A day to remember
Alisdair’s secret to a great day out? Your family, 52 bhp and a packed lunch.
THERE’S A particular smell to a Series I after you’ve been driving it for hours, and I’m savouring it right now. A heady blend of hot oil, tyres, waxed paintwork, all covered in a dose of exhaust fumes. I’m sitting by the car on a bench with my son, under a cherry blossom tree in full spring glory, surrounded by beautiful White Peak landscape. I’m struggling to think of many better days in my life.
But rewind a bit to get to that point, for I’ve been busy. In time for the improving weather, I thought I’d really have a push on the old car to bring it on a step or ten. I changed the oil and filter, greased the props, pedals and bled the brakes again. The rear grab handles were straightened, cleaned and finally fitted. The engine bay had a good tidy up, I repainted the fan and pulleys, then I went further, polishing up the heater pipes with Autosol. Inspired, I also removed the rocker cover and gave that a gentle polish, followed by a full wash and wax of the car.
A snatched hour’s test run locally gave me the first chance to assess my carb tweaks, to nail the richer tickover. Coasting to a halt after a run and pulling the spark plugs out showed a nice, clean tip, free from sooty deposits, with colouration from heat right on the bend of the electrode – a sure sign of the timing being spot-on, too.
But what is the point of all this fettling, unless it really gets used? Well, with a few days off and stellar weather forecast, I was determined to enjoy it. Rather than an hour’s tootle, why not spend an hour or so heading away from home? Easter
Monday, that was exactly how I came to end up on that rural Peak District bench with my eldest son and my Series I.
Before we reached the petrol station that morning, a Defender owner literally waved us off in style. Saucer-eyed and waving at spotting a Series I, you could tell seeing us had already made her day. Half an hour later, choosing back roads over busy dual carriageways, my doubledeclutching got better and better as we watched the miles rack up. Ten miles became 20, then 30, then more as home was left further and further behind.
Tyres roaring, rear canvas rolled up, speedo hooked just under 50 mph, onwards we drove. An hour and a half later, Ashbourne was soon on us, and our first proper break; the ford at the village of Tissington.
Under a cloudless sky we pass a half hour nosing about the bridge and river, even stalking right up to a couple of dozen grayling oblivious to us in a side eddy. While the kettle boiled a cursory check over the car to put my mind at rest revealed nothing amiss whatsoever. A call home to confirm all was well, half a dozen splashes through the ford later, (“again, Dad”) and on we drove. Not to one of the busy tourist honeypots, but a carefully chosen, quiet spot for lunch where we could share the scenery, a picnic and savour our very special mode of transport.
The Peaks are a mecca for motorbikes, but whilst the big bikes scream their way on the main roads, we point the Landy’s snub nose to the slower, more interesting routes. One of which is Mawstone Lane, south of Bakewell, where we headed to our picnic waypoint.
Single track, so narrow as to have grass growing in the centre in places, it isn’t somewhere troubled by sports motorbikes, coach tours and quarry traffic. Half way down the lane overlooking Youlgreave, fields and stone walls, there’s a bench and a space just large enough to squeeze an 88-inch, which is where we started our report.
It doesn’t seem we spend enough time on enjoying the moment, but for once, that was what my son and I did. Tailgate used as a serving table, kettle regularly whooshing, for a couple of hours we simply laughed, ate, played, exploring the bluebells, blossom and stone walls together. All the while the car next to us; our reason for getting here, and our way
to return home again.
The Peak District lanes brought out the best in the old Land Rover, cruising easily about at 30-40 mph with the vents open and the rear canvas furled up. Stone walls framed views in the rear mirror, and the exhaust burbled under bridges as we slowly ambled towards home, but not before swinging back into Tissington for an ice cream. Restarting after lunch the car has its only issue, randomly idling rich again, almost to the point of stalling itself. Restarting after the ice cream and it went back to idling beautifully, curiously. Idle jet crud?
We arrived back late that afternoon. Us smelly, covered in a veneer of dust and absolutely whacked; the car fly-splattered, lighter by half a tank of fuel and another 112 miles racked up. I need to refill to be critically accurate, but I’m saying we returned around the 20 mpg mark or thereabouts – a definite improvement. Pulling the spark plugs all showed a lovely tan colour.
I know people drive their Series Is on long trips to the continent, but for us, on 600 tyres and no overdrive, our day out was a real adventure. As I put the car away, the sweet smell of a hot day’s use filling the garage, I can’t help but think that a simple day with one of my children in one of my Land Rovers is impossible to beat.