A new home at the Bowling Green.

We were joined by Cockney Mick who had earlier inspected the damage and of course, boasted that the damage was ‘probably terminal’, only he could rescue the situation. “You needs to ‘ave a team of six people, strippin’ it all down, linin’ an’ seelin’ it wive full gear. You gotta’ rope everyone togevver, just in case they get overcome wive de fumes an’ collops into the cak. I can do the job for £350 a day but if it’s near Chrimbo I wants £750”. As soon as Salty, eagerly, joined the wake, oozing false sympathy, the dark clouds began to roll in. “It’s a shame but we can always make the ‘Bowlie’ our local from now on”, he glibly and insensitively suggested, rubbing his hands together in Shylock fashion. This freak accident must be like ‘manner from heaven’ to Salty Philip who has been desperate to drag the flock from the clutches of the Oak. He has constantly chipped away at the inconsistencies of the beer, the untidy often dirty, environment but mainly, the ‘Doc’s’ laissez faire attitude, never failing to score points when the opportunity has arisen. He will be the first to forget the generosity of the ‘landlord’ who, over countless years, has provided endless exotic trade price buffets and bars at the numerous ‘garden parties’, social events, even formal dinners at Salty Towers’.       

I wonder how long it will be before everything that the Oak has meant to us really sinks in. There will now be no more free food, Sunday darts, impromptu music nights, big word contests, silly childish trouser games, animated Lowton outbursts, pertinents and relevants, silly billy bating, irrational bigoted comments, imprudent racist arguments, ill informed politically motivated debates, discussions concerning global fiscal and monetary issues, the fuckin’ greenhouse effect plus did the Americans ever land on the moon; in other words, the meaning of life. Good or bad, it depends which side of the ‘oxo’ cube you are looking at. 

Weds.12.12.07. Richie has sprayed the initial sealant on the dashboard so that the clocks and instruments can be assembled without fear of marking or staining the timber. The door panels have been marked out with suggested patterns for the leather trim which Michael can alter or approve.

The Oak is flooded

Tues.11.12.07. Once I had finished the internal panels I had every intention of taking them to Michael at Premier Auto trim to be covered in leather but, sensibly, I decided that at least one more fitting in ‘situ’ is prudent. During the afternoon Andy from ‘Europa’ called with the news that the connecting cable for the ‘tacho’ had finally arrived along with the front springs that I had previously inquired about. He has managed to locate a pair of 130 lbs. 10.5 to 7.5 with an ID of 2.25 at a nominal cost of £21.00 each. He claims that they are compatible for a Spax adjustable shocker and more importantly possess the ideal specification that we require: we may, therefore, have finally discovered the ‘holy grail’. But, having already spent too much time researching this ‘front suspension’ issue I feel neither elated nor disappointed but rather disinterested. Being excited about ‘finding’ proper parts has unfortunately lost the gloss it formally had. 

A visit to the Oak was long overdue. The distractions of the previous week had resulted in token abstinence for several days. But on approaching the pub I observed a hand written explanation on the front door advising customers that the “Royal Oak will be closed until further notice”. I immediately thought that the threats of eviction had now become a reality, burly bailiffs snatching personal possessions, the ‘Doc’ and June shivering in a local hostel, collectively flashed through my head. It wasn’t long before ‘Tracy’, the landlords black eyed daughter, from the warmth of her nearby parked car, informed me that there had been some kind of flood that had damaged most of the ground floor; the water had also seeped into the cellar contaminating the stock. She offered me a lift up to the Bowling Green where her ‘dad’ with Chris where taking comfort in several pints of ‘Speckled Bush’.

The actual truth behind the closure turned out to be far more serious than a ‘burst pipe’. The ancient configuration of surface water drains, soil pipes and domestic waste had conspired to create the mother of blockages; this consequently had ‘backed up’ to such an extent that raw sewage was freely flowing into the beer cellar covering the stillage, cooling system and all of the stock in a creamy ochre coloured carpet of liquid effluent. Creeping upwards the ‘brown soup’ had also leached into the ‘Axe Minster and Wilton’ having totally swamped the ‘fruits’ corridor. The ‘Doc’ by now had three scenarios. The loss adjuster could pay for the entire re-construction of the drainage system, the re-tanking of the cellar walls and roof, replacing all the coolers, ventilation plus refrigeration, the loss of earnings as well as stock for the period whilst the pub is closed together with the distress in addition to the trauma caused by the catastrophe. (in your dreams). The loss adjuster could suggest rodding the pipes then ‘cleaning up’ the cellar. (the cheapest and most likely). Or, which is the most dreadful outcome, local health and safety officers could condemn the premises, the enormity of re-routing the complete evacuation system proving to be an engineering impossibility. This accident could not have come at a worst time for any licensee, this period of trading being one of the most lucrative; the money earned usually keeps the wolf from the door during the bleak months of January and February. Typically the ‘Doc’ was being pragmatic about any eventuality. “I don’t give a shit what ‘they’ offer; the pub is bound to be closed until well after Christmas, I just want to know when the work will be finished so I can book my flight”.   

