certainly straight enough to give it some beans and see if the clutch still slips at higher revs - which it doesn't (more of that later). Elsewhere, even tiny country lanes were choked with Rover 25s and Volvos whose owners, having completed the Mail On Sunday crossword, were taking their tartan travel rugs out for its yearly road trip. This gave rise to plenty of reminders as to just how pokey the Seven can be when it comes to overtaking. Mind you, what never ceases to amaze me is how drivers of Sunday-afternoon taxis meander along some fantastic unrestricted roads, doggedly sticking to 42mph, and preventing any overtaking by running their off-side wheel along the cats' eyes, reducing onward visibility for any following cars, and narrowing any potential overtaking lane, and in doing so kid themselves they're safe drivers and doing society a moral service. Of course, passing through small villages and towns with 30mph limits, still doing 42mph is neither here nor there.

Then there are drivers of German cars, who barge on through towards oncoming traffic whilst occupying at least two thirds of the available road width assuming they have superiority based simply on their German roots and with an attitude that says "Yes it is an Audi, so by default I do own the road, and if it weren't for some boisterous nineteen-year-olds in Spitfires you'd all be driving them by now". Some things never change. I noticed nearly all German cars are silver too, about as individual and inspired as their drivers.

But, without doubt, the best entertainment of the whole weekend, nay the entire month, was the biker I encountered on the A272. This is a favourite haunt of bikers, more so with good weather, so rather than try to out gun them, I let them pass and wave them through. Seeing what I though was a fairly high spec sports tourer fill the rear view mirror, on a straighter stretch I gave a quick left-indication, and sure enough the bike streamed past. Imagine the mixture of surprise and near-embarrassment when it turned out to be not a monster Ducati or rapid Suzuki, but one of those silly two-stroke look-a-like racers with the ubiquitous bee-in-a-biscuit-tin exhaust note. Oh the shame. Still, with a bhp/ton ratio lodged barely in double figures the bike made an entertaining target to follow, the enjoyment added to by the rider's ambition/talent ratio which was lodged firmly in single figures, probably less than one in fact. Mind you, at least he was trying to make progress, and that more than made up for all the dreary grey people in dreary grey German saloons.

But overall another great day out, and the clutch no longer seems to slip. This first came to light on the way back from Reims when, if the throttle was opened up fully from mid-range revs, the clutch would let go slightly and the revs climb away with no affect on the car's speed.

I adjusted the cable length, looked for obvious signs of contamination but all to no avail. Whilst the pedal box was opened up, I did notice a spring attached to the clutch pedal that appeared to work against the clutch, and exerted a pressure as though the clutch pedal was being ridden. Sure enough, when the mystery spring was disconnected, the pedal and clutch cable relaxed a little, so for today's trip I removed it completely and sure enough, problem apparently solved.

I've probably removed something like "The Chapman Springette", that essential part, that critical component that lurks in every car and appears to serve no purpose other than to render the car un-driveable should it be removed and I'll no doubt get an e-mail from someone explaining at length why it needs to be there. Until then, it'll remain disconnected under the heading of "If its removal improves things, and its refitting makes no discernible difference, don't refit it".

In other news, I put up some more shelves in the garage. A man can never have enough shelves.

Relentless Rain Runs Rings Round Reims Revival.

It was always going to be ambitious.
Getting to Reims isn't that big an ask, despite previous attempts being thwarted, but getting there after a normal working day on Friday, then getting back in time for a normal working day on Monday AND taking in the 2nd Automobile Excellence Weekend long the way is quite a bit to pack in. More so when the Channel Tunnel catches fire 24 hours before one is due to depart.
In the company of Steve and Rob a small formation from Crossflow Squadron headed for Dover in mixed showery weather fully expecting to get delayed for hours due to all the Tunnel traffic being diverted to Dover and it's iconic White Cliffs. Sailing across to the equally iconic Dunkerque with Norfolk Lines was surprisingly pleasant experience and we used the time on board to eat and catch up with some vital blokey talk about Crossflows.
By the time Dunkerque hove in to view it was around midnight, but this then led to an awesome night drive down to St Omer, across flat, misty fields. We did have a quick stop for fuel, and this was a bit weird. A totally deserted filling station, with just us, and a couple in a Mercedes who showed a more than passing interest in the Caterhams. A distinctly continental approach ensued, with the first question not being the quintessentially chavtastic "'Ow fast does it go mate?", but a more technically astute "How much does it weigh?".
Despite some spirited driving and empty roads we arrived at our night stop around 3am and maybe just a little too soon we were sat in breakfast. Some of the accents in the dining room suggested some Bosch spies were in the area, so we slipped away unnoticed and continued to Reims. At first the weather was epic, clear blue skies and bright sunshine, ideal for blatting, but as the morning turned in to afternoon the heavens gradually opened until we had little choice but to stop and add roofs to the Sevens.
At first, we hoped this would be a temporary measure but as we got closer to Reims the rain got heavier and it slowly became apparent that the rain was in for the day.
Arriving at the circuit the first hint of the driving we'd come to see was a series of random diversions around the route of the old circuit. The Gendarmes stood around as only Gendarmes can, sending us in completely the wrong direction but with such nonchalance as to appear convincing.
After a little scouting round we found ourselves on short finals to the muddy field that doubled as a carpark for the weekend, but on seeing a tractor already struggling to return cars to the tarmac we made the reluctant but ultimately wise decision to abort for the day and simply head for our hotel. This was a great little bolt-hole, offering individual garages for the Sevens, and after emptying the cars, giving them a quick clean and drying out our kit from the day, we forgot the idea of seeing any circuit driving for the day and debriefed the day's excursion over beers and, obviously, Champagne. Reims city centre was drizzley and grey, but enhanced by the presence of an amateur jazz band who had apparently got lost on their way to a football match.
Next morning, although the rain was gone it left behind a muddy quagmire in the fields around the Circuit de Gueux. So we stopped short and parked up the kites on a nearby access road and walked the short distance to the centre of activity. Despite reservations about the effect of the previous day's weather, the effort in getting to the circuit was rewarded with some up close and personal motoring action. Unlike similar events in the UK, the Automobile Excellence weekend allowed us to really mix with some classic machinery - to touch it, smell it and feel the heat dissipating from the engine after a few sprightly laps round the old circuit. It was all very informal and relaxed, typically French with none of the Health and Safety nannying so common elsewhere.

