Bad news for presenters of day time TV – night time is more interesting. When daylight evaporates, anticipation rises and excitement follows easily. The boring becomes interesting, and the interesting becomes an adventure. Night fall brings with it an unavoidable hint of illicit goings-on, shady dares done away from the glare of sunlight, of clandestine raids, literally in to a heart of darkness.
After an evening of typically random conversation at ReHaB, some of which was vaguely connected to motoring, the Seven was in need of fuel – always a good excuse to take the long way home. A clear night, and as the orange glow of Hartley Witney’s street lights faded in the rear view mirror, it’s as if the car was floating through the blackness. In the company of the ubiquitous Wilto and Carrots, the cars cut through a damp and earthy Hampshire, a little mist curling up in our wake, nocturnal wildlife scurrying out of our path, signified only by a flash of eyes darting in to the hedgerow where they then vanished. Part of the pleasure of night blatting is the near total absence of any distraction. All that’s visible is a tunnel of headlight through silhouetted trees, and the car’s own instruments. The roadside clutter that in daylight flashes past in the periphery of one’s vision is gone, hidden by the dark, and the anti-social hour cleanses the road of other cars.
With the twists and turns of the A339 ticked, a fast stretch of the A31 followed, with its liberal sprinkling of roundabouts to ease the boredom or test the grip, depending on your choice of car.
Running parallel in to the roundabouts, the faces of Wilto and Carrots flashed a devilish grin in the eerie glow from their own cockpits, accompanied by a flash of devilish flame from the car’s exhausts.
Coming down a peg or two on the thrill scale, we rolled in to the all-night petrol station near Farnham. I love petrol stations at night, odd though it seems. They offer a brief but essential amnesty from the buzz of driving, a short break from split second decisions or the tang of a hot engine. Despite their mundane frontage and commonplace existence, all-night petrol stations have an unassuming nobility about them – without us, they wouldn’t survive, without them, blatting would cease, so despite the ungodly hour and edgy weather there is a reciprocal sense of service and gratitude..JPG)
With its inviting floodlights spilling only so far in to the black void of the dual carriageway the Farnham BP was like a space port, with other vehicles coming in to land along the long approach slip, or launching in to the galactic night from the opposite corner of the big concrete pad. Warm drinks followed. Caffeine is not the answer, and would only confuse and cheapen the natural high of life above 4000rpm, so a simple hot chocolate softened the edges of mild frostbite from a 30 mile drive under the stars. Thawing fingers is not an issue though. They serve as a reminder of being alive and sharpen the senses, which in turn add to the satisfaction of beating the odds, of exploiting empty roads to enjoy a raucous blat, itself an overall heightening of sensory awareness and raw stimuli.
By comparison, the Land Rover may seem less able to provide a similar after-dark high but this isn’t the case. The Seven delivers the thrills as a de-fib shock to the system, whereas the Land Rover gives a drip-feed. A few days after the taking the Seven out in the dark, I met up with Toppa and Dave H to try out Land Rovering at night. We met in the late afternoon of what had been a glorious early summer’s day and to be honest, I was expecting Salisbury Plain to be awash with dog walkers, horse riders and other green laners. But it was totally deserted, almost suspiciously so, with usual off-road haunts being devoid of any other users. Great stuff. Following a fairly simple plan we started on the Eastern edge of the Plain, heading across to Larkhill and on to the “East German Village” near Copehill Down, which is neither in East Germany, nor really a village. It’s a FIBUA training compound where FIBUA stands for Fighting In Built Up Areas, or the more simplistic FISH – Fighting In Someone’s House. Being the only vehicles around only added to the ghost-town eeriness of Copehill, as did the setting sun. We parked up in a small copse, and let the sun depart fully before continuing with some night nav. Although being perfectly at home in the rough chalk down land of the Plain, our three wagons looked nicely discreet. They’re all plain van-bodied Land Rovers with none of the rubbish often seen adorning similar vehicles - those usually sourced from eBay, and cluttered with bolt-on rubbish intended to make the driver appear more adept or expert in the off-road environment. Big knobbly tyres and all-over roll cages simply aren’t needed until one reaches the height of serious competition or very deep mud and, on privately owned domestic vehicles used for gentle green laning, serve only to suggest something of an inferiority complex or a desperate urge to be taken seriously. The funny thing is, the greater the effort in trying to acquire even a shred of credibility (Upside down stickers saying “If you can read this turn me over” are a classic), the harder it is to look at such a vehicle without stifling a giggle. Day-glo jackets are also a huge no-no. I have one in the Land Rover, a genuine Police-issue Motorway jacket, and the clue is in the name. I use mine should I end up stuck on major roads where personal safety is of genuine concern. Wearing it at any other time is about a subtle as Dame Edna working at a branch Specsavers.
Being out and about at night, blending in is the way forward, quietly making our happy way about without attracting attention, not because we’re up to no good, but this is our trip, our idea. And anyway, we only had enough burgers for the three of us. As the last daylight wafted away over the horizon, the small BBQ we’d brought along sizzled gently, its culinary progress being bookmarked by occasional puffs of light smoke escaping upwards.
