Shieldaig is way up on the West coast of Scotland. So is the other one.
Yup, there are two Shieldaigs, less than 40 miles apart. Who would've thought? After a little satnav confusion and yes, a visit to the other Shieldaig, I parked up at the campsite overlooking the loch at the right Shieldaig. It was just getting light and just starting to rain, again.
Glasgow was a distant memory, negotiated in the early hours through eerily empty streets, Inverness had been a fuel stop at 4am, and my progress North had been marked by three lane motorway thinning to dual carriageway, which narrowed to single lane A-roads which finally gave way to single track lanes with passing places.
But that was then, this is now and as the light came up I decided to get my head down for a bit before off-loading the Seven, parking up more permanently and a little straighter. With relentless drizzle fizzing on the canvas of the roof tent, I knew I was being hopelessly optimistic.
Some hours later, and I'm not entirely sure how many, I stuck my head out of the tent and....yup, more rain. Not the kind of rain that sees you pack up and go home, nor the kind that you can ignore. No, it was that species of rain that kids you in to thinking it'll clear up later. Very thin patches of blue sky in between slate grey cloud seemed to confirm this, so with the campsite now a little less crowded, I unpacked the Seven and headed even further West towards the row of stone houses called Applecross. This surprisingly English sounding town is just that - a row of houses, a pub and a retained fire station. In the rain, which had defied my cheery outlook and intensified, it was just a collection of buildings on the coast. Even the Evo-esque mountain road to get there couldn't make up for the fact this was my wettest blat to date. Ever.
With water actually pooling in the footwells I resigned myself to an afternoon back at the campsite, grappling with the Daily Telegraph crossword whilst cocooned in the roof tent which at that point seemed an appealing prospect.
I didn't so much drive back as surf back, and taking the mountain road back from Applecross provided some entertainment for the German tourists in their campervan, climbing the mini-Stelvio as I descended. This was getting really silly and I was caught with the age old Caterham dilemma of driving fast and getting a free precipitation-based facial exfoliation, or drive slow enough for the rain not to hurt...and drown instead.
I tried a bit of both.
Now, there's never a good time for a clutch cable to snap, but there are times when it's difficult to think of a worst time for one to snap.
The combination of torrential rain, aeroscreens and the Scottish Highlands is just one of those times. Oh well, at least I now had something to concentrate on that I could actually have some kind of influence over. Clutch cables can be fixed where the weather cannot, so I crash-changed the car in to 2nd gear and plodded back to base.
The grass at the campsite was squelchy underfoot by now, and the Seven was truly forlorn looking as I coasted to a halt near the Land Rover. Without access to the clutch, parking properly wasn't an option so I simply tugged it out of gear and stopped.
At this point I became aware of being watched, and from not too far away. Sure enough, a bloke from the nearest caravan had wandered over. Let's call him Andy, after all, his parents did and who am I to argue?
Andy asked a bit about the car, helped me push it further off the main open area of the campsite and then, crucially, admitted to bringing a fair few tools with him on holiday, which was good to know as I, rather stupidly, had brought none.
My next move was to source a new clutch cable but this didn't faze me too much. I was in Scotland, home of rallying, and where there's rallying there are Mk2 Ford Escorts. And in Inverness there's a Ford dealer by the name of McCrae. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, at the McCrae Ford dealership in the heart of forest rallyland, a Mk2 Ford Escort was ancient history. Set of mats for a Ka? Certainly, sir. Load shelf for a Mondeo? No problem, we hold them in stock. Clutch cable for a mid-70s Ford Escort with a Type 9 gearbox? Nope.
So, a quick phone call to Redline in Caterham and a dose of the usual sympathy....
"Oh you've broken it have you?" said Mick in typically subdued tones.
"Errr, no it broke".
Whoever or whatever was to blame, by 2:30pm a new clutch cable was dispatched from Surrey and, much like the car it was destined to repair, headed North overnight.
Having warned off the post office to expect random car parts in amongst tomorrows newspapers, bread and Readers Digests, I wandered back to the campsite where my new best friend (or so he thought) was waiting. Now I've never considered loan of a 3mm Allen key to be the basis for a lasting relationship, but Andy clearly thought otherwise, and it seemed after helping me push the car round the campsite a bit he felt my entire life belonged to him.
Everything I did was met with verbal approval or critical acclaim from across the way.
I rustled up a bit of chilli con carne, remarkably successfully under the meteorological circumstance (yup, still raining) and sure enough, there was Andy, peering almost over my shoulder, assessing the cooker, the table, the chair, the Land Rover, the roof tent.....everything I'd brought camping was commented on, and all in a weirdly sycophantic, positive light.
This was getting annoying and more than a little intrusive, so I adopted the polite tactic of reducing first the number of words in any reply, and eventually the number of syllables.
Eventually Andy took the hint and buggered off, although the promise of a 3mm Allen key remained intact.
So, I could do nothing until the mail arrived at 11am the next day, nothing that is except remain relentlessly optimistic that Redline had caught the last post.
It was now getting dark, it was still raining (obviously) so I did what any other stranded British tourist would do under the same circumstances.
I went to bed and read a book.
Saturday 21 August 2010
Thursday 5 August 2010
The Mostly Aluminuim Road Show (part 1)
They say nothing is ever a total failure - it can always serve as a negative example. Hold that thought.....
So, after thinking about it for many months, lying awake at night imagining the might of both cars taking to the road at once in a sort of mostly aluminium express, with a borrowed trailer I packed the Land Rover for camping, the Seven for blatting and steered North.