At some points, we could get to within ten feet of the track edge, and although the cars were being driven with a degree of restraint, the dust kicked up by the tyres mingled with the smell of hot oil every time a classic went by. Although only a small event in its very earliest stages, the Automobile Excellence weekend oozed atmosphere, with the Bugattis and Bentleys looking all the more authentic for the addition of some mud in their tyres and the signs of general weathering.

All too soon it was time to head for home, the return journey being far easier due entirely to much more favourable weather. That said, we successfully missed our pre-booked ferry causing a two-hour delay. Bloody French.
But it had been worth it. And we'll be going back next year.

Brighton Early.

At last. Monsoon Season would appear to be drawing to a close.

This evening, an initially cloudy sky gradually cleared enough to make it possible to take the Caterham to the inaugural meeting of the Solent Sevens, a monthly meet for Seven owners around the Solent funnily enough.

All in all an uneventulful journey, and one hampered by a higher than expected amount of traffic on the A272 an A32, our route to the pub. I blatted out with Rob in his Crossflow and by pure coincidence met up with Steve in his, which was handy as we're all heading to France (again!) in a couple of weeks. It's always good to travel in the company of fellow Crossflow drivers. They're not bogged down by fading ECUs, trick carbon fibre bits or cooling issues. They're only interested in one thing - proximity of the nearest petrol station, and nothing else matters.

Whilst owners of other variants of Seven will stand around and talk about all manner of techno-mumbo-jumbo, Crossflowers only ever discuss whose car stinks the most of oil. When run along these lines car club meets become a very simple pleasure.

On the way to the meet, I'd happened to notice a startled bunny cowering in the road with traffic passing overhead. An unusually kind streak in me came to the fore so whilst Rob and Steve pressed on for the pub, I stopped the car and went to the aid of Floppsy. But it was a tragic scene. The rabbit, although fully conscious and clearly eager to scamper away had suffered a bit of a thwack to it's rear end and as such couldn't hop anywhere. It wasn't bleeding, it wasn't squashed, it simply had two badly mangled legs. I guess the kindest thing to do would've been to thwack it's front end with similar vigour and put the poor thing out of it's misery, but then again, I felt it would be a tragedy too far to survive being hit by a car, only to then be thumped off the nearest fence post in a twisted act of mercy, so I helped Floppsy out of the road and under the hedge where hopefully he/she/it will have fallen asleep peacefully and is, right now, digging up the carrots in God's allotment.

But on to car things...

As with any Caterham meet, there were a few old faces and as many new ones, and the pub in question, "The Chairmakers" at World's End, offered some excellent beer and fine wines with some full-bodied fruitiness on offer at the bar. Steve, Rob and I did form something of a clique but this was mostly because we were discussing our forthcoming Reims trip. The conversation evolved in to talk about general blatting and how the British "summer" has all but killed off the sport this year.

It was at this point that I suggested we all blat down to the all-night cafe in Circus Street, Brighton at some stage. This is a simple, traditional market cafe which stays open all night and thus makes a good point to aim for when night-blatting in the summer. What I hadn't quite anticipated was Steve's suggestion that "at some stage" with regard to going to Brighton actually meant "tonight".

Without a decent excuse not to, as the Solent meet drew to a close, little did we know our blat was only just beginning.

With only minor wheel spin we left the pub and aimed for the coast before heading East towards Brighton, a mere 30ish miles away. Not the most inspiring blat but a blat none the less and soon enough we were parked up outside the Market Diner on Circus Street, not far from the seafront, and not far from midnight. Circus Street itself, being a market, looks like the kind of place where episodes of "The Sweeney" could've been filmed. Roller-shuttered premises line the uneven pavements whilst at one end overflowing wheelie bins erm.....overflow. There's also a nightclub at the end of Circus Street so there's always a perceived danger of damage to the cars but the revellers are mostly well behaved and besides, when we were there it was still early in the grand scheme of things. That said, whilst we partook in tea and bacon-related fare, a young lady strutted past looking like a cross between Catwoman and Fred Astaire for she wore top hat, tails and thigh length PVC boots. Which was nice. It transpired she was a Burlesque entertainer headed for the club at the end of the street although she obliged in enhancing the appearance of the cars briefly for a photo and informed us of numerous Burlesque clubs and venues in London. But London was too far for that night considering our lengthy blat to the coast in the first place.

As the nightlife started to arrive, this was our cue to leave but Rob's car decided to throw a hissy fit in a way only Caterhams can, and not start. After a bit of non-descript and inconclusive waggling of leads, flexing of hoses and general prodding and pondering the thing started and we headed sort of home.

Blasting up over Ditchling Beacon in the dark I experienced something of a first and actually caught up with an emergency services vehicle on a call, although it was a fire engine so hardly the most rapid of rapid repsonse vehicles. They stopped to attend a burning car, we contined to see to burning rubber and fossil fuels.

As Rob commented at one point way past midnight, as we clawed our way back across all of West Sussex and a large chunk of Hampshire, "This seemed like such a good idea three hours ago when we started"

And it was still a good idea.

