Both my cars are mostly aluminium

Relentless Rain Redressed at Reims

2010-11-03T14:34:00.010Z

With memories of four days of near constant rain in Shieldaig now fully dried out and stored for future use, thoughts turned to a restorative blat to redress the balance of nearly a week in Scotland watching rivulets of water dripping off the Seven, the roof tent and the end of my nose. Oh and that bloke Andy with his 3mm Allen key and thinly veiled need for some new friends in his life.
The gamble of going all the way to the Jockanese Congo hadn’t paid off. The snag is it’s so bloody far, and the climate simply cannot be relied upon to deliver, unless you want a few million litres of water, then it delivers that with aplomb. The combination of distance and drizzle make it unworkable as a blat destination, or a blatstination for short.
France however, in an unusual break from trade unionism and Gallic attitudes to delivering on a promise, is quite accommodating in this respect. (One possible exception to this is the size of the car park at the Ibis hotel in Nice but we’ll let that go for now).
It’s still a bit of a trek to get to and there’s the small matter of 22 miles of English Channel to cross, but chances are you won’t be playing meteorological roulette when you get there. And funny old thing, it was that time of year again when the French throw what little Health & Safety they have to the wind, close the roads round the old circuit at Reims and let middle aged men in middle aged cars burn off some energy and tyre tread.
It seems hard to believe but it’s been two years since Carrots, Wilto and I blasted down to Reims for the Weekend d’Excellence d’Automobile (WEEA), and we’d made plans a plenty to return the following year but never seen them through. It seems for every blat that actually takes place there are another ten that never make it. So in the end it was a spur of the moment decision to go again.
In keeping with past Euroblats, a late night ferry crossing marked the start of this particular epic. Again it was with Norfolk Lines, again it was excellent, and the new WFP and I enjoyed a bit of blatters’ supper on board before a short blast through the night across mist-laden Northern French farmland to the Etap motel in St Omer. I should point out at this stage that WFP elevated herself to a new position of respect by not complaining once about the late hour, the cold air, tangled hair or indeed my repeated misjudgment of where the gear lever was in relation to her right thigh.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, a potentially great day overshadowed only by the mildy concerning sight (and I’m not making this up) of a bloke wearing a parachute in breakfast.
With thoughts of impending doom or aviation related mishaps cast aside, we were soon down at Reims where the circuit was already alive with the sights, sounds and smells of the French and their classic cars. The event hadn’t really changed a bit from the one we attended back in 2008…..Derelict road racing circuit, big field full of cars, and a champagne tent. Perfect.
And better still, this year the car parking stewards recognised automotive excellence when it blatted in to view and directed us to the special car park for special people with special cars. By pure chance, we ended up parked less than ten yards from the main entrance.
The thing I love about the WEEA is it’s a no-frills event. There’s none of the corporate hospitality willy-waving of Chichester, no one tries to sell you the Sunday Times and a Secret Service earpiece for a quid, and a program which simply lists what’s happening when instead of overloading me with adverts for wristwatches and BMWs is less than £15, which funnily enough also includes entry to the event for both days.

After the sunshine and smoke of the drive down, the cool earthy tunnel through to the paddock offered a little momentary relief, before we emerged in to the main area of activity, where a hazy mix of Castrol, Chanel and dusty hay bales set the scene. I can’t deny it though – numbers were clearly down on the Bentleyfest we’d visited two years earlier. There were visibly fewer cars and of noticeably lesser pedigree. Now this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, although it does suggest Reims hasn’t quite cracked it yet as a “must do” event for the drivers of two tons of 90-year-old British steel.

To be continued.....

So, where were we? Ah yes, Reims.
Despite an apparent drop in numbers the spirit of the event was still strong, and unlike our previous visit, not diluted in heavy drizzle. Although the calibre of cars seen in 2008 was lacking, it was pleasing to see an emerging classic to which I find myself taking something of a shine - The Mk1 Ford Escort.

As a kid I never gave these cars a second glance, but over recent years there's something about the nippy saloon that appeals, more so when one appears in rally mode, the brassy Crossflow engine note, lairy power slides in to and subtle tail-wagging out of the bends strikes a chord. Another daydream added to the wish-list.The lazy afternoon continued, with various groups of cars taking to the track for some very enthusiastic display laps, so enthusiastic in fact that on more than one occasion the track closed and the attendant recovery truck would trundle off out of sight, returning some time later with varying degrees of battle damaged cars. Part of me felt bad to see someone's proverbial pride and joy mangled and mishapen, then again, another part of me drew comfort from knowing these motors were martyrs to the lost cause of speed and thrills, and there was to be had a certain nobility in being wounded in motoring battle, rather than hit from behind in a queue of stationary traffic.

As the balmy evening closed in, so did a barmy group of cars, with the track being given over to modern cars of, as les organiseurs called it, exceptional interest. Personally, I find showroom fresh Porsches and hire fleet Aston Martins being driven by twats and tosspots rather dull, for that's what followed.

In typically simplistic blatting fashion, the later evening consisted of a checking in to a simple hotel in Reims itself, having a simple shower, then decamping to the nearest restaurant for a simple meal. Uncomplicated pleasures.

Sunday was a re-run of Saturday, a little moister in places with some light drizzle, although after the perma-drenching I'd received in Scotland it mattered little. The lap action did suffer a touch though, and by late morning we were thinking of heading home anyway so, with another weekend picnic Euro classic historical motorsport blat in the bag it was back to Blighty....

Eventually, it stopped raining.....

2010-10-17T17:00:00.005+01:00

Yes I know, I owe you both an apology. I reignited the blog with all good intent back in the Spring, then a bit of rain in Scotland dissolved any enthusiasm and it all sort of ground to a halt again.
So here goes with another kick-start.