Once fed, we made gradual but deliberate progress eastwards, retracing our inbound route. Whilst Caterham night driving offers the sense of darting between shadows, the Land Rover offers a different but no less enjoyable experience whereby the wagon is simply swallowed whole by the night. Knowledge gleaned in daylight, the ability to round a bend knowing just how sharp it is having done it countless times at a more sensible hour or feeling just the right point to ease of the throttle as the car crests a favourite hill, it’s all useless a night, the emphasis being on treading gently, and sensing one’s way as if blindfolded, simply trusting the car to power through whatever ground it finds laying before it. Joining up with the North-South road that dissects the Plain we turned North, the intention being to join the perimeter track and what amounts to a 12o’clock position, then skirt round the top right corner of the area. In addition to the increasingly black night, fog rolled in as we rolled up to Redhorn Vedette, adding to the slightly sinister isolation. The warm cab of the Land Rover felt totally comfortable for this though. It has no electric windows, no air-con, just two seats and the vehicle controls. This is just right. When you need the car to perform, it’s still the same as it ever was – a little less than luxurious but it’s the same car that only a few weeks ago was pounding through foot-deep snow as if it wasn’t there, the same car that trailered the Seven to its flat-floor session without a flicker of reservation. No matter what, the crucial thing is the Land Rover’s simplicity remains constant, and comes to the fore as its best feature. It’s adaptable because it’s uncomplicated.
Stopping at the furthest North we could go without leaving the training area, over a brew we pondered the rationale behind coming here at night before then heading home. I’m still not sure what that rationale is, but it does make the Plain seem less of a challenge now, and I wonder where to go next in terms of making it more interesting again.
No doubt the answer will come to me in the night.
After an evening of typically random conversation at ReHaB, some of which was vaguely connected to motoring, the Seven was in need of fuel – always a good excuse to take the long way home. A clear night, and as the orange glow of Hartley Witney’s street lights faded in the rear view mirror, it’s as if the car was floating through the blackness. In the company of the ubiquitous Wilto and Carrots, the cars cut through a damp and earthy Hampshire, a little mist curling up in our wake, nocturnal wildlife scurrying out of our path, signified only by a flash of eyes darting in to the hedgerow where they then vanished. Part of the pleasure of night blatting is the near total absence of any distraction. All that’s visible is a tunnel of headlight through silhouetted trees, and the car’s own instruments. The roadside clutter that in daylight flashes past in the periphery of one’s vision is gone, hidden by the dark, and the anti-social hour cleanses the road of other cars.
With the twists and turns of the A339 ticked, a fast stretch of the A31 followed, with its liberal sprinkling of roundabouts to ease the boredom or test the grip, depending on your choice of car.
Running parallel in to the roundabouts, the faces of Wilto and Carrots flashed a devilish grin in the eerie glow from their own cockpits, accompanied by a flash of devilish flame from the car’s exhausts.
Coming down a peg or two on the thrill scale, we rolled in to the all-night petrol station near Farnham. I love petrol stations at night, odd though it seems. They offer a brief but essential amnesty from the buzz of driving, a short break from split second decisions or the tang of a hot engine. Despite their mundane frontage and commonplace existence, all-night petrol stations have an unassuming nobility about them – without us, they wouldn’t survive, without them, blatting would cease, so despite the ungodly hour and edgy weather there is a reciprocal sense of service and gratitude.
With its inviting floodlights spilling only so far in to the black void of the dual carriageway the Farnham BP was like a space port, with other vehicles coming in to land along the long approach slip, or launching in to the galactic night from the opposite corner of the big concrete pad. Warm drinks followed. Caffeine is not the answer, and would only confuse and cheapen the natural high of life above 4000rpm, so a simple hot chocolate softened the edges of mild frostbite from a 30 mile drive under the stars. Thawing fingers is not an issue though. They serve as a reminder of being alive and sharpen the senses, which in turn add to the satisfaction of beating the odds, of exploiting empty roads to enjoy a raucous blat, itself an overall heightening of sensory awareness and raw stimuli.By comparison, the Land Rover may seem less able to provide a similar after-dark high but this isn’t the case. The Seven delivers the thrills as a de-fib shock to the system, whereas the Land Rover gives a drip-feed. A few days after the taking the Seven out in the dark, I met up with Toppa and Dave H to try out Land Rovering at night. We met in the late afternoon of what had been a glorious early summer’s day and to be honest, I was expecting Salisbury Plain to be awash with dog walkers, horse riders and other green laners. But it was totally deserted, almost suspiciously so, with usual off-road haunts being devoid of any other users. Great stuff. Following a fairly simple plan we started on the Eastern edge of the Plain, heading across to Larkhill and on to the “East German Village” near Copehill Down, which is neither in East Germany, nor really a village. It’s a FIBUA training compound where FIBUA stands for Fighting In Built Up Areas, or the more simplistic FISH – Fighting In Someone’s House. Being the only vehicles around only added to the ghost-town eeriness of Copehill, as did the setting sun. We parked up in a small copse, and let the sun depart fully before continuing with some night nav. Although being perfectly at home in the rough chalk down land of the Plain, our three wagons looked nicely discreet. They’re all plain van-bodied Land Rovers with none of the rubbish often seen adorning similar vehicles - those usually sourced from eBay, and cluttered with bolt-on rubbish intended to make the driver appear more adept or expert in the off-road environment. Big knobbly tyres and all-over roll cages simply aren’t needed until one reaches the height of serious competition or very deep mud and, on privately owned domestic vehicles used for gentle green laning, serve only to suggest something of an inferiority complex or a desperate urge to be taken seriously. The funny thing is, the greater the effort in trying to acquire even a shred of credibility (Upside down stickers saying “If you can read this turn me over” are a classic), the harder it is to look at such a vehicle without stifling a giggle. Day-glo jackets are also a huge no-no. I have one in the Land Rover, a genuine Police-issue Motorway jacket, and the clue is in the name. I use mine should I end up stuck on major roads where personal safety is of genuine concern. Wearing it at any other time is about a subtle as Dame Edna working at a branch Specsavers.