I'd been knighted with an enormous sense of good for having helped an injured rabbit find a nicer spot to die than between a few cat's eyes, then talked car-related bollocks for a bit before blatting to Brighton where we indulged in real tea in proper china mugs before randomly but successfully tinkering with Rob's car whilst a girl dressed as a ringmaster with big but nicely proportioned PVC-clad boobs told us where she would next be swinging her semi-naked tassles in public.

All worth staying up for.

Something of a trend.

Just lately, every time I take the Caterham out of the garage, it rains with a ferocity last seen by Biblical characters best known for their wood-working skills, zoological interests and ad-hoc sea-faring.
As such there is little more to say right now.

Well oiled.

Thought it was about time the Caterham had some new oil thrown in it. My intention was to try an oil change every 6000 miles, so at nearly ten it was time.

Purchasing the oil was easy enough as I regard it as genuinely consumable so tend to go for the cheapest that Halfords has to offer, and that's saying something.

Whilst there I did consider buying a little something from their mainstream retail lines for the serious motorist, like a Sponge Bob Square Pants air freshener perhaps.

Now, despite their "I need some red paint for a 1969 Mini" advert on Dave TV, the tool pixie at Halfords (who'd previously impressed me with her knowledge of rivnut tools and her even more impressive knowledge of Halfords stock levels of these, ie none......ever) admitted they didn't even have a stock number for a sump plug and washer for a Crossflow.

So I tried the local independant motor factor who supplied me with what they assured me was the correct item. It wasn't, and I feel all the more let down due to the fact that they tried to take the upper hand. At least Halfords had the decency to admit defeat.

With the front of the Seven up on axle stands, I undid the sump plug and out glugged the old oil, thick, black and looking like the stuff when it comes spurting out of the ground in Texas.

I drained the oil in to a handy drip tray cum jerry can that I'd borrowed from fellow crossflower Rob. It's better than a normal open drip tray in so much as it's takes the form of a container with a huge hole in one side with a massive screw cap, about the size of a 7" single, to go over it once full of oil. This means the container can be instantly manhandled and moved around without spillage, and without the delay of waiting for the oil to drain in to a sealable container. Simple but effective like all things befitting an aluminium car.

When it came to refilling the engine with oil, I discovered the kitchen measuring jug was already lurking in the garage. This suggests I pay attention to precise liquid quantities more in car care than I do in cuisine.

Three litres of oil plus what was in the filter. Done.

Bring me sunshine. (Please!)

It's August. The news should be full of stories of roads melting, ice cream sales breaking all records and topless sunbathers in Hyde Park.
But it is not full of stories like this. August is now known as "Monsoon Season".
Both times I've taken the Caterham out lately it's acted as some kind of offering to the Gods of Precipitation who have responded by dumping a month's rain on parts of Hampshire in half an hour.
On Sunday morning I cast my eyes skyward for ages before taking the bull by the proverbial horns and blatting over to Goodwood for their monthly breakfast club. A good showing of classics despite the iffy weather. And a good turn out of Sevens too, along with a few faces I'd not seen in a while.
But on the return journey, not ten miles from home, a torrential microburst of rain turned the road in to a river. I was faced with something of a dilemma at this stage. To keep going and increase speed in order to increase the slipstream and thus stay a bit dry, but risk aqua-planing in to a hedge, or slow down for safety's sake and get soaked.
I opted to stop, hoist that essential motoring accessory the golfing umbrella, and let the rain subside. And I must say once cocooned under the brolly things didn't seem so bad. OK, the rain continued, and in places it still dripped in, but somehow it evoked an "It could be worse" atmosphere. All that was missing was a nice cup of tea to really see things off. Note to self, must carry flask next time rain is imminent.
The second drenching was tonight when Rob and I set off for a pub meet near Abingdon. Again we were swamped by a Biblical deluge. This was worse than Sunday and, having foolishly placed all our weather-protection eggs in the Met Office basket of "overcast but dry", neither of us had full doors fitted (forgot the flask too).
Eventually we aborted the trip and dashed (at a whopping 40mph) for home.
Still, it wasn't a wasted journey as I learnt by accident that a half hood and half doors aren't really compatible as the doors need to be in place before climbing in the car, and to climb in requires the roof not to be fitted, which it was at the time.
Still, at least it wasn't dark.

Moving. Pictures.

A short montage of photos from Normandy.
Enjoy. Reflect. Remember.

France......again.

It's been a busy couple of weeks.

After returning from Cornwall with the racing seats all efforts turned towards a subsequent trip to France, hopefully a more successful outing than the last cross-Channel effort.

Fitting the seats was time consuming and a little confusing since, needless to say, they came without any instructions and much like the car they're designed to fit, no two are the same. It was my intention to fit the seats to the original runners, but this meant removing said runners from the old seats. Only after spending two hours doing this did it then become apparent that the runners were pretty much useless so far as the new seats are concerned. The mounting points are all completely different. In the end I opted for the far simpler idea of bolting the seats directly to the floor. Although this negates any future adjustment, it also negates loaning the car to anyone unless they can admit to being exactly the same size and shape as me, and I'm not sure a drive of the car is worth that in anyone's book.

After my exploratory spannering with the driver's seat you'd think the passenger side would be much easier. But you'd think wrong and it took twice as long despite the lack of any seat runner-related nonsense. I have no idea why this is. I guess it's just another aspect of hand built aluinium car ownership. You can never rely on two cars being identical, and neither are the driver and passenger areas of the cabin/cockpit mirror images of one another.

So, seats fitted the car was loaded for the trip to France, the Normandy coast to be precise, to visit various sites relating to the D-Day landings of over sixty years ago.