The rain did eventually stop in Shieldaig. Just long enough for me to walk the hundred yards to the local store where they should've been expecting a clutch cable, delivered overnight from Redline.
Nope, the postman had it. Shieldaig isn't a big place, so I made my way to the village hall which in typical micro-community fashion also doubled as gambling den (Tuesday evenings), gymnasium (Mon, Wed, Fri at 7pm), music hall (First Saturday of each month) and Post Office sorting office (daily, from 10:30). Not one but two Post Office vans were parked up outside, and in the hall itself their respective drivers were engaged in a North v South game of pass the parcel. The van from the South carried domestic post, newspapers, tax disc reminders and all the other admininauseum made so utterly irrelevant by the isolation and climate of Shieldaig, whilst the Northern post run comprised ice-packed polystyrene crates of smoked Salmon and mail order chunky sweaters, on their way to a lucky recipient in time for Christmas. In amongst all this was a clutch cable and, on seeing a parcel addressed to a new name, the posty recognised it as mine as tossed it over. I explained what it was, and how I'd tried to enjoy getting to Applecross the day before with the mail man admitting it was one of his favourite rounds in Summer, and one of the worst in Winter. Funnily enough, he used to have a Defender to deliver the post up here but that proved expensive, despite being valuable, and it was replaced with a Vauxhall Astra. That's progress according to Accounts.
With clutch cable now in hand I braved an encounter with Andy at the campsite in order to borrow his tool kit. As he'd claimed to be a mechanic by trade I expected it to be a tidy, organised affair, with a place for everything and everything in its place. But no, he simply opened the boot of his car and there it all was, the contents of his garage. Loose.
The cable change was easy enough, even under water (yep, raining again) so by lunchtime I was able to haul up the anchor and set all-ahead full for Skye, praying it would stop raining.
In good weather the North West coast area would be great for blatting, but under grey, drizzly cloud that hid the tops of the mountains it just seemed at best dull, and at times positively sinister and uninviting. There were points where I thought if the car broke down for any reason, or I had an off, it'd be days before the situation was resolved. Needless to say this took the edge of any enjoyment, and I found myself simply making progress to the next tartan-clad conurbation.
Eventually I rolled in to Kyle of Lochalsh, the UK's most North Westerly rail terminus. Having seen this as the destination of Michael Palin's own episode of Great Railway Journeys of the World many, many years ago, I was slightly excited, hoping to pick up on the sense of achievement in reaching this outpost. The new and highly controversial bridge seems to have killed this off though, with plenty of new infrastructure and the atmosphere of a motorway services, for it now seems KoL is just a fuel stop on the way to Skye. So I got some fuel.
I should add, this was the only place during the entire trip that I heard bagpipes being played and even then it was only in passing.
So it wasn't all bad.
Over the Bridge and the blat-o-meter crept up a bit as the roads grew twistier and, unbelievably, the rain eased off a bit.
Didn't last though, and as the West Coast of Skye fell within striking distance, the satnav showing single figures to get there, I had to admit defeat and head back. The rain was coming down with real spite as opposed to just a gravitational inevitability, and out at sea even blacker clouds were just waiting to have a go too and on a couple of occasions I parked up, popped up the umbrella and just sat there, rain trickling in every direction off the car, me getting colder and colder, just willing the weather to improve. Who was I kidding? Wasn't gonna happen so getting back to the mainland before it turned completely monsoon was a priority, and near the bridge again the sight of a motorbike wedged under the nose of a car on a bend confirmed that I was doing the right thing in quitting. Funnily enough it was a Dutch bike that had collided with a Dutch car. Seemed like a long way to come just to have a crash but that's the Dutch for you. Schhhplendid.
Back at the campsite once more I decided there and then that if it was still raining tomorrow (day three) I'd give in and go home a day early. It was getting pointless now, completely unenjoyable and as recent cloggy events demonstrated, dangerous too.
At least the rain kept Andy in his caravan.
Breakfast on Day 3 came with the default setting of rain, so as promised to myself the night before, once I'd eaten I dropped the awning, closed up the roof tent, trailered the Seven and simply sodded off home.
I'd like to say it wasn't "sodded off home in a huff" but I'd be lying.

The Mostly Aluminium Road Show (part 2)

2010-08-21T20:59:00.005+01:00

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.

The Mostly Aluminuim Road Show (part 1)

2010-08-05T20:41:00.004+01:00

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........

Right car, wrong colour.

2010-07-20T21:22:00.007+01:00

Crikey. Has it really been over a month since the last bit of blogging?

Yes readers (both of you), it has. This can mean only one thing.

It's been a good year for the blatting.

First off, at the end of June, the monthly topping up of Lord March's pension fund in return for some organic sausages known otherwise as the Goodwood Breakfast Club....

A good day out overall, and one that started under a cloudless blue sky at 6am, signalling the first decent dawn blat of the year. Now, with the theme for this Breakfast Club being "Soft Top Sunday", Sevens were allowed on to the track to congregate with all the other open cars be they from the Caterhamesque stable, yet another TVR, or the slightly more subtle offering of an utterly charming Series 1 Land Rover. Like a nice cup of tea, but with four wheel drive. It is a soft top, after all, and probably more appropriate than the Peugeot 206CC on show.

The Pug was indicative of an interesting motoring phenomenon that became all the more obvious and prevalent as the day went on, whereby anyone whose company car scheme permits the folding roof version of a fairly standard rep-mobile came along claiming rights to the Goodwood tarmac. This is where it all goes wrong. People seem to confuse soft tops with "cabriolets". You see, a soft top is a car intended from the outset to have no roof, and is aimed at hardy travellers who drink tea, have no real dress sense beyond practicality and think metric spanners are just a fad. By contrast, a cabriolet is simply a marketing man's clever scheme to make Keith from Accounts buy an otherwise standard car, but one that's been attacked with an angle grinder, and charge him an extra couple of grand for exclusivity about as faux as the leather seats, and have him think he's in Nice not Nuneaton. Not that there's anything wrong with Warwickshire you understand, it's just not the South of France.

But anyway, marques not usually seen gracing a Goodwood event such as Golfs, Astras, and legions of BMW were all present, and an original factory produced Vauxhall Cavalier Cabriolet.

The popularity of these family drop-tops is evident in the following photo. All hail the mighty Ford Escort XR3i Cabriolet......

So, having fought our way through the crowd to admire Dagenham's finest, we noticed another interesting yet all the more worrying trend.......Right car, wrong colour.

Some things in life are just right. Other are just wrong. A Morris Minor in Old English White with a burgundy interior is definitely right. An E-Type Jag in metallic blue with beige leather interior is without doubt wrong. Other automotive hue-related howlers we noticed were an Alfa Romeo in an authentic shade of snot green, a monstrous Bentley Continental in glittery metallic white paint with grout-grey insides, inspired no doubt by Barry White's bathroom, a classic Rolls Royce the colour of a bruise and a Volvo. At this point the game just became known as "Wrong car no matter what colour".

Oh well.....Le Mans was only a fortnight away.....

It's electric!

2010-06-13T22:30:00.002+01:00

Quick epilogue to the alternator episode this one......

A bit like Government, you sometimes only realise how bad an old alternator had got when you install a new one.

With over 14 fresh and tasty volts now coursing through its copper-cored veins the car has been totally transformed and in so many ways.
The exterior lights are brighter, the interior lights are brighter, the heater now blows like a cheerleader on prom night. The indicators now beat with more regular rhythm. The list is as endless as the supply of juicy electricity only a new alternator can provide.
The car actually runs better too. It picks up quicker, accelerates faster and fuel consumption is noticeably down. On the over-run, approaching roundabouts for example, gone is the Rice Krispie exhaust chorus to which I'd become unwittingly accustomed, replaced by an occasional cough of a little unburnt fuel, a polite clearing of the car's throat before embarking on the next verse of baritone revs.

Best of all though, the horn is louder.

And the lights all went down in Hampshire.......again.

2010-06-08T21:52:00.007+01:00

In fact, everything went off.
Having got to the bottom of the "Will they? Won't they?" headlights, and with the full windscreen fitted, the Seven was all ready for some early summer social blatting. I'd also managed to source that most elusive accessory, a Willing Female Passenger. The WFP was a little cautious after the headlight episode, but after much reassurance agreed to a quick blat over to Butser Hill for a charming sunset picnic, watching dusk descend over the South Coast, spotting the landmarks of Southampton and the Solent as they lit up one by one.

The scene couldn't have been more perfect if it had been scripted by Richard Curtis with Hugh Grant and Hollywood's latest lady in mind - the deserted hillside, a warm gentle breeze, no screaming kids to ruin the evening, and an empty sky that blended overhead from an orangey glow in the West to an inky dark blue in the East.

Come home time, the tone changed a little from idyllic al fresco snacking to a chilly roadside waiting game.

Returning to the car, the WFP wrapped up warm as advised, the picnic basket was firmly lashed to the rear of the car, we each squeezed in to our respective seats (with suitable mirth I might add), at which point the car delivered its punchline to the headlight saga.

So...Waggle the gear lever to check it's in neutral, depress the clutch, poke the throttle a few times and turn the ignition key.

But instead of the usual clattering of parts followed by a healthy roar and stink of unleaded, the engine simply whirred pathetically a couple of times then quit, replaced by the sniggering chatter of the starter solenoid.

My shoulders sagged. WFP looked at me. I looked at WFP.

"You said you'd fixed it"

"I did. This is something else"

With hindsight I'm not sure this was such a good idea. What's worse? A recurring problem, or two separate ones in as many days?

Still, bump starting a car is not the sole remit of Verner von Braun, so pointing the car down hill a little, offering WFP a reassuring and perhaps staggeringly confident "Never mind, watch this" I eased off the brake and let the car roll away, gather a bit of momentum then dumped the clutch.