Another moment of Gestalt

                                     Burlington Diary December 2007

Mon.03.12.07. It was confession time at the Oak yesterday afternoon with Chris stating, quite emotionally, to Jo, that the project has been a real life line for him over the past couple of years. Being aware of this not such obvious revelation, the annoying delays and aggravation that I have experienced as all become quite clear. The suspicions of the past have presently taken on the form of this unambiguous announcement which, strangely enough, has liberated my frustrations and eagerness to ‘complete’. I assume the term ‘lifeline’ actually involves for Chris, a forced change of lifestyle that the Burlington project has demanded together with revitalised forgotten skills that often boost self worth along with confidence. There has been no interest, necessity or reason to sustain any contact with the very people who in the past have made Chris’s life unbearable. My basic knowledge of the ‘car trade’ has taught me, if nothing else, to trust no one. The business must have a greater proportion of shysters per square mile than any other commercial enterprise. For the previous 30 years Chris on a daily basis has had to ‘mix it’, ‘dodge and weave’, ‘bob and duck’ with the best and worst of them. It is true that over those years he has made a chunk of money but having done it he is perhaps now driven by other factors. Chris has become the archetypal example of a person who has suddenly seen the light, ‘done got religion’ or as simply ‘wised up’. He is the prime candidate who exemplifies the values of intrinsic as opposed to extrinsic motivation. The theory states as follows, that ‘people’ perform at their ultimate best by one of two influences. Outside forces such as monetary reward, based upon high achievement leading to the larger the purse has always been held as the primary means by which a person increases their productivity: carrot and stick, fourth lace hole or toffee, slavering dogs etc..explains extrinsic motivation. But during the 70’s another hypothesis was gaining in popularity; one that suggests that, ‘people’ will function at their optimum if personal ambition is inherent from within: in other words, intrinsic motivation. It is a matter of creating an environment in which self fulfilment is paramount. Personal development, a thirst for knowledge and understanding, gratification via acquired skills all become sufficient reward for ones labours, as opposed to a fat bank balance. For most of his working life Chris has been obsessed with material gain achievable by accruing ‘dosh’, but it appears recently there may be a wind change whereby the satisfaction of  surmounting all the difficulties of the ‘build’ have superseded  any cash return. The beauty of the machine in which he has had the greatest of input is now a certainty. He is savouring every moment, perhaps for the first time realises why it has given him so much pleasure. It is another moment of ‘gestalt’.     

After a fitting at Westmead the tunnel covers have needed some slight alterations but at present should be ‘fit for purpose’. The boot box has been glued and screwed; it now awaits the fitting of the door. 

Final Leg

 The English based P and O ferry offered a full, greasy, nasty, double egg, bacon, sausage and tomato breakfast. Our conversion to French cuisine expelled without debate ejected via the nearest porthole: five ‘full’ were ordered. The breakfasts were gobbled down without a word being spoken, occasionally the odd approving grunt could be heard, but it was only after the last morsel had been wiped from the plate the pot drained of PG tips that we began to come around a little from our ‘punch drunk’ state. Tales of our adventure flowed between our selves so as the White Cliffs approached the realisation of returning to the vehicles and a further six hour journey north started to sink in. However, the breakfast, the warmth the welcome comfort of the boat, the fond, sometimes hilarious, antics of the last few days would spur us on through the final chapter of the run. We dragged on the weather gear for the last time strapped ourselves into the cars, having forced Jack back into the boot of Graham’s Volvo we breezed through customs, climbed the hill to join the A20 outside of the port and headed for London.  

It was around 10.30 when we had left the docks comfortably overflowing with a mixture of assured fulfillment yet still pensively dominated by a sense of trepidation. The English roads unlike the ones we had not long left seemed mercilessly congested. Forty ton articulated trucks relentlessly intimidating the tiny Burlington, instead of gazing over well cultivated, manicured farmland the industrial expanse that was the Dartford tunnel crossing was the ugly urban picture that presented itself. The route would take us via the M1, then onto the M6, around Birmingham, Stoke, Knutsford, over Thelwall, passing east of  Warrington, to junction 27, off at Standish and finally Rectory lane, Worthington and the Crow.

Again the Burlington responded with an average speed of 85mph travelling north on the M6. We were making good time, determined to reach the Crow well before schedule but predictably we could arrive much too early for the invited guests to greet us. Leaving the M6 around 6.30pm, at Northwich, a simple decision was made to ‘mark time’ with a pub break at the Windmill on the A556. I suppose surviving without any alcoholic beverage for the last 18 hours was too much to ask for seasoned drinkers. After all we had now clocked up 36 continuous hours without sleep. The pub was tiny but it boasted a roaring open fire in the parlour. This was perfection, heat, beer and time to relax before the final 20 miles. The ‘Robbies’ beer definitely lifted our slightly dulled spirits: probably for the first time, on reflection, we were all coming to terms with what we were about to achieve. The arrival time had been arranged for 8.30pm on Monday 15^th. of November 1981, we drove onto the car park of the Crow at 8.15, casually strolled unannounced into the pub where we were met with well deserved applause.

Back safely at the crow. Geoff toasts the trip with a glass of 1981 Nouveau with our new ‘road’ friends of Graham Crompton, John Murphy and Jack Daniels.

The road back

As the Peage booths approached we pulled in to devise some sort of plan for the final race home but mainly to cross-examine John over the missing magnum. He had not only nicked one bottle but both of them. His strategy was simple. He would hide one of them in an anti-chamber of the Chateau in order to be easily discovered. The Birmingham crew would become relaxed, thrown off the scent naturally assuming the second bottle would be found in a similar, obvious place, but at the same time taking their eye off the recovered bottle. John hoped they would think that this was a friendly prank that at best, would only, but inevitably delay their start in the race. Murphy was not going to let them off so generously. Interspersed by chuckles, he explained that he had stashed the second bottle under the coat of the Chief of police knowing that no one would demand that the ‘top bobby’ should be strip searched. During the pandemonium, at the start of the race, John had slipped this bottle into the boot of Graham’s car, after it had been previously thoroughly searched, when John had become the main and only suspect. The first bottle, carelessly unprotected, was hidden simply under his coat unnoticed as we climbed into the cars.

The drive north would be straightforward but fucking cold. November nights in central France are notoriously arctic particularly in a rag top with no heater. This promised to be some journey. We would follow the A6 through Auxerre on to Fontainebleau then into the center of Paris to re-fuel.