Travelling in the company of Rob and Becky in Rob's Crossflow, the trip was a successful mission with none of the failings of my previous Gallic excursion. The cars drew admiration wherever we went, possibly due to the French driving only Renault Meganes, in silver, less than four years old. They may do very good cuisine, but clearly cannot apply the same flair to their automotive choices.

After a night crossing on LD Lines (who I'd highly recommed) we headed West over Le Pont du Normandie then stopped in Honfleur for breakfast. Being a Sunday we assumed there'd be no parking charges, then used our best Franglais to convince ourselves that the signs in the car park confirmed this. What they actually confirmed was that parking charges applied evey day, even Sundays. Rob made the observation that as the sign wasn't in German and the parking fees weren't in Deutschemarks they couldn't possibly apply to us. Alas they did. However, a parking ticket was not forthcoming, instead we got a little note from the town Police asking us not to forget to pay the car parking charges. Not so much a parking ticket, more a parking reminder. This is an example of why life in France is so relaxed.

We pressed on towards Carantan, taking in Pegasus Bridge along the way with it's full size Horsa glider replica. This has a lot in common with a Caterham, or to be more precise it has very little in common with a Caterham since like the car, there isn't much to it. Simple, but effective.

After a couple of days in Carantan we started heading East again, taking a slower route to encompass the various cemeteries and sites of interest. These were as moving as they are fascinating, all for different reasons. The scale of those historical events is mind blowing, yet at the same time the little details still shine through in places and the importance of tea to the British forces at least, was much in evidence.

The naivity of American tourists was also much in evidence when we were asked if the Caterhams were "some kind of old Porsche?" by a curious colonial on-looker in St Mere Eglise.

I cannot think of a more suitable car to explore Normandy and it's recent history in than a Seven, with the possible exception of a Willys Jeep. On more than one occasion when climbing in to the car, the clink of stainless steel harness buckles; the click of simple toggle switches; the sound of over-fuelled carbs gurgling in to life, all seemed so very appropriate and reminiscent of much of the technology filling the plentiful museums around Carantan and Caen. Whether it was on vehicles, aircraft or infrastructure, Allied or Axis, the lack of any plastic throw-away parts and an absence of electronics was reassuring and is perhaps lost in a museum.

After a long week in the sun, and boy was it a scorcher of a week, the Seven's temperature has been rising a little high lately, so no doubt time to top up the coolant and get round to fitting a fan over-ride switch.

Where the pasty lies down with the tree frog.

Took the larger of the two aluminium cars to the mystical land of Cornwall over the weekend. Two reasons for this, firstly to see Bill Bailey live in concert at the Eden Project, then on the way home collect some lightweight racing seats for the other aluminium car.

Trogging west on Thursday evening the Defender shrugged off with ease the torrential rain that blighted the journey. In fact, it seemed even more at home in the inclement weather. On the down side the roof tent, still in place from the Shropshire treasure hunt, seriously degrades the mpg. It's a careful balance between improving one's living conditions at a campsite and financial ruin, given the current price of fuel. The journey to the West Country was broken at Exeter services, an unremarkable location apart from one thing - a sign on the petrol station door reading: "Toilet completely out of action". This is a description I'd associate more readily with the Guns of Navarone, and to see it used in an ablutionary sense added an air of adventure to the journey from there on in.

The Eden Project itself is a quite amazing experience and one that, I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting to be impressed by. But I was.

Arriving well ahead of the Bill Bailey gig offered the opportunity to explore the Project itself and well worth a visit it is too. I'm not a massively keen horticulturalist, the spelling alone puts me off, but what did strike me about the whole place was the underlying principles of recycling and re-generation and how these core values are also at the heart of aluminium cars. The Eden Project thrives on the idea of simple engineering being used hand-in-hand with otherwise waste material, and to allow organic growth to thrive. I'm certain similar ideas are the key to environmental motoring. To be green, a car needn't be made from sunflower seeds and powered by yak dung, it's needs to be enduring, it needs to last forever and in doing so reduce it's long-term waste impact. And in order to last forever a car doesn't need to be made indestructible since this in itself isn't exactly environmentally friendly, and nor does it need to be totally recyclable once done. A green car needs to be easily repairable with minimum facilities and using common parts, such that the absolute maximum can be achieved from it's initial build. Both my aluminium cars fit this bill nicely. They grow, they evolve, they regenerate, adapting to needs as they arise, but with minimal impact and often using manual labour and simple hand tools. This is real green motoring.

In amongst the home-gardening section of Eden was the odd garden shed here and there. Anyone who has owned either a Land Rover or Caterham will appreciate the importance of sheds.

Bill Bailey also has something in common with aluminium car ownership. His brand of humour relies on observing apparently insignificant but none the less critical detail of otherwise simple scenarios. He also has a slewed logic which, although ultimately flawed, can often be made to work. For example, his idea of using four single Kit Kat "Chunkys" to make one large traditional four-finger Kit Kat, and that it would then make us feel smaller is, I think, truly inspired.

His act also included his observations following receipt of a renewal letter from the AA, (something with which I could easily relate given recent experience of break downs in France) and a hip hop version of "Dad's Army" which further aligns with aluminium cars. The old being brought suddenly up to date by adding the new.

The trip to Cornwall also enabled me to collect a pair of GRP seats from a bloke called Mark near Truro. Typical of anything to do with minority interest cars, Mark's workshop is out of the way and has never been organised properly in any way, shape or form. Just the way it should be.

Once Cornwall was over, a quick trip was made to Wokingham to see fellow Crossflow owner Rob to plan a quick blat to Normandy next week.....

Just who is Lee Majors?

