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.