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.
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.