A wet weekend in a squelchy field in Shropshire may not sound like fun. But like so many aspects of aluminium car ownership a little hardship makes you truly appreciate the finer things in life.

This weekend saw the LRUK Shrophire Treasure Hunt, an unofficial yet well organised and popular gathering.

After much swearing at the roof-tent and how it fits to the Defender, I headed over to Widget's place, then next morning we continued to Shropshire.

The traffic was pretty busy, coupled with some typical middle-lane hogging ineptness from those Daily Mail readers who were out in their mid-range Japanese hatchbacks, but eventually we made it to Ludlow and stopped at a local supermarket to stock up on provisions. I had no idea the supermarket scenes in the film Hot Fuzz were part-documentary, but after our shopping experience I'm starting to come round to the idea. It was all a bit....."rural" but all the better for it with a nice selection of produce and cake with a home-made edge to them.

We also used this stop as an RV with Airbrush in his 90, and Ben and Danny in a Lightweight, a curiously named Land Rover since it is actually heavier than it's Series counterpart. Those crazy Solihullians being mischievous again.

So on to the campsite.

We were among the first to arrive, and were soon set up.

So what next?.......Pub?

Yup, but what a let down. Continuing the Hot Fuzz theme the pub (that shall not be named for legal reasons) seemed to be devoid of any business sense. Bearing in mind this is mid July we're talking about (and therefore mid-monsoon season), with a huge campsite attached to the pub, you'd think they do massive home-cooked hearty feasts. But hell no, microwave lasagne, frozen peas and oven chips. The lighting in the lounge bar area was also far too harsh and needed tweaking down a few watts. Driving a Land Rover is a tiring business so what could be called "subdued" lighting is sometimes a good thing, allowing a day behind the wheel to gradually wear off without the intimidation of 60-watt energy saving light bulbs. In short, Ambiance is not a village in France. The real ale, "Cambrian Gold", was pretty good though but even that ran out, and not through us drinking too much of it, sadly.

But hey, the company made the evening, and we chatted with the various other aluminium car owners now in attendance about such things as Chevy Blazers, faded pop stars from the 1980s, and lesbians.

The conversation about Chevy Blazers gave rise to a dawn of previously unknown disappointment when, in describing a Blazer, mention was made of '80s stuntman and part time private investigator Colt Sievers otherwise known as The Fall Guy otherwise known as Lee Majors.

"Who's Lee Majors?" came the call from the more junior end of the Land Rover spectrum.

But anyway, we travelled some fine lanes during the hunt, and made a note to return to Shropshire soon without the pressure of a mobile quiz to contend with. The weather was typical Land Rover weather, bright sunshine with heavy downpours. Ideal.

All three Land Rovers that we used for the Hunt performed faultlessly, especially Ben's Lightweight which, although some thirty years senior to either Widget's or Airbrush's shiny 90s, epitomised the phrase "Always out numbered, never outgunned". It flew up the hills and being on leaf springs bounced happily over any obstruction in it's path.

With a little disappointment we had to curtail the Hunt to make the 5pm cut-off, with only some twenty out of 132 clues completed. But to our utter amazement and thus having not even considered an acceptance speech, we cleaned up on the hunt and walked off with three different trophies for various aspects of what was a superb weekend.

Why are the French so useless?

It's been a hectic few days in the world of aluminium car ownership. Some good, most bad.

On the good side, the Defender rear door is now fully fitted and much nicer than the old one. No longer does the door wobble itself to death when you slam it shut, the spare wheel will no longer try to pull the door off it's hinges when opened. It's great, and even by comparison to a good condition old-style door, generally looks a lot neater and cleaner, something unheard of on a Land Rover, hence my fascination.

The good vibes continued on Sunday with a pre-lunch blat to Bognor Regis in the company of three other Sevens. The weather was epic, the roads were sort of alright and the traffic, well, it was Sunday South Coast traffic. A special mention goes out to the collection of assorted 50s Amerciana that we caught up with near Hindhead. A shiny collection of chrome and tailfins, the Good Ol' Boys happily meandered through Surrey at no more than 35mph, totally oblivious to anyone else and probably kidding themselves they were on their way to Gracelands. I feel I should point out at this stage that I never knew until then that wearing a cowboy hat whilst driving is incredibly distracting for the driver behind.
Once at Bognor, we indulged in breakfast and cups of tea on the front, discussed the merits of various engine upgrades and microwaveable lamb shank, then returned home for a pub meet and BBQ with even more Seven owners. A superb afternoon all round.

But wait. There's even more.

The following day I was signed up to join a SELOC (South East Lotus Owners Club) run to Reims in France for the day. Leaving home at 5am to a fresh summer morning, with the prospect of several hours behind the wheel in France, it was as though blatting would last forever.
Arriving in Folkstone to an empty car park is never a nice feeling though. I was first there, and by quite a long way, so in the end I was first across (or under) the Channel and waited for the rest of the cars there.

An hour and a half later I was still waiting.
Eventually the other seven cars appeared and off we roared.

But not for long.

Imagine our surprise when it transpired we had chosen the one day when French truckers, those selfless crusaders for all that is fair and just, had decided to protest about having to work a thirty-hour week, only being given two months holiday per annum, having enough red wine to float a battle ship and tolerating the sight of that leggy sex-pot Carla Bruni as First Lady. Yeah, real bummer that.

About 60 miles south of Calais we sat for four hours in slow moving traffic, deliberately delayed by truckers.

Cars get hot in traffic. Older aluminium cars don't like getting hot, specifically the ignition coil which after several stops and starts in quick succession simply went "pop" in a subdued, unspectacular fashion but with just enough presence to signal the end of that day's journey. A big pawl of white smoke, oil spraying out through the bonnet louvres and, I swear, a sort of lightning flash in the engine bay all suggested this was pretty terminal.