We arrived in central Paris at 4.00am bitterly cold, disorientated with only fresh air in the tank. It was the combination of consuming gallons of wine, relentless pounding fatigue; we had actually been actively awake for twenty-one hours sustained by extreme temperatures. Finding an all night petrol station was sheer good luck. We filled the Burlington and found ourselves driving down the Champs Elise, out to Place Cliché, along the Pigalle to Scare Coeur. All of these roads were empty, even Monmartre with its notorious reputation for all night revelry was deserted. Leaving the suburbs the A16 carried us north to Beauvais. On auto-pilot we reached Amiens at 6.30am. as dawn was breaking, Geoff and I were fading fast. Sleep deprivation, lack of food, sub zero temperatures were ruthlessly unremitting; all taking their toll. Geoff needed, at least, an hour in the support vehicle to defrost. John and Jack were already fast asleep. The heater in the Volvo was pumping out red hot air. This was too good an opportunity to miss. Geoff fell in, greeted by Graham who was still, thankfully, wide-awake grateful of the company he was very welcoming. I returned to the Burlington with a stubborn determination to see Calais before 800am. The grey opaque mists had risen resting softly over the endless pastures then leisurely, silently and peacefully dissipating into the hedgerows, we were faced with the flat, calm rolling landscape of Picardie, inevitably the strong yellow sun began to creep above the tree line. With only 30kms to the coast I stopped to see if Geoff wanted to join me for the last few French kilometres entering Calais in triumph in a Triumph. To Graham’s dismay he was fast asleep along with Jack and John but after being gently prodded and poked he, like myself, was desperate to finish this part of the journey in the car that had brought us so far without a single problem. Arriving at the docks on schedule at 8.00am.we booked the first available ferry at 8.30am. we had now been awake for over 24 hours scarily resembling the walking dead. 

Robbery

Graham had met Fitz when the once unique St.Johns Precinct was being promoted after being recently constructed; they had both been dragged there because of mutual business interests. They hit it off instantaneously, both being aware of an early ‘foot in the door’ opportunity to make loads of money. Because the precinct became effortlessly and typically an immediate shithole neither of them did, but they still remained good bedfellows. Fitz was no doubt in some small way involved with the Liverpool Mafia; he owned clubs, casinos plus a number of bars, dealing only ‘recreational’ drugs, having a posse of hookers but he, like Graham was escaping from the shifty side of his world into an environment that was more pleasant, one of seasoned history, social ritual, a country that promoted an open culture. I think not.

There was an additional English group at the celebration representing Birmingham Town hall. They were a mixed party of civil servants attending under the pretext of consolidating some dubious ‘freebee jumelage’ with the town of Beaune. The prospect of a quintessential French market town twinning with the industrial hub of England is at best a bizarre notion. At some point during the night they were proudly presented with two magnums of Nouveau Beaujolais. The bottles were to be ushered back to the black country, one being conveyed to the mayor of Birmingham the other one to be consumed at a special fund raising Charity Gala dinner. John Murphy had befriended one of the lowlier representatives during the meal; which he would later discover to his cost. Everyone in the room was having a ball. The wine continued to flow at a pace, the waiters were conscientiously removing any wine bottles that had lost their chill at the same time replacing them with freshly organically refrigerated, dripping alternatives. Midnight was approaching, the drivers with their co-drivers were asked to re-join their vehicles in preparation for the start of the race. But just before the church bell tolled signaling the countdown an extraordinary kerfuffle broke out adjoining the Birmingham corner. They had mysteriously misplaced their prized magnums. At the same time Murphy was ‘clocked’ running out of the room only to return a few minutes later grinning cheekily. He was, at once accused of robbing the wine. A search of the building ensued. John was in heavy denial but just as the clock ticked down the mayhem rapidly intensified. When the church bell did ring out Monsieur Pons issued the declaration that the race should begin. Graham, Jack, Fitz, Geoff as well as myself had seen nothing untoward but we were all quietly wetting ourselves knowing full well that Murphy had a direct connection with the growing chaos.
We had to go. We sped off, unashamedly pissed, towards the A6 northbound eventually the road taking us to Paris. The last sight of the civil servants was confusion, anger, faces utterly astonished as to when and how the wine had vanished, mischievously liberated from their custody. They swore that they would claim their revenge, limp fists loosely waving in our direction. 

The Dinner, Sarmantelle?

Shrewd Graham had another view of the situation in that, he felt we had been stitched up by this false, slimy wine dealer, who, after he had taken one look at our disheveled common appearance, thought it best, by association, not to embarrass himself in front of the respected, esteemed gathering that would be present at the evening’s festivity. Luckily, I remembered that I had brought the receipt for the cases of wine I had previously purchased from Prothero and Son; possibly it may contain the suppliers name but more hopefully a local address? Tres bien, the letterhead boldly proclaimed that the wine would be provided by Monsieur Philippe Pons from his cave at Chateau Chirac, rue Marie de Lolly, Beaune. There was no time to waste, this scouse git was not going to get the better of two tricky yickers and three very street wise Wiganers. Geoff, with his good French, asked for directions, we climbed into our chariots without delay charging determinedly down the road. By now, it was 8.15 but by 8.30 when we were finally driving up the tree lined avenue leading to the Chateau. If we had stopped to fart we would not have made it. A craggy, ancient French farm labourer complete with Galloise hanging precariously underneath the grandest moustache in the world greeted us. Bonsoir monsieur, nous avons un rendezvous avec Monsieur Pons c’est soir, pour le Beaujolais Nouveau, there goes Geoff, again, with his crap French. He led us into the main hall where everyone had congregated. There, on the top table with Monsieur Pons alongside the rest of the ‘tres importantes personnes de Beaune’, was our devious supplier. We quickly discovered that there was ‘no room at the inn’; we were resigned to the fact that we had been well and truly tuttled by one of own. But as we were about to leave, astonishingly, from the top table an English voice bellowed across the room aimed in the direction of Graham. 
The person in question then began to leave his seat intrepidly making his way through the assembled crowd towards us. As he got closer, Graham roared with laughter as he recognized Martin a long past, but loyal friend. It so happened that Martin Fitzpatrick was a sleeping partner in the Prothero’s wine business and was rightly appalled when Graham told how badly we had been treated by his colleague. Martin returned to the top table to whisper into the ear of Trufore. Ashened faced, mortally wounded he consequently found himself banished to the lower ranks, to some dismal insignificant corner of the cave. Space was suddenly created; we were duly installed on the top table as Martin’s personal guests. Everyone shook our hands; warm smiles welcomed us to the festivities. We never actually found out what Martin had said to his disgraced ex-colleague but he had obviously shot himself in the foot, it was us who were now installed on the best table, it would be us who would profit from the evening.          