The Defender's come on a bit on terms of organisation for this kind of trip. There's now a place for everything, and unlike previous trips I rarely find myself unpacking the entire car just to gain access to one thing, which seems a bit of a shame really as it has to be said there's always something Tardisly reassuring about stacking the entire contents of the car on the tarmac next to it, taking a step back to observe the sheer amount of stuff that Solihull's Finest can house, then hiding it all away again.
The Defender makes a very good tow car, and the Seven makes a very good towed car so they make the ideal combination. They look right together, and drive extremely well together with the Land Rover shrugging off the additional load as usual.
Setting out late afternoon on the Monday, as the sun started to set, all was good. Pity it didn't last, but more of that later.
As with all Land Rover journeys, there was no hurry. Instead, just solid momentum and a gradual ticking off of the miles. Add a trailer and it becomes trucking, not driving, so I wound down the window and treated my right elbow to a bit of breeze. I also became aware of an overwhelming desire to eat fried egg sandwiches and smoke a B&H.
By dusk, without any major snags so far, I was well past the Lakes and both the Land Rover and I were in need of refuelling. Coasting to a halt in Todhills Services, I climbed out of the cab to cool drizzle, the orangey glow of sodium floodlights and the pong of diesel. Ahhh......trucking.
After refuelling I moved the car and trailer and car over to the empty car park of the nearby Little Chef, closed, silent and in darkness - just the way a Little Chef should be. The vacant tarmac offered a strange sanctuary from the three lanes of the M6, just a few yards away. It was tranquil enough to just stand there, brew in hand, enjoying being stationary for a while, yet every so often another truck would rumble past reminding me of the transport artery I'd temporarily stepped away from.
Despite still being a few miles from Scotland, this break gave me my first experience of what travelogue writers refer to as mixing with the locals.
Over wandered a chap from the only other car in sight - a silver BMW 6-series, isolated in the middle of the empty car park.
"Narrr thoots sweeeeeeeet" he declared on spying the Caterham, which I think translates as "Now that's sweet".
Nice of him to say so I thought, so I did the polite thing and asked him about his car.
It was an early 6-series, a solid looking block of Deutsche Technik, parked with appropriately Teutonic precision between the white lines and despite looking like a reliable motor, Empty Car Park Man soon explained it was a dud. He'd just bought it, allegedly from a former Chief Constable of that parish, and the head gasket had let go soon afterwards. I did wonder if, bearing in mind the car's previous owner, said head gasket's demise had perhaps been brought about by falling down some stairs or tripping over a kerb but my curiosity was soon superseded when Empty Car Park Man then explained he'd tried contacting Plod (Ret) but found him to be "powdered".
Scots accents not withstanding, I have no idea what he meant.
Random car park encounter complete, it was back to the M6 where I continued North through the drizzly night, leaving Tothill Services and midnight behind me......
To be continued........
So, after thinking about it for many months, lying awake at night imagining the might of both cars taking to the road at once in a sort of mostly aluminium express, with a borrowed trailer I packed the Land Rover for camping, the Seven for blatting and steered North.
The Defender's come on a bit on terms of organisation for this kind of trip. There's now a place for everything, and unlike previous trips I rarely find myself unpacking the entire car just to gain access to one thing, which seems a bit of a shame really as it has to be said there's always something Tardisly reassuring about stacking the entire contents of the car on the tarmac next to it, taking a step back to observe the sheer amount of stuff that Solihull's Finest can house, then hiding it all away again.
The Defender makes a very good tow car, and the Seven makes a very good towed car so they make the ideal combination. They look right together, and drive extremely well together with the Land Rover shrugging off the additional load as usual.
Setting out late afternoon on the Monday, as the sun started to set, all was good. Pity it didn't last, but more of that later.
As with all Land Rover journeys, there was no hurry. Instead, just solid momentum and a gradual ticking off of the miles. Add a trailer and it becomes trucking, not driving, so I wound down the window and treated my right elbow to a bit of breeze. I also became aware of an overwhelming desire to eat fried egg sandwiches and smoke a B&H.
By dusk, without any major snags so far, I was well past the Lakes and both the Land Rover and I were in need of refuelling. Coasting to a halt in Todhills Services, I climbed out of the cab to cool drizzle, the orangey glow of sodium floodlights and the pong of diesel. Ahhh......trucking.
After refuelling I moved the car and trailer and car over to the empty car park of the nearby Little Chef, closed, silent and in darkness - just the way a Little Chef should be. The vacant tarmac offered a strange sanctuary from the three lanes of the M6, just a few yards away. It was tranquil enough to just stand there, brew in hand, enjoying being stationary for a while, yet every so often another truck would rumble past reminding me of the transport artery I'd temporarily stepped away from.
Despite still being a few miles from Scotland, this break gave me my first experience of what travelogue writers refer to as mixing with the locals.
Over wandered a chap from the only other car in sight - a silver BMW 6-series, isolated in the middle of the empty car park.
"Narrr thoots sweeeeeeeet" he declared on spying the Caterham, which I think translates as "Now that's sweet".
Nice of him to say so I thought, so I did the polite thing and asked him about his car.
It was an early 6-series, a solid looking block of Deutsche Technik, parked with appropriately Teutonic precision between the white lines and despite looking like a reliable motor, Empty Car Park Man soon explained it was a dud. He'd just bought it, allegedly from a former Chief Constable of that parish, and the head gasket had let go soon afterwards. I did wonder if, bearing in mind the car's previous owner, said head gasket's demise had perhaps been brought about by falling down some stairs or tripping over a kerb but my curiosity was soon superseded when Empty Car Park Man then explained he'd tried contacting Plod (Ret) but found him to be "powdered".
Scots accents not withstanding, I have no idea what he meant.
Random car park encounter complete, it was back to the M6 where I continued North through the drizzly night, leaving Tothill Services and midnight behind me......
To be continued........
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