Success. The Crossflow banged in to life and for a brief moment things were looking up, illuminated by the recently renovated headlights, thus supporting my previous claim that I'd fixed them.

But not for long. An entire three miles later the car was totally dead. Completely and utterly drained of any electricity by the effort of illuminating the headlights and sparking the spark plugs, this immediately stank of a dead alternator. Getting to Butser Hill the Seven had survived on the battery alone. The return journey, without any kind of mobile top-up and the added electrical weight of the lights was all too much.
We rolled to a gentle halt in the entrance to a dark and deserted Tesco car park.
As WFP commented, it could have been worse. It could've been raining. It could've been much worse. I could've been with a passenger who wasn't quite as open minded.
A little over an hour later the car was its second recovery truck in as many days.
A little over two hours later it was back in the garage. A quick check of the battery revealed an impressive 2.8 volts left in the battery. I say impressive because the car had soldiered on, squeezing every last drop of potential difference from the cells.

So, a new alternator.
Sourcing parts for a Seven can be either blissfully simple, or a campaign to make King Arthur and his quest for the Holy Grail look like a rank amateur.
For the new alternator, the latter applied.
The conversation with the chap behind the counter at the local motor factors soon turned in to some kind of back-catalogue of classic '70s Fords spawned during the heady days of Dagenham. Cortina, Granada, Escort, Fiesta.....curious, I thought, that Ford adopted names either of continental holiday resorts or porn mags, and I wondered if this was some subtle reflection of the exact nature of the joys of motoring that came with each car.
Most of the compatible bits were, unsurprisingly, unavailable with no known delivery date. That was the case until we chanced upon the parts list for perhaps the sportiest of Dag Dustbins, the most fixed of the Fix Or Repair Daily stable - the slopey-backed Capri, eventually settling on the monster 2.3 V6 as having a suitable alternator.
This was good news on two fronts. First, the car would soon be back on the road, fully charging, but more than that it would have something in common with a Capri, the motoring weapon of choice for iconic covert coppers Bodie & Doyle.
And so it follows, I now have something in common with Bodie & Doyle.
So there you have it. Caterham Seven - the choice of Professionals everywhere.

And the lights all went out in Hampshire......

2010-06-06T20:56:00.009+01:00

According to Manx musicians The Bee Gees, the lights all went down in Massachusetts.
Much the same can be said in Hampshire lately, where small aluminium car ownership has proved trying at best and positively awkward at worst.
Ever since taking on the Caterham (I would say "owning" it but one never owns a Caterham, or indeed a Land Rover - you just borrow it from the next person) the headlights have turned out to be something of an optional extra where the car itself determined when this particular option might be available. The headlights sometimes worked faultlessly, other times they'd fool you in to thinking there was a problem by not turning on then, just as the driver's harness was clinked open to investigate, ta daa, headlights on in an automotive "Ha! Only joking!" moment.
The joke started to wear a little thin though, reaching transparency last week whilst visiting fellow Sevener Carrots to retrieve a borrowed windscreen, needed for some social blatting the following evening. Aeroscreens (another of those upgrades that occurred during the blog blackout) aren't appreciated by everyone, less so by girls. Something to do with hair apparently.
And front teeth.
So, upon leaving Carrot HQ, no headlights. We'd tried everything. Twiddled switches, held fuses up to the light, tapped solenoids, wiggled wiring and even stood around talking lots.
But hey, it was a light evening with no cloud cover. How dark could it get? Quite dark is the answer. Lovely sunset, but pitch black roads. Getting as far as a regular blat haunt of the Farnham 24hr BP petrol station, I finally caved in and admitted 60mph on 5watt sidelights isn't funny.
The man who drove the breakdown truck found it mildly amusing though. Great, I thought, a bloke with a low loader and a sense of humour. How little did I know at that point.
So, after peering under the dashboard and admiring Caterham wiring, Recovery Truck Man loaded the Seven on to the sheet steel of the recovery truck and headed for home.
During any journey in a recovery truck, one can learn a great many things. Things learnt during the next hour were:
Recovery drivers who are about to be laid off do not make the best customer interface.
Recovery drivers who have lost their house in a bitter divorce less than twelve months ago make a bad customer interface.
Now you'd think a phone call from Recovery Truck Man's girlfriend might improve things. Over the handsfree loudspeaker she promised to have a bath run and supper ready for when he got home, and signed off with a cheery "Love you babes", something made all the more touching when I spotted a swallow tattoo on the back of Recovery Truck Man's left hand. And just as I was about to comment along the lines of "See? Not so bad", Recovery Truck Man announced "And she's a liar too".
Great. Recovery Truck Man clearly had multiple issues going on, and nothing I was going to say would change that. The last twenty minutes of the journey were uneasy to say the least and I had visions of saying something unwittingly antagonistic and thence being clubbed to death with a traffic cone.
But atrocities carried out using motorway accoutrements would have to wait, as soon enough the Seven was off loaded and rolled in to the garage.
Further diagnosis was carried out the following afternoon, and the fault traced to a faulty relay. Once this was replaced I guessed the Seven's electrical tantrums were over.
But more was to follow......

Horny

2010-05-27T15:33:00.003+01:00

In the bleak mid-winter, when the UK was buried under four feet of snow, the Defender, whilst not at all phased by the onset of a new ice age, developed a mystifying electrical snag where the horn, the alarm and various other bits and pieces would immediately and persistently sound off as soon as the key was removed from the ignition. This was eventually traced to the near-side front side light, and a short feed which was sending a spurious signal to the "BCU" or body control unit, a device installed to prove that electronics don't belong in Land Rovers. Even a tiny leakage of voltage at the wrong point and all hell is let loose in the micro-circuitry that governs everything from the fog lights to the rear wiper. Why systems that've survived for decades using simple elementary electrical principles need the addition of silicon is beyond me.
But anyway, since then, the air horns on the Land Rover have never really worked properly. Having replaced the mute horns with traditional old skool electrics ones a few eeks ago, I thought it was about time to see if the old ones actually worked or if it was the tiddly compressor supplied with them that had given up.
Now, in the garage I have a small workshop compressor for powering tools or pumping up tyres and since this had pressure left in it from another job it seemed like a good idea to test the horns.

I'm happy to report they still work really well, and that 40psi really is more than enough to make a noise. Lots of noise. I think I can still hear it echoing off the brickwork of the surrounding houses.

Half moon and half doors

2010-05-21T00:19:00.008+01:00

Many great things come in tubes - Smarties, maps, Primula cheese, underground trains and so on.
One of the better things to come in a tube, or rather in a pair of tubes for double the delight, is Araldite adhesive.
Araldite is top stuff, even before you twist off the little caps. The name alone conjures up earthy robustness in the "Aral", mixed with some schoolboy chemistry in the "ite", I mean come on, you have electrolytes, sulphites, and Han Solo was encased in frozen, and possibly fictitious carbonite. So Araldite mixes Olde Englande with contemporary technology. The name also doubles as a verb. The unassuming snot-coloured goo bonds two surfaces with such strength that words have yet to be invented to describe the chemical joinery, hence the act of using Araldite becomes simply the act of "Aralditing" something.
It seems only appropriate then that this Colossus of adhesives was the solution to an irritating problem blighting the Seven since last summer...In keeping with its Less-Is-More design policy, the roof and doors of the car are secured using press-stud fasteners. Lots of them. It's a simple enough solution, obviously, the drawback being that the rivets holding these press studs in place are tougher than the skin of the car, and over a few years of happy motoring they eventually pull through and the press studs fall off. It doesn't stop there though, as the hole in the skin is usually enlarged and simply replacing the rivet doesn't work. So I turned to Araldite and one of their many variants. Araldite comes in several specialist versions now; "Clear", which is transparent, "Rapid", which is quick-setting and "Steel", which isn't steel. It does come in a stylish pastel silvery-grey tube as opposed to the Lego-brick red of normal Araldite, and I can't help thinking a name like "Araldite Platinum Edition" would add a few sales. It's as hard as steel though and can be similarly machined and worked so ideal for plugging an enlarged irregular hole in the ali sheet exterior of the Seven, drilling a small hole and then employing a self-tapping screw to reattach the errant press stud.