 Monsieur Philippe Pons rose from his seat to address his audience extolling the plumy aromatic virtues of the present vintage. He was eagerly followed by the Mairie who, again, praised the wine passionately. The Priest finally then gave a blessing and we were off and running. The meal was served cold, as was the wine. Fresh, wet, naturally chilled cold bottles brought in from the frosty night air were repeatedly presented at the table: every time one emptied another full one was produced. Interludes, during the many courses included Jack’s rendition of ‘ne rien, ne rien’, coaxing the tune from his aged squeeze box to the delight of the immediate company, especially Monsieur Pons who by now was neglecting his grim faced wife boldly sitting alongside his girlfriend, who also seemed curiously amused or perhaps the expression one of smugness? Geoff, John and I also wore the satisfied guise of cat with cream. Graham continued to relate old shady suspect times with Fitz.

On to Beaune

We gobbled down the French breakfast, paid the bill, thanked the ‘madam’ for her gracious hospitality, quietly leaving Amboise on the D61 for Montrichard, The N76 would then take us via Vierson, Bourges and Nevers. We stopped for lunch at St-Benin d’Azy, another tidy conventionally pretty town, with the ubiquitous church, market square encircled by provincial brightly painted cafes. The group, currently exhibiting a much more adventurous spirit, confidently swaggered into the nearest ‘truly French’ bistro. Bursting with childlike enthusiasm began to immediately trawl through the extensive ‘a la carte’ menu, aping the mincing effeminate food critics of ‘The London Evening Standard’. “I say Jack”, said John the electrician, “I quite fancy starting with the Foie de Porc Braise followed by Le Cassoulet de Castelnaudary, I do realize that it is not indigenous of the region as a result much better consumed in it’s native Toulouse or Carcassonne, but I feel like some ‘fill belly’ before my Cremets d’ Anger”. “A fine choice” returned Jack, the oily rag, “Oddly enough, I prefer the Poulet a l’Estragon avec Galette de pommes de terre complimented by a much lighter Saint Emillion au Chocolat for dessert, and, of course a selection of local fromage to mop up all the grease”. “Fuck me you Bastards,” responded Graham, the bus driver, with a smile on his face, “You have only ordered all of my favourite dishes, I shall have to settle for Rognons au Mais, Gigot aux Flageolets avec Chou Farci Chasseur accompanied finally by a small portion of Gateau de Marrons, that should satisfy my kench!” Geoff and I feasted on oeufs avec pomme frites washed down with un tasse de the. Every body replenished, by the early evening of Sunday 14^th of November, the D973 led our little convoy to Chateau Chinon, Autun then diagonally south east into medieval Beaune. 

The town square of Beaune is encircled by wonderfully twisted blackened timber framed 16^th century buildings randomly subdivided by smaller courtyards that disappear down even narrower winding alleyways. It is also notable for covered Gothic arched walkways supported by limestone columns on polished flagstone paved floors plotting the original 13^th century market.

We were not staying in the historic centre but we were offered, by our wine importer, William Trufore of Prothero and son, Bold street Liverpool, the facilities of his room at the local 1960’s motel. Ominously, it was at this point that things could have gone seriously ‘belly’ up. Earlier in the day we had contacted him regarding the arrangements for the evening. It was then that he suggested we should freshen up at the motel before we attend the soiree at the ‘cave’ of the ‘Patron’. Traditionally, on the night of the release of the wine personal, prior invitations had been sent out to the ‘great and the good’ of the village to attend the celebration dinner that evening. These would include all the local gentry, the priest, the chief of police, the Mairie, the editor of the village newspaper and anyone else who had an interest in the Beaujolais Nouveau, but principally, the all important ‘acheters’ of the wine. We met our wine importer for the first time, M. Trufore just as he was leaving the motel. He hurriedly explained that he must attend an important pre-arranged business meeting before the dinner; he insisted that we should remain there to relax, benefit from the hotel facilities but above all take time to recover from an arduous day’s drive.
After the meeting he would return to the motel at 7.30 escorting us directly to the venue where we could enjoy the events of the evening. By 7.45 there was no sign of William, naturally we were beginning to become concerned since the dinner was planned to begin at 8.pm. By 7.55 we realized that we either had been overlooked or simply forgotten; we decided to do something about it, but how? We didn’t know where the cave was located. 

Embracing the French Life

The car had been totally faultless all the way down; negotiating the empty elegantly curving French roads was an absolute pleasure. The hood was down, the side screens up, the weather dry and bright. We soaked up the rolling countryside complimented perfectly by the quaint rural villages of North Western France. We still needed weather gear, particularly in the morning, but as mid afternoon approached the sun was high, the sky blue naturally we began to lose a layer or two. It may be a total coincidence but every time I have driven through France there has always appeared to be a distinct change in the climate when reaching the Loire. Our spirits were immediately lifted when we crossed the bridge to enter Amboise. On our approach the Chateau above the river valley dominates the town. Closer inspection confirmed that the banks were lined with cafes, bars, hotels plus the customary variety of retail shops. 

