Mon.09.10.06. Colin has not been able to complete the welding over the weekend, as planned; he has also put off his next visit until Thursday. Frustratingly, this has disrupted the arrangements of the week. The bulk of the stock was due to be collected today from Paddocks and Big Max but until the box section area of the chassis has been ‘signed off’ which will accommodate the modified brackets for gearbox, the complete drive train cannot be built up, the front and rear suspension units are on hold as a consequence, the engine compartment cannot even be started.
Nevertheless, we have begun to seal the chassis with ‘Glanville heavy duty rust proofing’. This concoction is a strange brew that was first introduced to us by ‘John the Paint’. The white creamy substance requires a certain level of rust on the metal to encourage a chemical reaction. The liquid is easily brushed onto the surface but on contact turns bright blue but later when dry becomes satin black in appearance. Once covered with the treatment the chassis became transformed into a robust, sturdy, sculptured piece of quality engineering. The alterations, predominantly to the rear quarter, have merged naturally with the original ‘50’s spider design to produce a unique structure; an art form in it’s own right.
With very few bright, dry days of this year remaining our thoughts had drifted away from the tribulations of the project. The observations germinating from the weekend topic of pig rearing together with the urge to drive once more, encouraged Chris to call time on the ‘mission’ prompting a suggestion that we should ‘go off road’ on his land. So, by mid afternoon we had teamed up with Preacher Steven on the edge of the valley in pursuit of ‘larks’. Chris had recently acquired an ageing but solid Discovery along with an old but mint Sportrack.
The workhorse versus the young pretender. Which vehicle would score 5 stars in ‘off roaders’ weekly? The previous venture on the land saw Danny Brennan laid low with a horse fly bite that would have killed an elephant, Steven reduced to pulp by an out of control sliding Land Rover and Chris trapped inside the same vehicle sinking into a bottomless bog. As a consequence I was pleased that my role in this mini adventure would be one of action photographer, not jungle driver. The land itself falls gently down to the Douglas in a tumbled, unkempt carpet of mixed vegetation, some older, broken trees interspersed by patchy grassland. The ten acres spread from Potters Herbal Remedies on its’ southern border to ‘seventy plenty’ steps which forms the northern boundary. There was enough varied terrain to challenge the metal of any ‘four by four’. The two adventurers ploughed on battering their way through the toughest tangled, woven undergrowth leaving swathes of muddy track in their wake. There were a few sticky moments, spinning rear wheels, the odd precarious slide but all in all it was trouble free bringing a comforting smile to every ones face. Not being able to drive since his stroke, Chris particularly enjoyed the simple pleasure of, once more, handling a motor car albeit at only four miles an hour: the joy was there to see. We must do it again.
Our little escapade was re-lived in the Oak that evening, slightly embellished but not exaggerated. During the course of the afternoon we were lucky enough to see a rabbit, a fox and a tiny Roe deer so it wasn’t such a giant leap to re-introduce the topic of ‘pig rearing’, especially as Tim’s concern was the primary source of amusement for Andy Lewis, who happened to see him over the weekend, and had learned of Tim’s concerns relating to the pigs.
Everyone seized upon Tim’s plight hastily offering suggestions to Chris regarding many other possible uses for the land; perhaps, a few sheep, chickens, cows, turkeys, ducks and geese, the odd tramp accompanied by his ‘scrumpy soaked’ posse, a wrinkly coven of wizened white witches, eco-swampies excavating a labyrinth of tunnels, an itinerant band of hippies creating tree top dwellings regularly practising energetic overt naked love, caravans of Gypsies with their entourage of children, dogs and goats, a smoking, grubby Iron Age village jointly sponsored by the National Trust together with the local council and, even, possibly the site for the next “Glastonbury” festival. “Food for thought” pondered Chris.
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