Being out and about at night, blending in is the way forward, quietly making our happy way about without attracting attention, not because we’re up to no good, but this is our trip, our idea. And anyway, we only had enough burgers for the three of us. As the last daylight wafted away over the horizon, the small BBQ we’d brought along sizzled gently, its culinary progress being bookmarked by occasional puffs of light smoke escaping upwards.
Once fed, we made gradual but deliberate progress eastwards, retracing our inbound route. Whilst Caterham night driving offers the sense of darting between shadows, the Land Rover offers a different but no less enjoyable experience whereby the wagon is simply swallowed whole by the night. Knowledge gleaned in daylight, the ability to round a bend knowing just how sharp it is having done it countless times at a more sensible hour or feeling just the right point to ease of the throttle as the car crests a favourite hill, it’s all useless a night, the emphasis being on treading gently, and sensing one’s way as if blindfolded, simply trusting the car to power through whatever ground it finds laying before it. Joining up with the North-South road that dissects the Plain we turned North, the intention being to join the perimeter track and what amounts to a 12o’clock position, then skirt round the top right corner of the area. In addition to the increasingly black night, fog rolled in as we rolled up to Redhorn Vedette, adding to the slightly sinister isolation. The warm cab of the Land Rover felt totally comfortable for this though. It has no electric windows, no air-con, just two seats and the vehicle controls. This is just right. When you need the car to perform, it’s still the same as it ever was – a little less than luxurious but it’s the same car that only a few weeks ago was pounding through foot-deep snow as if it wasn’t there, the same car that trailered the Seven to its flat-floor session without a flicker of reservation. No matter what, the crucial thing is the Land Rover’s simplicity remains constant, and comes to the fore as its best feature. It’s adaptable because it’s uncomplicated.
Stopping at the furthest North we could go without leaving the training area, over a brew we pondered the rationale behind coming here at night before then heading home. I’m still not sure what that rationale is, but it does make the Plain seem less of a challenge now, and I wonder where to go next in terms of making it more interesting again.No doubt the answer will come to me in the night.
After breakfast, we blatted off to Godshill, the kind of picture postcard village often seen gracing the lids of boxes of fudge, or thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles or indeed, postcards. Highlight here is the Toy Museum, since it’s not really a museum as such, it’s more a collection – a collection of Dinky and Matchbox toys, so a Seven driver will feel right at home. This is not the only reason a Seven driver will feel at home though. Most of the toys on display came from before the Far East got in on the act and started making everything out of plastic, and the packaging was just enough to make an item eye catching and appealing to ten year old eyes. In other words, no frills, as per a Seven. Interestingly enough, a lot of the vehicles modelled back then were straight forward cars, industrial vehicles (cranes and stuff), agricultural plant or military equipment, and not in a GI Joe way, I mean authentic scale reproductions of genuine combat hardware. This is an important observation, since it means kids used to be able to subconsciously teach themselves about the real world, as opposed to that fed to them by TV – the basis for most of today’s playtime tat. But then again I suppose a Dinky toy combine harvester just isn’t cool enough anymore - instead of suggesting complex machinery being put to work to produce worthwhile results for all of society, farm vehicles are more easily linked to European subsidies, cow pats and an increase in the occurrence of Hay Fever. All-metal toys though, they’re the future because once played with, they can be recycled and turned in to something useful, much like the childhood memories that accompany them. Something else well worth noting is that by far the most common marque in miniature was Land Rover. 
After suitable reminiscence and acceptance that there is some value in “keeping the box it came in” we returned to White Cliff via Ventnor, (home of one of the first RAF Radar Stations d’rin’ the war), for a spot of late lunch. Later that evening the atmosphere of Friday night was replicated by way of the WightBlat raffle, a noisy yet highly rewarding affair with some top prizes on offer, but sadly, a Caterham Motorsport jacket still evades me.