With all studs now in place I could at last put to use something that's been rolled up and poked away on a shelf in the garage for a couple of years (yes, years) since buying them via the For Sale section of BlatChat - a pair of half doors, which allow screen-free (and therefore by default full door-free) motoring without losing the critical driver protection from stone-flick from the front wheels.
As with all satisfying jobs on the Seven, this one was completed after 9pm, but with doors fitted, and a lazy half-moon peering down from a slightly misty sky I grabbed the keys and set off on something that's been missing for too long - a quick night blat.

With the half doors fitted, in body-matching BRG, and recently installed Brooklands aero-screens, from side on the car has a Bentley-esque look, a solid slab of automotive engineering. It seems to be maturing with age too, like fine wine, or perhaps grotty cheese I don't know, but where it once snarled and snapped it now has a fluttering purr, and the Lasham bends were all the more smooth for it. This wasn't an ambitious blat, just a refresher, so the Farnham BP petrol station was far enough. The moonlight flicked through the trees and hedgerows of Hampshire, reminding me of the giga-blat of last July when I set sail for Stelvio and cracked it in one very long but indescribably satisfying blat. On that occasion, the lunar illumination set the moody, silent Alps aglow, a magnificent scene and one I need to revisit soon. But for now, hot chocolate and a donut (of the baked variety) is reward enough.

Besides, we were being watched......

The blog is back.

2010-05-08T21:36:00.006+01:00

Take That, Doctor Who, Tony Blackburn......they have one thing in common: In order to make a come back, first you have to go away.

And so it is that The Blog is back.

The previous entry detailed the blatfest that is the Taffia fish and chip run, and since the 2010 event has just closed, this seemed a good trigger to resurrect the on-line on-going journal of the ups, the downs, and the occasional sideways of Land Rover and Caterham ownership.

With any comeback, there's never a one-shot disclosure of what filled the gap. To do so would erase the enigma, replace the question mark with a full stop. Instead, there's the trickle of information regarding the wilderness years, a steady drip-feed of snippets giving a tantalising glimpse in to what's gone on behind closed doors. And Both My Cars Mostly Aluminium (other blogs are available) is no different.

The full detail of the last ten months will out in due course, in chunks large and small as the topic at the time dictates.

There have been near-catastrophic electrical failures, there have been broken windscreens. There has been Stelvio and snow.

Untrue Grit.

2009-07-05T18:59:00.005+01:00

Grit belongs in two places only. At the bottom of a budgie's cage and in Westerns starring John Wayne. The presence of grit anywhere else is unwelcome.
The first example is on the A339 near Thatcham.
Carrots, Wilto and I had just finished such a lovely weekend, which may come as some surprise when one learns that we were in Wales. Despite a reputation for enhanced precipitation, the various valleys and hills failed to deliver any rain, despite looking threatening at times, and we had a top weekend weaving our way along near-deserted mountain roads and passes. I won't succumb to worn out cliches about ribbons of tarmac unravelling across the countryside, no.....I'll come up with my own version....the roads were like an unfurling piece of asphalt string, very flat smooth string at that.
Utterly fantastic despite the intentions of occasional suicide sheep, with some top company too.
In true Seveneering style we stopped overnight at a simple campsite with minimal equipment, making for a reasonably easy get away in the morning, and our minimalist approach had the advantage of giving us a good excuse to make for the nearest cafe where tea and breakfast awaited without, apparently, any sense of humour on the part of the cafe owner who looked a little bemused when Carrots joked that we wanted a table for three hundred in the deserted early morning eatery.
Making the most of our Taffian weekend we retraced some of our route from the previous day, with the Seven proving a frequent claim that when it comes to bikes it can more than keep up. Towards Monmouth I did battle with a biggish sports bike ridden by a fat bloke who blasted along the straight bits, then petered out in the bends. And his bike looked like it was inspired by Batman's iPod.
Then we gently wove our way home over more unfurled string of asphalt although being Sunday afternoon, the closer we got to London, the slower the traffic got.
Our target for the afternoon was Nelson's Diner, near Thatcham, which is showing considerable promise in becoming a favourite haunt to rival the Market Diner. Late afternoon tea in an American diner.....surreal, but great.
After the Market Diner though, the grit set in with heavy gravel scattered liberally across the A339. Utter rubbish and, typically poor slap dash road repair. It was everywhere, literally lying loose on top of the old road. And I simply cannot see how this lazy "refurbishment" can be considered an improvement. The surface is not only rougher, it pebble dashes passing cars and, for those who dare to give it some beans, the small stones give all the grip of marbles.
Once home, I de-gritted the car and with the surplus creating a small rockery in the garage.
Then on to some maintenance. heavy cornering in Wales had taken it's toll on the wheel bearings with a noticeable clonk coming from the front off-side. But this wasn't normal wear and tear.
A little disassembled investigation revealed the felt washer that seals the back of the hub had come adrift, effectively opening the innards to grit and corruption, the worst the Welsh roads had to offer. The real irony is that it was a felt seal that gave way, a wool derived product, as though the sheep of Taffialand were getting their own back.

Words don't come easy.

2009-07-02T01:02:00.004+01:00

Words fail me, not out of disbelief or disgust, but out of the simple, overwhelming feeling that remains after a full weekend of blatting through mid-Wales in brilliant sunshine, not a cloud in the sky.

Wild camping for civilised people.

2009-06-05T19:07:00.019+01:00

Regular readers (both of them) could be forgiven for thinking the Land Rover has fallen from grace lately. Flicking back through previous blogs entries, it features very little.

This is probably because, in true Landy fashion, it's just been getting on with the job in hand.

That said, over the past few weeks, months in fact, it's had a few little treats and add-ons to make the job in hand easier or more comfortable.

After the night time outing on Salisbury plain, when alongside Dave H's truck the 90 looked a little saggy, I set about replacing the rear springs to make it a bit more industrial. This process was surprisingly easy if a little hefty. It was simply a case of disconnecting the lower damper mounts, jack the body off the old springs, swap them with the new ones and lower the car down again. Same again for the fronts.

Now, in a strange twist of Land Rover simplicity, heavy duty front springs are rated the same as standard rear springs so overall only two new springs were required (for the rear) with the old rears going in to the front, and the old fronts going in the bin.

And although still young in Land Rover terms (at less than twenty years old) the new springs have spruced the car up a bit, albeit at the expense of a little ride comfort. The new springs are, frankly, rock hard. Good for loading carrying, as long as the load isn't someone with a slipped disk.

Other additions that have slipped under the road radar of late are, in no particular order, a ladder, security grills in the rear windows, a work light on the back, a power point for the all-important fridge, a water heater (of the type fitted in RAC vans) and the fitting of the winch that's been lurking at the back of the garage since the Defender took over from a Discovery two years ago.

All of these proved their worth during the recent Bank Holiday weekend with a trip to the Lake District. Previous trips like this, I've always felt the car could do with beefing up a bit, but this time at no stage did I think "I wish this was better".

On both the domestic and driving fronts the car is now really nicely set up, although "nice" isn't a particularly emotive word when used in connection with cars. But it's true. With the roof tent on top, the fridge fitted and the water heater.....errrr......heating, the Land Rover had become like a little compact campervan.

