Relentless Rain Redressed at Reims

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.....

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)

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)

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.

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!

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.

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......

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.