Now, France is renowned for all sorts of things......wine, women, food, protesting truckers and so on. But they are clearly not up to speed on breakdown recovery services.

For a whole two hours I waited in the blazing Gallic sun for a tow truck to appear. After a suitable but brief shoulder-shrugging session at the road side, le homme de recovery then dragged the Seven to his garage. I say garage, it appeared to be more of a rest home for retired family cars. At the end of his long over grown driveway a small meadow awaited, strewn with wreckage, casualties and retirees from the Peage all in various states of decay or destruction.

The certainty with which Recovery Man pushed the Seven right to the back of his workshop was a little worrying, and there followed a little more shoulder-shrugging and mention of another Seven he had taken in to care. Sure enough there was another Seven, broken down in the same garage. What are the chances? I know the chances of two Sevens being broken down at once are nothing to write home about, but I thought it curious that we both ended up at the same garage.

"They are of the British. We cannot be getting parts here" he explained.

A slightly sweeping generalisation but with lunch time now well behind us I didn't argue and concentrated on getting the car home instead.

Now was the time to call in the might of RAC European Recovery Services, a decision I would later regret. Given my circumstances, embarking on a course of flower arranging lessons would've proved no less useful. After a whopping seven hours of "management referral" they finally agreed to fund towing the car back to Calais where I could then ferry it back to the land of tea and cake. Actually, whilst we're on the subject of tea and cake, during my entire time with them, the garage owner and his mother never once offered me a cup of tea and I think this may be key in their inability to help stranded motorists. Perhaps they just do not understand that regardless of how bad a motoring ailment is being experienced, all will appear much better after a nice cup of tea. But no matter.

A gloriously symbolic sunset at Calais saw the car dragged on to the ferry by a trailer tug, but only after much debate as to where the towing eye was. Eventually I removed the nose cone of the car to reveal the front of the chassis a bit more and thus ease the confusion. I was still in France let's not forget, so I probably could've stripped it to component pieces and they'd still be confused. Towed on to the ferry, the Seven was set aside with other invalided vehicles. A VW campervan and, oddly enough another VW, a Touareg with very black windows and massive chrome wheels, carrying what appeared to be members of the Ali G fan club. They also had what I believe is known as "phat ICE" but since I have no idea what this means I shall move on.....

Now, with the campervan I felt a certain affinity, a common bond through running a unique vehicle, and one where breaking down isn't so much an inconvenience but more of an educational process, a challenge to be overcome and in doing so get closer to one's car or van. But a 55-plate Touareg? I'd be asking for my money back.

Anchors aweigh and all that.

Whilst on the oxymoronic "Pride of Calais" I learnt three things:

1. Teenagers are very loud.
2. Fruit machines bear no fruit.
3. Truck drivers consider their less-stained vest meets the criteria for "Dressing for dinner"

At Dover, now under cover of night, numerous recovery agencies were lined up ready to do their thing, a bit like X-factor but with more flashing amber lights and hi-viz vests.

Despite the late hour, my increasingly close relationship with the utterly inept RAC control in Lyon, the disinterest of Mr Tow Truck, and so on, things were looking up.

I was back on home turf, and so were the Jaguar Cars Ladies Equestrian Team whose horse carrier-cum-mobile home had also conked out in Calais as they returned from Three-Day Eventing in Poland. They were parked up waiting for assistance on the quayside too, and what a fine collection of fillies the Jaguar Cars Equestrian Team are. Very sporty, stunning to look at and clearly from fine stock. Apparently they had some horses with them too.

Strangely enough they showed a higher-than-average interest in the Caterham, and I concluded it came from working with horses which can no doubt be equally temperamental. They didn't quite understand aluminium cars, but they seemed to understand how one could be so involved with them.

At this stage events became something of a race: Me getting the Seven going versus them and their truck/stables, in order for me to give demonstration laps around the docks before they were able to drive off, no doubt drawing comments like "Gosh. This is orrflee farrrrrst". You need to remember these young ladies spend a lot of time around powerful brutish beasts and, in all probability look very good in Jodphurs.
But it was not to be and they were soon on their way.

Then again, so was I.

When the real RAC turned up to assist the campervan he brought with him the oh-so-elusive ignition coil I'd needed that morning back in France. This bloke understood what it takes to own and drive a Caterham, and offered me exclusive access to his toolkit, inviting me to crack on with the coil change whilst he sussed out the campervan.

Coil swapped, the car started first time and actually ran slightly better than when I'd left home that morning, an amazing 19 hours ago by this stage.

I was tired, it was late and it had been one hell of a day, so a gentle 60mph rattle home, car in the garage, me in bed. But only after my first cup of tea that day.

Speedo

Thought it was about time I got the speedometer fixed.

So, over to Caterham, the place not the car, to see Redline who fitted the five speed box back in December. Ever since then the speedo hasn't performed, and it was assumed this was a simple fix as a result of the box swap.

But oh no.

The right-angle drive in the side of the gearbox had snapped. This in itself is no big deal, but when you consider it's hidden in the transmission tunnel, and can't even be seen without removing the engine and box from the car, one starts to appreciate the complexity of the problem.

After a coffee (good customer care at Redline), it was agreed the best way to reach the snapped drive was to cut an access hole in the sidewall of the transmission tunnel. This may seem a little drastic but it means access is improved permanently should there be any future reason to get to the speedo drive.

And sure enough, like a loose tooth that just needs a little coaxing, the snapped off chunk of the old right-angle drive was free.

So, time to "just " fit a new one.

But oh no.

The newer style of right angle cable drive is slightly deeper, and within the confines of the transmission tunnel there simply wasn't the space to the side of the gearbox to fit a new drive.