We booked into the nearest hotel, within minutes we began to explore tracing the banks of the river from east to west. Sweaters replaced parkas, bob caps were discarded; we wandered aimlessly, but contentedly around the town. John and Graham were gradually beginning to relax occasionally chuckling as they re-told the mishaps of the ferry crossing, the delights of brandy at 8.30 in the morning, even their first experience of eating ‘champion the wonder horse’. Jack, as was his general demeanor, always appears quietly contented but even he was expressing how delighted he was that he had joined the group. The Burlington was safely parked up, the hood returned, oil and water checked, she was proving to be a much better vehicle than I had first thought. As the evening drew on we searched for a restaurant that didn’t serve horse.

The prospects of a full night lay ahead. We had drinks in the ‘Bar de Quai’, a lot of them. Bier blond quickly pursued by several shots of Pernod, then on to Muscadet in an attempt to ‘get tuned in’ for a proper good night on the town. A safe restaurant was chosen to tuck into some real native ‘snap’: another steak meal but this time derived from cow. Everybody was more than happy by now, the night was still young we were high on an eventful day fuelled by a concoction of alcoholic beverages. We returned to the Quai bar but it was closed, then we tried ‘Le bar de Loire’, closed, ‘Le Loisir’ was also firmly shuttered, ‘Le Rive’, was locked and barred and finally, ‘Le bar des Anglais’ again, ironically, ferme. So, at 9.00pm France was completely closed, panic set in as we ran back to the hotel where, as residents we claimed that we had a right to be supplied with alcohol. The madam was just retiring to bed but Geoff with his oil slick charm persuaded her to serve us with some booze. It was 9.30pm when our glasses were empty. Five semi-intoxicated grownups was not a pretty sight. Jack phoned Elsie, back in England to inform her that at 10pm on a Saturday night he was about to go to bed, alone, an act that he had never repeated since the age of ten. As before, Geoff rescued the situation by producing a bottle of Scotch from his bedroom, the evening was saved. We swayed upstairs at midnight, kissed and hugged each other, simultaneously waking the other French ‘guest’ from a deep sleep, we all fell into bed waking up the following morning to some more delicious croissants, bread, jam and coffee. We had embraced the culture.      

St.Malo

It was Saturday the 13^th of November 1981; we were on our way to Beaune. Leaving St.Malo on the D21 we decided to have breakfast at Dol de Bretagne. This was a typical, cosy, petite French town. A market square bordered with cafés, adjacent to the Church, close to the town hall, the centre boasting a public pissoire. It was now about 8.30am so it was time for some real nourishment. One of the bars offered breakfast, so we dragged ourselves inside, gratefully collapsing against the nearest table; by now the overindulgence from the night before was resurfacing. The boys were looking forward to the usual hangover cure of bacon and eggs with a large pot of tea; this was not going to happen. The patron produced croissants, bread, jam and coffee, there were puzzled expressions, obvious disappointed. They collectively suspected that this was not going to be such a good trip after all. Their faces lit up when at the next table two French farmers were enjoying coffee accompanied by quite a large hit of brandy. They began to understand the country a little more. We moved on, after coffees and brandy, along the D794 to Vitre then later to Laval. By lunchtime we had reached Vaiges, where we stopped for lunch. Good news, the menu of the day was steak and chips. We’ll have five please. Geoff pointed out to me that it was in fact cheval, but we both decided not to inform the group until later. The news was greeted with, “oh… bollocks I’ve just eaten ‘Trigger’, jointly followed by ‘he wasn’t half bad though”: we were bonding as a group.

Jack, as well as being a car salesman was also a part time musician. He played the drums, very badly, at the Monday jazz night at the Crow. The band would vary in size from a six piece to as many as ten, they would play for free but my side of the bargain was to keep them in ale throughout the night. What a bummer, I took less money at the bar than I gave away; this was probably one of the reasons why I never made a profit at the Crow, the other one being that I was regarded by many of the customers as a right miserable bastard. Jack had brought his second instrument, the squeeze box, why? I don’t know, but later it proved to be a life saver. After leaving the Routier, preceded by a few choice melodies from the instrument in the direction of a local but very baffled wedding party, we drove through Le Mans on the N157 down to St. Calais. By early evening we had arrived, via the D9, at our first overnight stop at Amboise on the Loire.  

Departure

Leaving the ‘White Crow’.

After the Post and Chronicle publicity shots, prominently displaying our travel sponsor together with his office totty outside the Crow, Jo, my dad and a few bemused punters dredged from the vault gathered on the car park. This small but eminent assemblage cheered us off around 2.00pm. Geoff with myself in the Burlington, Graham, John and Jack in the Volvo 144. The larks shall begin.

The journey would take us over the Channel from Portsmouth to St. Malo, then, after a 7.00am start, on to the fortified river town Amboise situated on the south bank of the Loire: the following day our small convoy would travel to our final destination to the timber framed medieval town of Beaune, the northern capital of the Burgundy region. Although not strictly in the Beaujolais ‘department’ this particular centre has usurped the title of ‘coeur de Beaujolais’; this is where, along with all the other competitors, we would congregate in search of the 1981 Nouveau Beaujolais. Possessing the greater knowledge regarding the geography of central France, plus having another significant advantage, the latest ‘ING’ map, Geoff had planned the trip.

It was probably the most indirect, curiously contrived route possible, but Geoff was stealing time from work and thought “If I’m going to get caught for bunking off I might as well enjoy it and see a little more of ‘beautiful’ France”. The Burlington ran like a dream down to Portsmouth arriving at 8.30 to board the overnight ferry. Jack hadn’t brought his passport; he also did not have a ticket for the ferry. Notably, he was still pissed from the pre-race lunchtime session having also enjoyed several comfort breaks whilst traveling south. He had witnessed every ‘scam’ on the planet throughout his horse trading days but still couldn’t believe that he been so easily hoodwinked out of the Crow finding himself now standing at Portsmouth docks. Problem solved, Jack was to hide in the boot of the Volvo then smuggled aboard. The crossing is ideal for passengers who ‘partake’ of a drink, because, the boat slowly trickles over the Channel throughout the night with the bar open. We knew that we were a ‘bunk’ down on the four berth allocation so it made good sense to secure as much pleasure from the facilities that were on offer, principally to have a serious drinking session to offset the ‘soon after’ scramble for the beds. As it turned out, John gave up his berth for Jack, on the grounds that he was a good Christian, Jack requiring the greater comfort considering that he was a wrinkly old choot: perhaps another reason may have been that John, earlier in the evening, did fall out of the top bunk cutting his head on the floor of the cabin: once is bad enough, risking the tumble twice is just plain dumb. 