The plan for the weekend was to meet up with a clutch of other Land Rover people at Coniston Hall, and although less than 300 miles away, the journey took nearly seven hours thanks to those ubiquitous merchants of buffoonery, The Highways Agency, deciding the Thursday evening rush-hour leading in to a long weekend was the ideal time to polish the cats eyes on the M6, or something.

Just as it got dark I arrived at Coniston Hall Campsite, possibly the worst campsite in the world and one we moved on from after just two nights of a planned four. Lesson learnt here is never let someone else book your campsite, as an entire tented village sprawled over the untidy field as the weekend progressed. During the two evenings we were unlucky enough to stay here, gangs of marauding kids blew through the site like an irritating gust of wind, dogs wandered around unchecked and by the time we upped sticks and headed for the wilderness, the ground itself was totally hidden under a sea of nylon and canvas. The site owner was, predictably, not open to the idea of refunds, or fire safety, or rubbish disposal. Awful, just awful.

Dodgy campsites aside, once teamed up with AJ and Mrs AJ in their nicely prepped 110 Station Wagon, Toppa in his 110 Van, and James and Debs in their gloriously battered ex-military Series III, the weekend was just epic. After a damp start on the Saturday, the weather improved gradually until Monday arrived over Haweswater (where we'd parked up for the night) without a cloud in the sky.

The laning was a combination of old coach roads which are child's play for a Landy, through to a number of tricky rock-crawls that even with traction control and anti-stall proved "interesting". Although the 90 lost traction in places, the anti-stall has an eerie quality to it, where it simply will not stop with the vehicle bouncing over rocks and grappling with loose shale as it tries to make progress, seemingly ignorant to the fact that it's simply and quite literally digging itself a deeper hole.

No. Must.....keep.....going.

Once we'd slipped away from the tribes of savages and marauding gangs of the Bartertown campsite, the weekend took on a whole new identity, with a true expedition feel since we opted to camp wild. This doesn't mean not washing or running naked round a camp fire. It means camping where ever one needs to, and making do with whatever provisions and supplies are already in the vehicle. This is one of the beauties of roof top tents - they have a minimal foot print, no larger in fact than the vehicle on which they're mounted so it's easier and less intrusive to "park" rather than "camp". I prefer this approach since it relies more on self-sufficiency, and although requiring a little more effort and planning, brings with it a handy disconnect from those who cannot cope without a TV or a microwave. Things like the fridge in the Land Rover catapult campsite life forward a little though, with fresh milk for brews, fresh ground coffee and a decadent smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel breakfast. A few luxuries and comforts needn't impact on the trip though, and this is the key - the modifications and add-ons that have been installed on the Landy of late mean it's possible to make the domestics fit the overall exped, not the other way around. The other big advantage is that once everyone else has headed for their crappy campsites or twee B&Bs, we were still out on the trail, needing none of the services offered by the towns and villages we overlooked from high in the hills. It really did feel like we had the place to ourselves....

Lightly oiled.

2009-05-15T22:22:00.003+01:00

A little noise in engineering is sometimes a good thing. Let me explain. Some years ago I was fortunate enough to have a flight for around an hour in a genuine 1944 Dakota. Crucially, this was not a DC-3, but a Dakota, the military variant of the vintage trooper and as such was free of virtually any frills, consisting of two engines, two wings, a tail and a fuselage. Think that was about it.
This lack of any superficial finishing was made up for in what estate agents call “character”, a character that only revealed it’s self once the aeroplane was bouncing along the runway and then shortly afterward chundering through the sky to the smell of aviation fuel and hot bakelite. And all this was accompanied by an orchestra of assorted sounds - The rush of air over the non-sound proofed fuselage, the deep growl of the engines just feet away at the root of each wing, then more discreet sounds of aluminium creaking and groaning as it eased and strained under aerodynamic load, the occasional squeak from a bearing somewhere, and an ominous compressed air hiss as the gear came up. But this was a cacophony of reassurance – all the time the Dakota was making these noises meant it was working.
Much the same can be said of aluminium cars, where the traditional engineering occasionally announces all is well with a light squeak, brief rattle or mild groan. That said, this sometimes gets to the point where the noise cannot be ignored, nor taken as the all-clear. No, it becomes what is known in technical terms as cause for concern, and this in turn gives rise to that favourite past time of aluminium car owners everywhere - the initiation for plenty of tea, the trigger for long phone calls to likeminded aficionados of hand built cars, and the cause for many a late night cramming twenty minutes of work in to four hours. It becomes the cause for an investigation.
In the case of the Caterham, this investigation was in to why the clutch was allowing the revs to noisily run away with ease every time the accelerator was floored. See? Too much noise. Over the past few months this has given rise to much debate about what needed adjusting, what was out of tune and just how entertaining it can be to overtake another car with all the right noises but none of the acceleration. The presence of oncoming traffic elevates this to being highly entertaining.
To investigate the clutch of the Seven means lifting out the entire engine and gearbox assembly but this isn’t as daunting as perhaps it sounds and is very much a case of following a logical process (and owners of aluminium cars tend to be the type who like logical processes) and simply work around the engine disconnecting anything that won’t come out when the engine is lifted. The tricky bit comes when it’s time to separate car and engine, an activity akin to childbirth but with more spark plugs and less in the way of epidurals, but having said that a little pain relief to the lower back isn’t such a bad idea after a while stooped over a live axle mother as it gives up a 1600cc baby.

Once out, the engine and gearbox could be split and the real cause of all the recent slippage was revealed, but not before Carrots and I comtemplated the idea of towing the dead Seven to the top of the nearest big hill and trying a little soapboxing.
Back to more pressing issues. The gearbox input shaft oil seal, which is an oil seal around the input shaft to the gearbox, had hardened with age and was weeping oil along the input shaft and on to the clutch gubbins. Now, some things are better when lightly coated in oil – olives, old steam engines, lap dancers and so on, but not clutches. It was a write off, which is a shame really as the friction plate still had loads of life left in it, bar the unwanted lubrication. The real snag was that although I’d pre-ordered a new clutch, to replace it without curing the actual oil leak would be pointless.
So, with the Land Rover adopting its some-time guise of Caterham Support Vehicle I scrambled in to town in search of the errant oil seal, leaving fellow ReHaBer Brent to fettle and fiddle with the clutch whilst I was gone. My local independent motor factor, who in the past have been pretty good, appear to have adopted a Halfordesque approach lately and denied knowing what an oil seal is. No matter. Taking the longest of long shots I headed for the main Ford dealership in town, and it’s a pretty large affair. They’re even described as a Transit specialist so I was half expecting to find a copy of yesterday’s Sun and a polystyrene cup wedged in the window of the parts department. What I did find was an unusually helpful German of all people, someone who knew what a Type 9 gearbox is, and crucially, stocked input shaft oil seals for them. The only disappointing bit was a price tag of nearly ten quid for the little rubber o-ring.
Oil seal refitted a minor modification was made to the input shaft shroud – a small hole (3mm I think) was drilled in the six o’clock position to allow any future oil spillage to drain in to the clutch bell housing before it reached the clutch itself.
Assembly was refreshingly quick, and before it was even dark the car was back on the ground and ticking over, if a little rapidly. The only thing that didn’t work was, in true Caterham style, the indicators. I can only assume all the huffing and puffing in and around the transmission tunnel, with its close proximity to the dashboard, had dislodged the wiring – after a quick waggle everything was fine. Job done. Although it took a little tweaking of teeny tiny brass adjustment screws on the carbs to get the car idling happily, its already been out on a few blats and it's also nice and quiet again, having had the gearbox topped up as part of the re-install, and I suspect it's been losing oil to the clutch for quite a while.
Best of all though, it now pulls like a premiership footballer in a strip joint.

A little moonlighting.

2009-04-22T19:59:00.003+01:00

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. 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.

