Team Adventure
Once more the team hits the road to head for the greatest swapmeet in the world
DANNY HOPKINS PETERBOROUGH TO THE COTSWOLDS
The Beaulieu Autojumble: It should be on every true petrolhead’s bucket list – partly because once you get there, you could sell that bucket for a tidy sum and buy something you really don’t need and partly because it is like no other event on earth.
Every year, without fail, we at Practical Classics take a holiday from life and bimble southwards, stuffing whatever classics come to hand with the varied kit that washes up in our section of the workshop during the year. It’s something we always look forward to and adds a couple of rusty waymarks to our classic calendar. I say a couple because we go to both the Spring and International variants of Beaulieu’s big bash.
The International Jumble is huge, a Glastonbury of rust, but the Spring one is more chilled out, in many ways more civilised and still rammed full of interesting bits of old car, boat, plane and cannon/ gramophone/old bike/books/fish tanks. I’ve bought and sold cars and bits of cars at both with great succes. So last year, once again, I crammed as much of my old stuff as I figured my Cavalier MKI could take and headed off with James Walshe and the two Matts (Tomkins and George) to see what I could flog.
Open road awaits
As ever, we decided to go to Beaulieu using a route that none could describe as ‘direct’. This year a fantastic mission via the Cotswolds was planned, taking in some great driving roads and silly village names before mounting the Wiltshire Downs for a final thrash to the New Forest. Great stuff then, but first my Cavalier, James’ Ami and Matt’s Morris Traveller had to negotiate the drudgery of the A605, A14 and M6. For the preliminary hour of our journey we settled into the inside lane and enjoyed the great scenery, spectacular open roadspace and superb driving that typifies Britain’s best roads… not. After plenty of swearing and boredom we hit the first junction on the M6 and, at last, escaped to freedom. Within minutes we were on the Fosse Way and blatting south… a trio of happy chaps with classic cars full of of old s---e. The Cavalier, as usual, was doing its impression of a much younger car with impeccable road manners. The balance and ease of use my pointy Griffin demonstrates every time I jump into the driver’s seat is remarkable and it is only the acres of glass and 10 different shades of beige (yes 10) on the interior that remind me it is 40 years-old. It’s not a Luton-built car, but I can forgive it that. Despite a squealy clutch it still handles better than any Cortina I have driven. There I’ve said it. Just as importantly I get more love from other road users with this car than the rest of my fleet put together. As we arrived at the garage in Halford I received yet another jaunty wave from a fellow road user. Why does it happen? My theory is that Cavaliers belong to that select band of people’s cars that were once everywhere, part of our national subconscious street furniture, but have now disappeared. When people see a Cav it triggers an automatic response, a bit like smelling fish fingers being fried in a pan or hearing the theme tune to Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em. Saying that, it’s interesting that classic Vauxhalls still don’t appear to have the cache of Fords of the same age. They were no better or worse than their competitors with the Blue Oval and yet prices seem to lag behind.
‘Our route to Beaulieu could never be described as being direct…’
JAMES WALSHE HALFORD TO THE DOWNS
Each summer, I invariably have one arm slightly more tanned than the other. I expect you experience the same phenomenon, sharing as you no doubt do, the curious satisfaction of a right arm resting upon the sill of an open window as you lollop along in the sunshine. All three of us are doing it. Danny’s arm occasionally flips upward as he holds the roof in true ‘Seventies Man’ style. The view of the Traveller up ahead is delightful. With the sun winking off the glass panels between those ash slats, Matt’s outstretched hand brushes the long grass in the verges of my beloved and picturesque Cotswold homeland. I grew up here. I feel the warmth of home, as well as the shrieking 602cc engine in front of me.
The Citroën Ami 8 has a particularly comfy window sill arrangement. It’s just the perfect height at which to perch one’s right arm. The big, spindly steering wheel falls into both hands with ease and you hustle this ferret-nosed Frenchie along in the very same manner as the iconic 2CV on which it’s based. So far, this trip is a reminder that there are few cars I would rather be in, as an ‘A-series’ Citroën. The low centre of gravity, sharp inboard disc brakes and of course that burbling air-cooled flat twin up front that makes one of the happiest sounds in motoring.