The ferry docked at 7.00am, we were in France.

Charitable event

Geoff Duckworth, my co-driver, indisputable close friend, we go back many years; originally meeting at infant and primary school then predictably onto Grammar school. Geoff was great company, very charming, sharp; he constantly lit up a room with his wit, banter and remarkable knowledge about the most obscure facts. He was a railway enthusiast, a lifelong Wigan rugby league supporter, a geographer, the best mimic, a maker of wooden things, an angry fullback, a pleasant barman, a super chef, a good husband, a dog and child minder, very bald at twenty one and best of all, he had a younger sister, Gill who could fart at will. He was my families’ most treasured friend.  

There had been some organization along with basic planning before we set off but not a lot. We searched out sponsors in an attempt to push the charity angle. The main money earner was to import cases of wine to be sold, having previously been ordered, to the great and the good of Wigan, the profit being returned to Derian House, the local sick children’s hospice. I had commissioned thirty cases from a wine importer from Liverpool. These would be delivered to the Crow two days before our return, thus making the Beaujolais run a bit of a mockery: the ‘nouveau’ is always in England before the race has in fact started. 

The wine supplier also assured us that whilst we were in Beaune he would arrange accommodation but most important of all he would invite all of us to the celebratory dinner on the evening of the release, at the ‘Cave’ that was providing the nouveau. We still needed sponsors: first of all we approached Peter Woods, a local travel agent who would hopefully provide us with a cheap crossing, this he in fact did. Next we needed warm weather gear particularly for the midnight run back to the UK. I had known John Somers, the noted sports equipment retailer as well as the supplier for the local education authority, for a number of years. My first real connection with Wigan was when I was invited to join a band, back in 1965. John was the manager, but more importantly he bankrolled the band by buying most of the equipment (but I had my own gear previously from my first ‘Haydock’ band). The gigs would pay for John’s investment. We gigged endlessly for about 18 months, without pay. The band folded, John fancied rally driving so he bought a Lotus 7, the roady, Dave Green bought an MGB. I later visited John meekly groveling for what I felt I was owed. I was offered the huge sum of £30.00, but shit, that’s rock and roll, or in John’s eye, let’s give these school kids a faint chance of stardom, if that fails we can screw the dumb bastards out of their wedge. Having had this experience with John I didn’t really expect too much in the way of a handout, but after a visit to his shop, in Mesnes Street, both Geoff and I walked out with matching sets of Lacoste tracksuits, not much fucking use for the cold drive back, but snazzy all the same.    

Graham Crompton, John Murphy, Jack Daniels.

The first of the group to be penciled in was Graham Crompton. He, during the early 60’s, was the smart local lad made good. He had become a successful businessman in the coach holiday racket running a small fleet of ‘charrabangs’ to Blackpool and North Wales. The business was very lucrative; life was good for Graham until, in a cruel road accident, a careless motorist knocked down his son, the sad result of which the young boy was seriously injured. Regrettably, his marriage as well as his business soon after suffered accordingly: it was, much later, after a lengthy period of recovery that Graham returned to the ‘Crow’ becoming his regular watering hole. He would arrive at the Crow following a late phone call, subsequently staying into the early ‘after hours’ for his last scoop. He was always accompanied with Philip, his driver. Philip was a huge, abstinent, smelly carthorse who preferred playing pool whilst Graham drank. Lurching from one non- profit making venture to another over the past fifteen years; his latest business concept was bottled spring water from his rented farmhouse at Anglezarke. Graham planned to off load this nectar to mindless Southern punters in their Mayfair clubs as the perfect complement to their Glenmorangie. It never got off the ground leaving Graham with a shit load of designer glassware. At present Graham was taking Morris dancers to their rallies at weekends at the same time liberating them of the one pound that their mothers had given them for light refreshments, namely salty bags of crisps washed down with sugary ‘pop’. He always carried around a fifty-pound note in his top jacket pocket claiming that if marooned anywhere in the whole world, it was as much as anyone needed to survive. Graham later went on to develop the ‘Sam’s’ chain of bars: he now commutes from Spain from his ‘huge fuck off’ villa. Good on him.

John Murphy was a 'spark', with his own business, which he ran with his son Damian. He was a genuinely likeable person, soft spoken, honest especially trustworthy. A good Catholic, he was married to Bet who, after he she’d had a drink or two transformed into a deranged witch. Everybody in the pub could recognize the early warning signals when she was about fall off the edge. She always found fault with John for, not requesting ice in her drink, not finding her favorite bar stool but generally, in her opinion, his hapless attempts to ignore her every pointless demand. Her glasses would progressively slip down her nose, the already sunken eyes would completely disappear inside her head, she began to dribble from the corner of her wrinkled mouth, her hair would then become possessed, mutating into a ripped bag of wire wool. Once activated the transformation could empty the pub in less than five minutes, consequently John would find himself abandoned, even by his closest, isolated ineffectively attempting to tame the monster. Because of her irrational temperament, but more importantly the embarrassment she caused John he could be forgiven anything. The boys in the fault laid bets as to how he was going to rid himself of the harridan. Butchered with a blunt rusty axe to be later buried under the patio was the favoured outcome; the aftermath would see everyone closing ranks during the police investigation offering John endless alibis to finally free himself from ‘mad Bet’. Nevertheless, John worshipped the ground that she walked on, always forgave her difficult testing behaviour, there was never any doubt that they were a solid partnership for better or worse. But he was certainly looking forward to the break in France.                     