Alright on the Wight

2009-04-09T11:00:00.005+01:00

It’s been a busy few weeks, doing stuff either in or to the cars, both of them - so much so that the recent engineering upgrades will probably warrant a blog all of their own later.
The prominent feature of the last fortnight is undoubtedly the third edition of Wight Blat, which began for me at around 06:00 on the Friday morning when I rolled the car out of the garage in to damp fog, a meteorological condition that always reminds me of mid-1980s public information films about surviving nuclear war, since the same sort of fog was inevitably used to represent fall out. Worrying really, when one considers it is, in fact, harmless low cloud.
Radioactive issues aside, I can’t say I was massively optimistic about the blat down to Portsmouth with condensation frosting the windscreen of the car as I drove off, but at least it wasn’t actually raining and as I dashed along the A339 I’d forgotten how irritating it can be trying to get somewhere in rush hour traffic in the Seven, something a truck driver reminded me of after I overtook him on a wide open stretch of tarmac, after which he then chose to speed up (something I’d been willing him to do for several previous miles) and get his shitty skip-carrying truck as close as possible to the Caterham. The next straight stretch and I was gone, leaving Kevin, Terry or whatever truck drivers are calling themselves these days to his Sun-reader attitude to what’s right and wrong.
Knuckle-dragging truckers were soon out of my mind after meeting up with Dick Whittington (not actually Lord Mayor of London – just another Seven owner) and blatting South for a traditional blat breakfast and the Isle of Wight ferry afterwards. The well worn hunting ground of south Hampshire never fails to provide a good blat, and today was no different although it did throw up the usual occurrence of what can best be described as the Caterham Double Take. After nearly T-boning Dick in his bright red car by pulling out from a side-road too soon, the driver of a black Fiat Punto then watched as Dick drove past, and assuming the probability of there being two such cars in the same place at the same time is nil, pulled out even further as I approached, their attention focussed firmly on the first car. This near-miss deserved that most British of consolation, a cup of tea, so on the coast at Hayling Island we parked up the cars and took in Delia’s Diner run, bizarrely, by a bloke called Steve I think. But then what he does at weekends is his business.
Now, there are those who probably say seaside cafes offering full fried breakfasts are the epitome of poor health. I’d beg to differ. Stepping from the moist, maritime air at something less than 10c in to the fug of an early morning kitchen is akin to entering a sauna, but with more fried bread. Likewise, after indulging in tea, toast and eggs, going back to the car in the clear morning air was something of a refreshing shock.
So onward to the port. By late morning the fog had lifted and the sun was starting to shine through in a bright but ultimately futile fashion with which only the British feel truly comfortable – it was still chilly, and at the ferry we met up with several other Sevens and their owners, all eagerly anticipating a fun filled weekend on the Isle of Wight. Simple cars, simple pleasures. Now, lots has changed at the WightBlat venue of White Cliff Bay Holiday Camp, in fact, I’d go so far as to say it could be called a Holiday “Village”. Good job then it was full of idiots for the weekend, something borne out by the Friday Night quiz, where a good knowledge of Beatles album covers, 1950s politics and the source of Panama hats was essential. The beer didn’t run out this time either, a sure sign things are looking up at White Cliff.
One highlight of last year’s WightBlat was the locking of horns with the chef at breakfast regarding the serious matter of sausage allocation, but again, this year was different. An unattended and, more importantly, heavily laden servery awaited, with scrambled eggs almost as hot as the shower I’d recently stepped out of. Where would these improvements end? 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.
A hazy Sunday morning (and I’m not talking meteorology here) offered nothing more challenging than a photo-call, always an interesting affair since it proves there are no two Sevens the same. It also proves the time needed to take a photo is exponentially proportional to the number of people in the photo.
Photo done thoughts started to turn towards home and by three in the afternoon the Isle of Wight was receding off the stern of the ferry. But the entertainment carried on regardless, with the “Shannon Express” male voice choir (who are neither from Shannon nor have anything to do with trains) making the same crossing. Treating us to numerous show tunes during the 45 minutes crossing, they proved their own lyrics in that there really is no business like show business, especially when the choir-master’s excited claim of “You may have seen us on the BBC!” was met with enthusiastic silence from a clueless but appreciative audience.
From Portsmouth the dozen or so Sevens that made the 3pm boat dispersed, with Dick and I heading for nearby Goodwood and a nice cup of tea, then from there a spirited drive followed, going via Midshurt, Petersfield, Winchester then Alresford and home, on that twisted old friend, the A272. This was without doubt the longest single time I’d spent in the car all weekend long, but then it occurred to me WightBlat is more social than driving, and on that basis another top weekend was over.
And in case you’re wondering....they’re from Ecuador.

Brighton Early.......Again

2009-03-15T21:14:00.012Z

It is, apparently, a fine line between love and hate. And no where is this more graphically demonstrated than in Hampshire and West Sussex on the first decent Sunday of the year.

Drive past someone at 30mph, and they'll smile and point out "The funny man in the noddy car" to their kids. Drive past at 50mph and they'll yell "advice" on road safety and give you a look that suggests you're the anti-Christ.

But no amount of Daily Mail readers can keep a good blat down, and the key to feeling really smug about it is to hit the road sufficiently early that those middle-Englanders who take such offence later in the day are still asleep.

And so it was that I arrived at Farnham station just before 7am to meet Carrots and The Long Bloke for an extended blat down to a favourite target....Brighton.

Progress down through Surrey towards Hindhead was refreshingly swift, with the three Crossflows gulping up the cool, damp morning air. The further South we headed the better the road surface was too. That, combined with the recent corner-weighing and balancing the Seven received, made for some spirited driving. Now the weight of the car is evenly distributed fore and aft, the steering is more responsive and the rear end bogs down less as the power comes on.

The only down side to this is that it does encourage eating slightly further in to the usual margins of safety, something I became all too aware of as we approached Petworth and very nearly slid in to the rear of Carrot's car, being unashamedly caught out by the combination of a slight downhill gradient and a greasy surface where the sun was yet to fully dry out the road.

This minor infraction was soon counteracted by the sound of rorty exhausts echoing off the walls of the adjacent Petworth House as we pushed on to Brighton.

Over the South Downs and some classic Caterham roads, with pale blue sky overhead and a misty English Channel on the horizon, and still it was before 9am...just excellent.

Despite being a good blat, we were somewhat let down to discover the Market Diner, star of previous nocturnal blats, no longer stays open though the night and in to the next morning. Although it was only breakfast time, the cafe was shut, so by way of an alternative we ended up being the first customers of the day for The Garden Cafe in Hove which is, as the name suggests, in a garden-like setting of a local park. Just as the Market Diner is basic and almost a bit rough, like a badly made roll-up, then The Garden Cafe is a bit of St Bruno ready rubbed in an ornate pipe.

Simply a great venue to indulge in smoked salmon and scrambled egg bagels, really good coffee and a fresh spring morning, all enjoyed whilst the cars ticked themselves cool. Over breakfast we shared views on the mixed reactions the cars had already drawn that morning. I'm truly intrigued by what makes people resort to swearing or physical gestures as a Caterham drives past. Is it envy? Is it the genuine but misguided belief that anything over 30mph is lethal, or do they just not like the hint of other people actually bloody enjoying themselves? Whatever the cause, it just makes me want to get out there and enjoy the car even more so and leave ill-informed busy-bodying personality vacuums far behind.

After breakfast, which dragged on through the morning, we returned to the Market Diner to take in the "urban" artwork on the walls opposite, then dawdled along the coast to Shoreham Airport, the oldest public aerodrome in the UK. Luckily, it hasn't experienced the same success or commercial burdens of say Heathrow or Gatwick and has remained mostly unchanged since the 30s, the added bonus being it's also free of any threats of a fifteenth runway or another two dozen terminals and so gets left alone by those who hug trees. It also has no Sock Shop, Starbucks or Tie Rack, another big bonus.