So the access hole was enlarged slightly, the new drive fitted (bit of a git to fit but hey), and a simple cover plate sealed over the hole.

The new right angle drive is fitted, a new cable is fitted and I can now tell how fast I'm going.

Time for a gratuitous Speedo shot, which actually has very little to do with aluminium cars but is worth a look:

Back door action part 2

Now that I'm pretty much back on my feet work has begun in earnest on swapping the rear door on the Defender.

First job was to dismantle the new door. Easy enough, and quite pleasing in that when the inner door card was removed, out dropped a 10mm nut, whose sole purpose appeared to be to rattle round in the bottom of the door thus maintaining a decades-old Land Rover tradition. Once bare of glass, interior trim and wheel bracket I took the door to a bead-blasting company in Farnborough. In keeping with their location's historical significance in the world of blokeishness, these were proper chaps who hide in a workshop, assaulting bits of old cars with a high pressure jet of fine grit to cleanse them of any surface contaminants such as paint and corrosion. People like these appreciate the finer points of cups of tea and can thus be relied upon to deliver.
£20 later and the door looked like it had never been painted. This process not only removes rust but also separates the men from the boys so far as cars are concerned. To a Land Rover, figure head of sturdy British engineering, bead blasting is like an exfoliating power shower; to lesser cars, those built with consumer values and production costs more in mind, it is a near-death experience and almost certain disintegration.

The door now requires repainting to match the Blenheim Silver of the rest of the car.

The Seven has also seen it's fair share of TLC this week. The new roll bar is in place, but due to the geometry of the uprights, the tonneau needed tailoring slightly. I got this done as a favour through work by the chaps who normally repair life rafts and so have access to men's sewing machines.

In less than an hour the holes in the tonneau were suitably elongated, and better still, in order to avoid the awkwardness of cash changing hands in the working environment, the chap who did the work has requested payment in Cherry Bakewells.

Barred

Has it really been two weeks since I last posted? Unbelievable, but then I guess that's a knock-on effect of the ankle which is, at this rate, going to take months to put right. The problem is two fold. One, I can't actually walk that easily on it yet and two, I don't have any foot wear that fits over the swelling. But no matter.
Last weekend Widget came over to laugh at me limping round the house, to share some cake, and to help fit the new roll bar to the Caterham.
Just as suspected this wasn't a straight forward swap, but needed various other bits removing first, then refitting once the roll bar was on, then removing again along with the roll bar when we noticed that because of the forward slope of the new roll bar the headrests can only be fitted prior to the roll bar being in place. But then Caterham ownership is one long learning curve.
We also learnt it's best not to drop seat-harness top hat bushes down the back of the seats but luckily, Widget has very narrow arms.

(Cake of choice for today was My Kipling's French Fancies. Or just Fancies as the French call them)

Back door action.

Alas any car related activity has been all but suspended due to me sustaining to a broken ankle.
Bother.
But, the good news is the new rear door for the Defender, sourced on that Aladdin's cave of car parts; eBay, has arrived. And what a beauty it is. It'll need stripping and repainting to match the Defender's Blenheim Silver, but it's completely solid and is the later version of the Defender rear door - a one piece pressing with a more robust wheel carrier. Winner.
No idea when I'll get to fit this though. Can't even standup at the moment.

Waiting Game

The weather this past week has been great for being out in the Caterham. Even took the doors off last weekend for that completely open cockpit experience (although Aeroscreen users might disagree) and went for a blast down to the Seven Stars pub near Petersfield. This is rapidly approaching "favourite" status. Perhaps this is down to my route there predominantly being along the much talked about A272, well known for it's mixture of sweeping curves, tight bends and bikers wedged in trees.
Last week alone I went twice, both times in the Caterham, although on one occasion the Rev Limiter was fitted.

Both the cars should be treated to some new parts in the next couple of weeks.

The Seven is scheduled to get a new, thicker roll bar (left)and the Defender is due a new rear door. Both items are in the pipeline, one more firmly than the other. The roll bar is coming all the way from Darlington courtesy of the For Sale section of BlatChat, and I have a TD5 rear door bookmarked on eBay. The latter usually fetch a very good premium, although in my case I can afford to go a little higher on bids since the purchase is being assisted by a colleague of mine for whom I replaced a head gasket on a 300TDi Discovery a couple of weeks ago.

But it doesn't end there. At the Phoenix Night meeting of ReHaB on Wednesday, a bloke called Phil came along with some very nice seats fitted to his car. They're copies of Tillet racing seats, and very good copies at that. So good in fact, that some of the guys commented that they were even better than the must-have Tillet. And significantly cheaper. Maybe this is what makes them better? And there was me assuming it was purely a visual reference.

Whilst I'm looking forward to these two upgrades, I just know fitting either item won't be the "one size fits all" solution that both Land Rover and Caterham frequently promise yet fail spectacularly to deliver. I think it's down to the cars being hand built, and the fact that no two pairs of hands are the same.

For more on the Seven Stars go here (They serve Badger beer.....and badger's are cool):
http://www.beerintheevening.com/pubs/s/13/13026/Seven_Stars/Stroud

Good as gold.

So, having received the reminder about the Caterham's insurance being due soon, that prompted me to check when that other twelve-monthly administrivia, the MOT test, is due. Or rather was due.
In the case of the Seven it turns out it expired over a month ago, something I totally overlooked.
Thing is, there are a couple of things I wanted to sort out prior to the MOT test. One sidelight has ceased to illuminate, the speedo still needs attention and the handbrake is less than enthusiastic in the execution of it's duty.
Sidelight turned out to be a straight forward bulb replacement, the speedo isn't tested on an MOT and I successfully tightened the handbrake.
And it gets better....
On my way back from purchasing a new sidelight bulb (or two since Halfords seem to think they only ever blow in pairs, obviously), I called in at a local MOT test centre to book an appointment. In keeping with the good weather, another ray of sunshine came my way when they were able to fit in the Caterham for it's test just four hours later!