Jack Daniels was the last person to join the group. Jack was kidnapped at midday on the day of the departure, after an extended liquid lunch he succumbed to gentle persuasion from Graham: finding himself at Portsmouth, with only a basic suitcase, without a passport, he needed to phone his wife Elsie informing her where he was and why. Jack was an old school car dealer; he probably made his first deal selling a horse and cart to some unsuspecting victim back in the 1920’s. His motto was always, ‘dress down for buying but ‘up’ for selling’. He had a craggy old face that needed a good ironing, but he was always smiling having a ready supply of slightly staged, but old fashioned corny jokes. He had been using the Crow, off and on, for all of his drinking life; consequently over the years he had developed a real affection for the place. There was no way Jack would turn down an opportunity for, potentially, a serious boozy trip, so as Graham bungled him into his car he didn’t have much of a fight on his hands. 

Geoff Duckworth best mate

Geoff Duckworth

I completed the run, 25 years ago, with Geoff as co-driver, trip organizer, navigator as well as French translator. Friends from the pub, Graham Crompton, John Murphy and Jack Daniels loyally followed in the support vehicle: this has rightfully become a minor legend in itself. Unfortunately, the passing years have taken their usual toll; there now remains only two of us still alive that is, Graham and myself. John died, cruelly, of motor neuron disease, Jack, being 125 years of age faded away due to old age, and Geoff, died from a heart attack, very prematurely, on Wednesday the 17^th. January 2006.  Geoff, who over the years had become a genuine Francophile, had proposed the original idea for the Beaujolais run during the previous summer after first seeing the vehicle following a long hot day of drinking Greenall’s best bitter. In fact it was Geoff who initially introduced Jo and I to France with a six-day visit in the September of 1978 leisurely travelling the coast of Brittany and Normandy in a cramped over laden Honda Civic. 

He later recounted this tale, in his customary ebullient manner, of mad English people racing cars, from midnight on the nearest Sunday to November the 14^th, starting in central France to then race to Marble Arch in London with the sole aim of bringing back the first bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau. The fastest car to make it back from Beaune, approximately 750 km to London won the race. Geoff described how many of these foolish drunken prats habitually finished up embedded in a roadside ditch enduring broken limbs, to be then transported to the nearest hospital or mortuary. The ‘gendarmerie’ conveniently ignored the reckless crazy speeds that these insane bastards were achieving, pushing their Porches, Ferraris, Masaratis, Lamborghini’s and Lotus Cortina’s faster than their own reflexes could cope with. I don’t know the actual death toll or the record time that had been achieved, by any vehicle, car or bike, but it was blown away when some RAF twat completed the journey, in a Harrier Jump Jet, in three minutes. 

I subsequently became curiously hooked on the idea of making the run myself, with Geoff as co- driver, in the then recently built, Burlington.

I had built 001 Burlington as a very willing amateur, although I did rely on professionals to weld the chassis, re-build the engine and gearbox, to re-wire the entire car there was much that I did myself. Because of this, I felt it prudent to co-opt a back up team along with a support vehicle as a form of insurance if the car broke down whilst half way through France. At the same time I was the licensee at the White Crow so it seemed a smart idea to recruit some of the regulars as the back up team.

Beaujolais 81

The original 1981 Beaujolais run

The car had been completed during the summer of 1980. It had been a labour of love, often misguided, approached in an amateurish naïve way, accomplished mainly throughout the hours outside the then usual opening hours of the licensed trade.

I was twenty nine enthusiastically running a large Georgian pub on the A6 at Wingates Westhoughton. A simple, proven chassis with equally primitive running gear was the backbone of the vehicle. Any standard Triumph Herald could be stripped of its body then the ‘Burlington’ panels could be fitted directly onto the donor chassis.

The donor vehicle, a 1971 Triumph 13/60 estate has been stripped in the stables of the ‘Dog and Pheasant’, Wingates Westhoughton. The chassis has been cleaned then painted with ‘Hammerite’, the engine, gearbox re-built then the Haydn Davies Burlington kit assembled. 

The extent to which the ‘backbone’ of the vehicle was modified was entirely the choice of the individual. Professional assistance was required to rebuild the engine along with several areas of the box section that required additional welding: the outriggers were replaced, the chassis cleaned then daubed with Hammerite. The hotchpotch of various shades of fiberglass were eventually painted ‘British Racing green’, she was ready for the open road.

Twelve months past by rapidly, we had moved to a new ‘pub’ challenge at the ‘White Crow’ with new ‘English’ speaking clients. My latest ‘toy’ had been running perfectly over the past year easily handling various jaunts to Yorkshire, Wales, Donnington Park plus several kitcar shows.  A visit to the ‘Crow’ from a lifelong friend, Geoff Duckworth tested my faith in the car, “Why don’t you have a go at this year’s Beaujolais run in November? A fast car isn’t really necessary anymore, ever since the RAF completed the race in three minutes using a Harrier Jump jet the actual time trial has become obsolete. All we would need is a support vehicle, a few sponsors, gather a few orders for some cases of wine and we could make a chunk of money for a local charity; what do you think?” 

Like most throw away lines the idea germinated into the Beaujolais run of 1981. The present restoration of the Burlington is primarily to replicate the 1981 race from Beaune to Wigan.

My other blog

Why not visit my other blog at www.njparr.blogspot.com and have a look at a very different recipe book entitled 'Cockney Nick's recipees from awl ova the World'. It is an alternative view of the exciting world of cooking by a quite unique chef.

The first Burlington run

Over the next seven days I shall be posting the original Beaujolais run from 1981. This has been the primary reason the car has been re-built over the past 5 years.