With time ticking by we topped up on more coffee then split for the remainder of the day. But blatting was far from over as I had a small but crucial part to collect from Sunbury for the Land Rover, a purely functional drive.

But the beauty of blatting is that just when it starts to become boring something comes along to change all that. In this case, what came along was a dark blue Aston Martin DB9, which even on a Sunday easily qualifies for the title of The World's Biggest Car, especially when spotted in the rear view mirror.

Now, the Seven is small, compact and a bit pokey when required, and at face value a DB9 is none of these things. Monumentally rapid yes, achingly stylish yes, but nippy and nimble along rural Surrey lanes? Hardly. Oh how wrong was I and every time I leaped out for a nippy overtake, a few cars back I could see the massive Aston doing the same.

Eventually it was right behind me, but did it get past? No, in my slightly antique and smelly Crossflow I held off, and let's be quite clear here, an Aston Martin DB9.

Maybe it as the traffic conditions, maybe he stopped trying but either way by the time we reached Guildford we'd both calmed down and went our separate ways. Me first, and that's what matters. Goodness only knows what the Daily Mail would say.

2009-02-16T21:42:00.003Z

All in all, a busy couple of weeks for aluminium cars.

No blog would be complete without mention of the light snow flurries that brought UK PLC to an abrupt halt a couple of weekends ago. But did it bring the Defender to an equally abrupt halt? Did it heck. The Land Rover simple laughed in the face of six inches of snow. I tried not to laugh in the face of those who, in automotive terms, put style before function and went down the German route. Alas BMW do not fit tyres called "Grabbers", they fit near-slick performance tyres with names like "Sport", or the name of a bird of prey. From the toasty comfort of the Land Rover, parked majestically at the crest of a hill, I came to the conclusion the "performance" in the title of BMW tyres refers to what can be witnessed when a company director tries to drive his 5-Series up a slight hill covered in compacted snow. Now, in those "Describe yourself" questionnaires you get in in-flight magazines, Smug isn't a box I'd usually tick but with this winter being the coldest for twenty five years, I considered the past time of rescuing BMWs and its quarter century occurence to be reason enough to feel a little bit superior. But not as much as declining BMW Man's offer of cash to drag him even closer to home in favour of rescuing a mum and four kids in an equally inept Astra. Or maybe it was the driver.

Tyred, and a bit smashed.

2009-01-25T17:52:00.003Z

This month has seen some unexpected expenditure on both aluminium cars. The reasons and scale of this have varied greatly.
In the case of the Land Rover, someone and I know not who, decided to show their appreciation of traditional British automobilia by smashing the rear window and redesigning one of the tyres using a screwdriver. But it wasn’t all bad, although it was all mightily bewildering and leads me to believe the perpetrator of the act has no appreciation of aluminium cars. First there is the blatant vandalism which I suppose is just a fact of life in modern “Ing-errrrr-lund!”, but more curiously, the hoodlum who shattered the glass left everything in the Land Rover, which included a lightweight trolley jack. Leaving this behind says to me that whoever had a go at the Defender has no need of a trolley jack and doesn’t appreciate its potential value. If only it had been an iPod.
Now, losing a tyre isn’t usually too traumatic, but in the case of the Land Rover the timing couldn’t have been more critical. Of the five tyres (including the spare) on the car, three were due imminent replacement anyway, and with the act of a wanton yoof and his Stanley knife, this then meant there was only one good tyre left on the car. Annoying, but it forced me to accept the inevitable and re-shod the Landy. And it’s obviously been a while. BF Goodrich have virtually doubled their prices since I last purchased one. General Tire (as the Colonials call them), evidently, have not so time to switch brands.
After a little confusion over model years and disclosure that a 4pm appointment actually begins at 5:30pm, Autoglass replaced the rear window, and luckily for me they only stock glass with heater elements so it may be time to re-fit the heated rear window facility, dormant since the new door was fitted.
In view of the unprovoked and inconvenient attack on the Land Rover, I reviewed the concept of storing and carrying the spare wheel on the outside of the rear door. It doesn’t actually need to be there. It’s open to damage (deliberate or not), obstructs the rear view, and adds weight to the door hinges. So, as something of a trial, I’ve removed the wheel from the carrying bracket, and stored it inside the wagon then, using my air impact wrench in anger for the first time, removed the carrying bracket from the door. All in all, a good thing I reckon.
After all this I gave the Land Rover its first real clean since Christmas and its assorted outings of the Festive period. In something of a Johnny Morris moment I used a broom to actually wash the car. This reminded me of the 70s children’s TV uncle scrubbing the elephants at London Zoo whilst giving them the voice-over persona of Noel Coward. (Or Margot from The Good Life in the case of lady elephants)
So, with the Land Rover fully repaired I felt it only fair to lavish some times and money on the Seven. So at approximately 1/100th of the cost of the Land Rover’s new tyres, I acquired the switch I’ve been searching for in order to connect the heated windscreen I got for a similarly knock-down price earlier in the month, with both items being sourced through Blat Chat as always.

New Year's Freeze.

2009-01-11T16:35:00.010Z

Well it's been a couple of busy weeks in areas other than aluminium cars, so a less than inpiring update.

After some intense Caterham usage, the temperature plummeted and the Land Rover came to the fore again with its traction control and ABS to overcome the sheet ice formerly known as the UK.

After Christmas Day, which this year fell on December 25th, I added the roof tent to the Defender ready for the LRUK Christmas Treasure Hunt, an event which can be traced back maybe ten or maybe even twelve months.

The treasure hunt was a great success, with seventeen surprisingly complete vehicles turning up to scatter to the four corners of Salisbury Plain. No one's car broke down, no one got stuck. Bit of a let down really but by the time we'd all defrosted the event raised a hundred quid, split between the LRUK website and Help For Heroes.

Sub-zero temperatures are actually pretty good for green laning - all the moisture is frozen out of the ground making everything more solid to drive on. It does compromise the socialising somewhat, although Land Rover drivers are, by definition, hardy souls many of whom are used to living life with permafrost in their cars so sitting around at -5 chipping beer out of a tin was child's play.

With the Defender already packed for overnighting the next night out was New Year's Eve - in Scotland. Obviously this involved a little trip North but with brilliant if chilly sunshine the scene was set for a bit of a roadtrip.

Long distance journeys in a Land Rover are more than just a journey from A to B. Rumbling along at a comfortable 60mph gives the chance to take in the view, relax a little and really travel instead of just drive.

Stopping off for a bit of a break at one of the many motorway services, clearly aimed to relieve drivers of stress and Sterling, I got the chance to discover what may be the real cause of car related climate change.

The basins in the "rest rooms" had hands-free taps. Yep, just place your hands under the tap, a sensor detects one's digits and the water flows. Ditto for drying them, with hot water replaced by hot air. And this is the problem. Whilst tree huggers around the world berate the car, they don't stop to think about all the other crap that soft-headed marketing executives firmly believe should go with owning one. The automated basins require one crucial ingredient - electricity. And that doesn't come without leaving a trail of the carbon footprints that we're all told are stamping the icecaps to pieces. So whilst society struggles to find a viable alternative to the car, its already wasting the energy allegedly freed up by banning them, and worse than that, it's wasting it on something that for centuries has been done perfectly adequately without the need for electrical input. But then again, anyone who thinks water and electricity should be mixed is clearly insane from the start.

Land Rovers don't have any fancy electric bits where they don't need them.

Pressing on through the frozen wastes of the North, one place name stuck in my mind - Ecclefechan, simply because this struck me as a suitable expletive to describe the arctic weather.

My target for the night was Wanlockhead, the UK's highest village and thus a suitable memorable location for New Year's Eve.