On these broken Gloucestershire roads, it’s the ride that appeals to me most. I don’t fail to notice my colleagues guffaw each time I go around a corner, but the Ami simply floats across every undulation and pothole. With the stability, grip and composure that comes from its independent suspension (interconnected between front and rear to keep the car uncannily level over bumps), it’s hard to believe this little car has its feet in 1948. It deals with road imperfections that would leave most modern cars shuddering.
Elbows in the warm wind, we veer away from the busy Fosse Way and amble through country lanes in a blur of hedgerows and chirping blackbirds. What with the Minor’s signature exhaust ‘flumph’ and the Ami’s two-cylinder warble, the pair of old-timers create their own Anglo-french spectacle of quaintness as we pass through tranquil villages, whereas Danny resembles a rep, lost in time. The Cavalier carries itself well though – those slender lines making Insignias look like giant,
‘Today is about the rise and fall of revs and the warmth of a shared enthusiasm’
ungainly monoliths. Why can’t modern saloons look anywhere near as graceful?
Beyond Cirencester, we stop for lunch in the AV8 Café and enjoy a fine view of the intriguing Cotswold Airport and its numerous attractions. The Bristol Britannia ‘XM496 Regulus’ was the last of the Britannias to fly when she arrived here twenty years ago and is the only complete aircraft in existence. While the Britannia has been lovingly restored by a band of volunteers, the same cannot be said of the other aircraft dotted around the site. Numerous giant hulks are here – including a few Boeing 747s. Once the pride of their respective fleets, these airliners have arrived to be broken for spares. It is a fascinating spectacle.
We press on, heading for Wiltshire and more beautiful English countryside. While Matt pilots his stunning Morris with a grin and Danny reclines in the relative refinement of his Vauxhall, I too am overcome with admiration for my chosen car. Engineered specifically to run at full throttle all day long, the 602cc unit was such a precision piece of air-cooled design. It delivers such a sense of indestructability and confidence. I could, with my foot on the floor, cruise (loudly!) flat out at 75mph all day long. Today, however, is all about the journey. The rise and fall of revs and the warmth of friendship, camaraderie and a shared enthusiasm for old cars. We’re on the road to Beaulieu.
We’re wearing sunglasses and our right arms are getting a good roasting. What could honestly be better than a gentle but purposeful dither through Cotswold roads with a bunch of mates?
MATT TOMKINS THE DOWNS TO BEAULIEU
As James continues his bizarre murmourings of an infatuation with silly air-cooled engines, Danny and I stop our cars, let James drive on out of radio reception and sit down in silence beside a watercress plantation we’d spotted. OK, our route to Beaulieu isn’t direct but you don’t stumble across such beautiful scenes beside the M40. As we sit, we reflect on this quietly before the silence is broken by James’ Ami shreaking back into sight. We pose for a picture and press onwards. We climb deeper into the downs before descending, me in second gear ‘farting’ my way downhill as only the trusty Morris Minor can. As the sun starts to drop in the sky, I find myself in the lead and with no idea where I am heading.
I swing into a field gateway to let someone with a less appalling sense of direction take the lead. As we discuss the route we will take the rest of the way, we look around and take in the most spectactularly British view over a field of golden wheat that rolls with the hills. My Traveller fits the scene wonderfully, James’ Ami would look more at home bumbling around in the middle of the corn and Danny’s Cavalier… well it is rather well camouflaged. We sit on the field gate, proud that our cars have brought us this far in such comfort and showed us such great sights. Once we’ve established a route, we point their noses southward and head for Beaulieu and the wonderful field of rust.
As darkness falls, we enter the New Forest. Ever aware of the dangers of free-roaming horses here and regretting my decision not to upgrade my original sealed beam headlights, it is with a sense of relief that we turn into the hotel carpark and turn in for the night. The following day there is treasure to be found and an eclectic mix of characters to meet. One of the most magical things about Beaulieu is how you can finish a conversation one year and pick it up again, seemlessly, the next. And when it comes to that elusive part; if you can't find it at Beaulieu, it doesn’t exist.