And it passed.
It more than passed. The MOT tester described it as "Good as gold".
There was a trio of advisory points but in the life of a Caterham these are almost standard:
Slight play in the steering felt at the wheel;
A leak where the exhaust down pipes join the back box;
And the near side front tyre is approaching the legal minimum.
Pah!
At least the car's legal again.

Ok, Half a Big Weekend

Feel a bit of a fraud really.
After a long day at Gaydon among Land Rovers I couldn't face the frankly horrendous prospect of an 07:30 rendezvous for the Blat to Stoneleigh.
Note to self: Must try harder.
Actually, before I go much further in the Seven, I must get the speedo sorted. Last December the car had a five speed box fitted by the chaps at Redline, and the speedo hasn't been quite right since then. Being involved professionally in mostly aluminium cars and everything they represent, the fine fellows at Redline weren't exactly surprised when I told them and have tentatively agreed to fix the speedo but need to see the car first to assess the full extent of the problem. On paper it's "just" the speedo drive cable come adrift from the gearbox.

One Big Weekend

Just as BBC youth-radio station Radio 1 have their "One Big Weekend" then so too do owners of aluminium cars.

Today Widget and I visited the Heritage Motor Centre at Gaydon for the much anticipated 60th anniversary of Land Rover.

In keeping with the style of vehicle, the event was loosely assembled to say the least and appeared to follow an evolutionary process, rather than an actual plan or blueprint. Despite this we did get to see tidy examples of numerous rare variants of Solihull's finest.

That said, every time I see a fully restored and completely authentic Series II SAS "Pinkie", I can't help but feel a smidge of sympathy for the owners of such vehicles who, having spent years restoring the vehicle and gathering suitable period accessories, have to display it alongside a battered V8 One Ten bought at auction, roller-painted in beige then drenched in a healthy dose of tat harvested from the "militaria" section of e-Bay (usually by someone who swears blind they could've been a Royal Marine but failed the spelling test on a time penalty because their pencil broke)

The Bob & Widget Award for the Best Club Display goes to the Series II & III Club who had at least made an effort and a very credible one at that, with a small static convoy of long and short wheelbase Series vehicles, some absolutely immaculate, others well used but no less appealing because of it. By clever use of chopped down rims and tyres a couple of the cars appeared to be sinking/stuck and were being recovered by the others. Top stuff and entertaining in a typically cheeky Series way.

We also gained entry to the Gaydon museum itself, which houses those pipe dreams, day dreams and wet dreams from the last days of the Rover Empire. It is truly a museum of the bizarre, with freaks such as a Rover SD1 Estate and a four-seat TR7 fast-back. What British Leyland were smoking back then is anyone's guess but they were clearly big fans of Logan's Run, Captain Scarlet and Quatermass as all the cars on display have subtle undertones of "This is what we in 1976 think the year 1998 should look like".

The aluminium car big weekend continues tomorrow in the Caterham with a run to the Kit Car show at Stoneleigh. Not entirely sure at this stage what this particular show is all about but I think there's a clue in the title, and whatever happens it should be a good blat there and back in the company of several fellow Seven owners.

Damage Control

So, it's been a couple of weeks since I last blogged, a situation brought about in no small way by the failure of my personal laptop.
Unlike my cars it is neither aluminium nor British-made and hence completely unrepairable.
By contrast, both cars have suffered minor failure or faults in the last two weeks yet neither of them have become unusable as a result. This is reassuring to say the least.
The Land Rover suffered a near-catastrophic failure of a universal joint on the front prop shaft during the return journey from our weekend in Derbyshire. This manifested itself as a squealing graunching noise every time the vehicle pulled away, something Widget and I confidently convinced ourselves was categorically not a failing universal joint. We dismissed this so readily based around very extensive previous experience of failed universal joints all over the country. By chance, like most scientific discoveries, we came to the conclusion that if a laning trip is planned to anywhere with "District" in it's name, then a universal joint will fail, most probably on the return journey. But all was not lost. The front prop shaft was removed and the vehicle made roadworthy again, in two wheel drive only, in under twenty minutes, something of a personal best.
All this was overseen by tea and cake, obviously.














The following weekend the other aluminium car took it's turn as flagship of the fleet with a trip to the Isle of Wight for "WightBlat'08". We were treated to the sort of weather you'd expect for the South Coast in early spring, namely driving rain, localised flooding, hail and occasional flurries of snow.
This highlighted the second failing to blight aluminium car ownership this month, a leaky windscreen. A little moisture inside either the Caterham or Land Rover is not unheard of, due to the unique way they are made, but what was most interesting is that the Caterham seemed to remain dry where you'd most expect it to allow water in, and yet flooded with ease where you'd least want it to. In this instance water flowed freely through the join between the windscreen frame and the glass itself, almost precisely in the driver's field of view only. This was easily cured temporarily with judicious application of black insulating tape.














WightBlat itself was a roaring success. Being based in a holiday camp left over from the 1960s, this evoked something of a Blitz spirit among the assembled Caterham owners who were determined to enjoy themselves despite the venue smelling like a church hall, the breakfasts being rationed and the swimming pool having more than a little in common with neat Domestos. It occured to me during the weekend that the tolerance required to own and drive a Caterham is not dissimilar and this is probably why we had such a great time.

Both cars are now fixed. A new universal joint for the Land Rover and some silicone sealant for the Caterham.
And tea for me.