But this too was a bit of let-down. Although it was good to meet up with long term fellow road adventurer Wes, the inn itself was about as welcoming as a sign saying "Go away". In return, once parked up in the pub car park, I did experiment with various ways of off-setting the nocturnal after effects of several pints of Guinness without leaving the comfort of the rooftent.

New Year's Day was refreshingly clear but still cold. For the journey home I took a detour over Shap Pass, stopping at the top to take in the view of white frosted electricity pylons. Also noted was the memorial at the top of the pass with an inscription remembering the shelter afforded by local people to lost travellers in the days before the pesky M6 opened.

Arriving home well after dark the Defender was in dire need of a good wash. A day on Salisbury Plain had left it smothered in mud, then two days to Scotland and back had coated it all in salt, but in true Land Rover style it looked no less capable or indeed appealing due to its heavy weathering.

Washing had to wait anyway. Frozen hose pipes have limited uses.

Tis the season....

2008-12-25T23:16:00.003Z

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.

2008-12-14T19:20:00.003Z

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?

2008-11-09T10:12:00.004Z

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.

2008-10-19T20:49:00.002+01:00

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...

2008-09-28T15:45:00.005+01:00

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.

2008-09-17T21:22:00.006+01:00

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.

2008-08-30T04:36:00.009+01:00

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.

2008-08-24T23:54:00.002+01:00

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.

2008-08-15T22:42:00.004+01:00

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!)

2008-08-05T23:53:00.003+01:00

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.

2008-07-31T00:16:00.002+01:00

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

France......again.

2008-07-29T15:39:00.013+01:00

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.

2008-07-13T19:18:00.007+01:00

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?

2008-07-06T22:02:00.004+01:00

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?

2008-07-01T14:41:00.021+01:00

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:

Teenagers are very loud.
Fruit machines bear no fruit.
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

2008-06-25T22:31:00.008+01:00

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

2008-06-22T23:01:00.011+01:00

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

2008-06-13T01:31:00.005+01:00

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.

2008-05-30T22:09:00.004+01:00

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

2008-05-17T11:22:00.007+01:00

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.

2008-05-07T23:45:00.004+01:00

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

2008-05-05T01:36:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-03T18:27:00.018+01:00

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

2008-04-19T21:34:00.014+01:00

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.

Tarts and Trucks

2008-04-06T21:49:00.010+01:00

Sunday night and Widget, Bernd and I are relaxing in the delightful sitting room of our self-catering cottage in the Peak District.

We've had a couple of days' laning already with one final fling tomorrow and all I can say is, upgrading the Discovery for a Defender was so much the right thing to do. Yesterday we descended Stanage Edge and despite taking over an hour to cover one short rocky stretch, the silver Defender seemed simply unstoppable. Even the slight knocks and bumps we did encounter seemed less of an event to the three Defenders.

The weather had been variable to say the least. Yesterday we met up in driving snow, yet by the end of the day I was wearing sunglasses when driving.
As well as some good laning we've had numerous refreshing brews whilst on the lanes, along with that most crucial element of Land Rover ownership, a nice bit of cake, and some Frisian sugar bread brought by Bernd from Holland. It comes close to crossing the border between bread and cake but if push comes to shove I'd have to go with calling it bread.
As we were staying near Bakewell we took the opportunity to try out a genuine tart too. A little sticky when warmed up, but easily shared between three and very satisfying.
The three Defenders have performed pretty well throughout. Widget's has a nasty grumbling bearing somewhere, and the rear door on my car is a bit tatty, but those issues aside, together they make a discreet yet capable convoy. No frills no limits motoring which is what a Land Rover is all about. Bernd has had no problems. Continental efficiency I guess.
We did encounter a few other laning convoys today, which gave rise to some rambling discussion about the merits of big knobbly tyres. And selective dentistry.
We came to the slightly mathematical conclusion that, based on our observations today, the number of knobbles on a tyre is inversely proportional to that of the driver's teeth, whilst the frequency with which they wash their Land Rover is, by contrast, directly proportional to how often they wash anything, including themselves.

But overall, a successful weekend, come rain, snow or sun (and we've had all three)

FFR

2008-04-01T15:58:00.003+01:00

Successfully fitted the CB radio and the external antenna mount.
Took bloody ages due in no small part to there being no obvious spot to attach the radio on what passes for a dashboard in the Defender, probably because when Defenders were originally dreamt up, the more common way to communicate was by telegram, or perhaps Semaphore.
The dashboard is more of a handy little shelf on which to store screwdrivers, spanners, rolls of tape, string and so on. It's like an integral tool box.
After several hours trying out different positions around the car for the radio (including one moment of utter insanity where I seriously considered mounting it to the inside of the roof), I succumbed to doing something I vowed I'd never do and drilled two holes through the dashboard cross member in order to attach the radio mounting bracket. I'd hoped to keep the Defender free of Swiss cheese characteristics - there are plenty of Landrovers out there already peppered with holes - but in the end this was just about the only solution.
And actually, it's worked pretty well. The radio is out of the way yet still accessible and it doesn't foul any other controls.
When routing the antenna co-ax from the rear of the car through to the front, the dire build quality of a Defender came to the fore as I was able to gently pull back the headlining and hide the cable behind it without too much effort. It runs in through the rear door seal, along the roof line, over the top of the drivers door, down the off side A-post, then down the corner of the dash where the heater controls reside, under the steering column and in to the radio itself which is just to the left of the ignition barrel, down a bit from the fan control. For electrical power I tapped in to the cigarette lighter feed.
Outside, the antenna mount looks pretty sturdy although I have my doubts. Like anything bought for a Landrover it needed modifying slightly in order to fit, but this isn't what bothers me. It clamps to the gutter and although in theory this is a good idea, the gutters are lined with some kind of gooey sealant gunk, meaning the bolts which provide the clamping action have nothing really solid to bite in to. Might have to fabricate a small metal plate to go under the tails of the bolts, give 'em something solid.
Now all I need is someone to talk to....

Oh and an added bonus, I found my 13mm spanner, missing for several months.

Count down to Carnage

2008-04-01T03:02:00.004+01:00

This weekend I'm off up to the Peak District with Widget who has a 50th Anniversary Defender 90.

It's the first big outing for my Defender since buying it to replace my tired Landrover Discovery which had got to that stage in it's life where I drove everywhere with my fingers crossed and had to beat it with a stick every now and then.

I've taken the Defender off-road a couple of times since getting it last month, and it feels so much more capable, even without bogging it down with blingy modifications.

There are a couple of things I'd like to get sorted out before the weekend though. The ever-so-slightly tacky CB radio needs wiring up so I can abuse Widget over the airwaves, and I could really do with some heavier duty recovery points, certainly on the front.

The CB should be easy - It needs just a power supply and an external antenna mount fixing to the car. In due course I'd like to add a second battery to power the fridge I've got for longer trips, fit the winch (with a suitable winch bumper) I took off the Discovery and that's about it. Might get some light guards and possibly a ladder to help with access to the roof tent when it's fitted (again something I've transferred across from the Disco)

As for recovery points for this weekend, this is somewhat dependant on being able to source some JATE rings before Friday.

Where is Stanage Edge anyway?

Week one, day one.

2008-03-31T21:42:00.003+01:00

Blogging is new to me, I've read a few but never written one....

As the title suggests both my cars are aluminium, a Year 2000 Land Rover Defender 90 and a 1996 Caterham Seven.

Not only are they both aluminium they are both British, conceived over cups of tea and then loosely thrown together by hand in sheds by men called George wearing tan-coloured dust coats. As a result of this they are largely rubbish at being cars but very good at being engineering benchmarks and design icons and thus utterly absorbing to drive and maintain.

Owning either of these cars will never leave you rich.

Owning both of them at once will leave you borderline bankrupt. But happy. Occasionally.