Cracks in the wallpaper

Thurs.29.11.07. Nigel had in fact completed the painting of the wings, they still need to ‘buffed’ but this is better undertaken when the wings have been assembled and secured to the car. The tub has not yet been placed on the chassis; there still remain many of the basic modifications to be ‘signed off’ before this can be achieved. The boot box undertrim is not yet been glassed to the tub, the fuel filler pipe has not been routed and the new position of the handbrake has not been finalised. So much so I have decided to store the newly painted wings in my lockup. The clutter at Westmead could cause unwanted damage. It is also probably prudent to allow the fresh paint on the wings to slowly harden undisturbed.

Michael of Premier Auto trim had re-covered the leather seats last week but it has only been today when I have been able settle the bill of £500.00: within this cost is the extra hide which will eventually cover the door panels, gearbox and handbrake tunnel plus the surrounding cockpit trim. The tunnel covers had been almost finished when I foolishly trapped the third digit of my right hand in the jaws of my newly acquired belt sander. There has been some flesh loss along with a dangling flap of skin, which hopefully will regenerate. But the accident may now halt the progress of the models.     

At this particular moment I cannot understand the ebb and flow of commitment that is infuriatingly apparent at the workshop. The obvious tasks needing to been undertaken seem to be ignored; less glamorous than tarting up the engine bay, they, nevertheless must be addressed. It’s the ‘Tommy dog syndrome’, whenever threatened he pretends that the ‘big dog’ isn’t even ‘there’ blindly convincing himself that it does not actually exist. It is one of perpetual contradictions throughout the length of the project that I have never been able to fathom. It is part of the sum that has always been disregarded, the endless ‘programmes of work’, the constant undoing, the repetitive re-do, the contempt of the contributions from others, the awareness of the concept underpinned by the reality of a timeframe. These traits compared with the almost childlike enthusiasm together with stubborn determination are the other faces of the ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ persona. I am aware that I have been hiding in my cellar as part of a tactical, deliberate withdrawal but it has been the only way that I have ultimately felt fruitful, positively productive. Justification equates to peace of mind, a genuine pleasure carefully ‘making’ pieces that effectively add to the sum of the whole. 

Fri.30.11.07. The month has fizzled to its miserable conclusion. The tunnel covers are ready to be tested on the car. The wings and seats await fitting, the carpets are ready to be cut, and the tub must be lifted onto the chassis.

Final sanding

Fri.23.11.07. The ultimate rub down of the dash and undertrim was undertaken during the morning but it wasn’t long before I realised that the shoulders of the trim needed to be deepened because of their proximity to the channel that had been cut for instrument decal. Working down from 600’s, 800’s then finally 1200’s the surface on both pairs of timber was that of a baby’s arse if not even smoother. Richie intends to check over my minor blemishes before sealing the models. At this point it would be wise to have one last fitting on the car to ensure that everything is compatible before staining and lacquering.

The gearbox console requires more modification than first imagined. The rear of the unit is now quite incompatible simply ugly it definitely requires small additional semi-circular embellishments to reflect the lines of the gear stick aperture. Although initially insignificant, these alterations are time consuming but absolutely necessary.

Having arrived yesterday, the clock repaired by John Ostick has found its way to Wigan’s Central Sorting Office. Luckily, it hadn’t been lost but was recovered without too much anguish thus becoming the final clock in the dash.

Tues.27.11.07. The work on the gearbox console is almost complete. Nigel promises to paint the wings today so that they will be ready for collection tomorrow. I need to confirm that this will in fact happen tomorrow morning to ensure everything is on schedule. 

            

Completed Dash

Thurs.22.11.07. The few lumps and bumps that I couldn’t remove with the router had to be ‘hand’ sanded to tidy the slot that I had cautiously begun the day before. The groove had been cut a little too large but the plastic strip, containing the switch decals, rests comfortably and once stained then lacquered, should remain unnoticed. The dash is at the stage where a series of ever decreasing coarseness of glass paper can be safely applied. All the dangerous moments of potential disaster are now behind me. The threat of an uncontrollable router spinning out of control carving a catastrophic swath through the centre of the precious timber are gratefully in the past. Even an idiot can apply lighter and lighter glass paper to achieve the ultimate mirrored finish to the wood. Nevertheless, the sooner the dash is handed over to Richie so that he can cast his ‘trained artisan eye’ over my clumsy effort producing his ‘deep stain’ magic the happier I shall be. I, of course, am belittling the talents that I have quickly developed. The dash is not crude or badly fashioned. My starting point was a rough sawn elongated plank of timber 130cms by 20cms provided by Alain Luzan in Tarascon, (slightly warped due to my wanking tenant in France), that had to be drawn, cut to shape, have 5 different circumferences of sockets precisely located and drilled, all the shoulders routered carefully profiled, also I had to construct a tapered rounded matching under trim and finally, permanently bond an exact ‘anti warp’ 6mm plywood replica as an additional form of reinforcement. I have skilfully manipulated complex tools, applied logical, considered, thoughtful practises and successfully achieved the goal that was set. I have researched, designed and made in every sense of the word a ‘professional outcome’. 

All that Richie needs to do is slap a bit of stain on the wood, the job is done and he’ll take all the fuckin’ glory.

Throughout the morning the onerous task of sanding down the additional layers of ply that had been added to the gearbox tunnel cover, to create a ‘sexy look’, had been gradually chipping away in one of the empty recesses contained in my black vacuous mind; filed away in ‘things never to do again’. The very thought of clouds of saw dust choking the cellar as well as my respiratory system, which I had foolishly assumed belonged to a past life, surfaced as another unwanted back catalogue of reality. But, “sexy he wants and sexy he gets”. Two hours and six sanding belts later the bulk of the shaping was either on the floor or down my throat; but the tunnel had been prepared to take the first round of filler. Unfortunately, I strongly suspected that I had been in this ‘place’ before. Today’s ‘Sexy’ was in fact one of the earlier models, preceding ‘70’s persuaders’, ‘austere minimalist’ and ‘butch brute’. All of which have their own special ‘place’ on the shelves of my cellar enveloped in special dust from months of previous repetitive labour.