Whilst cycling on quiet Shropshire lanes yesterday I was passed by a young woman driving a mint 1960s white Ford Anglia. Bit like the one pictured.
It made me smile to see a youngster at the wheel of a car almost as old as her grandparents. Most classic car drivers are middle-aged men. Nothing wrong with that demographic. I am firmly in it. But cars like this only survive if the next generation take an interest.
My 18 year old niece is heading in the right direction. She’s currently buzzing around in a tatty Ford Ka – her first set of wheels – and already casting admiring glances at my old Range Rover. Good taste in one so young.
Same must be said for the young woman in the Anglia.
This beautiful house would be worth an entry fee to view. Luckily, it’s so close to the road I can just lean up my bike and admire it from common land.
Forton Hall on the Staffordshire-Shropshire border was built in 1665 for local gent Edwin Skrymsher. This was just after the monarchy had been restored, and Charles II was chasing actresses around London.
Skrymsher got Forton built at the right time. A year later half of the capital burnt down in the Great Fire of 1666, started on Pudding Lane. It’s likely that soon afterwards all the decent architects and builders would have headed south to rebuild London.
It only cost £100 to complete Forton Hall. Somewhere between £100k-£150k in today’s money. You could barely build a Granny flat for that now. Labour was cheap back then and materials were locally sourced and in plentiful supply. No building regulations or health and safety either. Skrymsher’s £100 paid for the structure and craft… not compliance.
This building makes me proud of two ages – the one that built it and the one preserving it. Wisely commissioned and well designed. Then masterfully built by craftsmen in the 1660s who wouldn’t have known their work would be admired 360 years later by a middle-aged man on a bicycle.
Kudos also to the current owners, who are clearly keeping the Hall in pristine condition. This isn’t just a house to live in. It’s something special they have decided is their duty to preserve.
Why did it take me so long to stay at Thatchers Hotel? The answer is simple. The name.
Every week the Jag or Range Rover brings me south from Shropshire for work and two nights in a Surrey hotel. There are 3 or 4 favourites I bounce between depending on price, availability and mood at the time of booking.
Thatchers has never been on that list of favourites. And never would be if I hadn’t chanced across a great room rate, held my nose and muttered ‘mmm, might as well then.’
Why the resistance? I hadn’t heard anything negative and it’s as convenient as the others. The rooms are freshly refurbished, the staff friendly and the food good. They replenish your room biscuits every day – nicely done – and there’s free parking. I hate paying for parking. Yes, Talbot Inn, Ripley. This means you.
Could it be that ‘Thatcher’ is a divisive name to someone my age? The Iron Lady – Margaret Thatcher – was Britain’s Prime Minister for almost my entire childhood. And although I’m not rabidly political… it left a mark. At the very least her name doesn’t scream hospitality. Quite the opposite.
This negative name association has done me out of some great stays at a worthy inn. Thankfully now rectified through lived experience.
I do my best thinking on a bicycle. The senses attuned by the motion of pedalling and the outdoors. But not so much that you can’t mentally attend to something else.
This morning’s subject was Porridge. The 1970s TV show. In particular, the prison officer character played by Brian Wilde. Foggy from Last of the Summer Wine, if that helps.
Anyway. Wilde’s character’s name eluded me. I knew I knew it. I knew I’ve always known it. Just not right now. You try to force it out. ‘Didn’t it begin with an M?’. No.. that was Mackay, the Scottish one. And on it goes.
Eventually you do the smart thing. You give up and think about something else. What shall I get for dinner tonight? Am I taking Mum into Birmingham tomorrow? That kind of thing.
And then, a few miles on… out of nowhere:
BARRACLOUGH… MR BARRACLOUGH!
I don’t lead a sad life… but that will be one of the most satisfying moments of my day.
I love how the mind works. Especially when you give it time to do so.
I’m watching Rowland Manthorpe. Properly at ease. Doing something the rest of us would find challenging.
The way he went about things resonated. An enthusiasm for the process… and a lack of embarrassment. Despite the onlookers and fluffed lines. Or the ‘mmm, one more’ comments from Charlie behind the camera.
It’s all part of it. When a take didn’t work, Rowland had another go. Pausing for a few seconds to clear his head and confirm his intent. Occasionally consulting with Charlie… or the notes on his phone. And if there were any of those self-conscious thoughts that stop the rest of us before we begin… he just shook them off.
I’m lucky that I get to see people like Rowland do his thing. Watching him at his craft helps me with mine.
A reminder to be self-assured. Not self-conscious.
Interested in driving an old Range Rover to Florence and back? Here are a few facts.
The car – A 2009 Range Rover Diesel TDV8. Pictured here safe and sound back in the office car park, Guildford. (Looks black in this light.. but it’s Bournville Brown.)
Route – Guildford to Portsmouth. Ferry to Caen. Cross the Alps through the Mont Blanc tunnel. Down Italy to Florence. Reverse on way back.
Distance – Guildford to Florence was 924 miles.. and back again was 912. Slightly longer going out due to a ‘satnav mistake’ finding my hotel in north Italy. Total 1,836 miles.
Duration – If you’re driving solo and taking things steady then two days from door to door.
Fuel economy – Just over 30mpg. Cruised at just under 70mph.
Tolls – in France 225 euros. 188 euros in Italy. Watch out for the ‘virtual’ tolls from Caen towards Paris – you to pay online.
Parking – Florence has a ‘Zona Scudo Verde’.. Green Shield Zone, keeping old cars out of the old centre. Had to park 5 km out of town. Only cost 15 euros for the week.
Overall cost – Ferry £337, Diesel £500, Tolls £360. Total £1,197. (A similar trip by air would be around £500.)
Worst road – The A1 Milan to Bologna. Flat. Straight. Endless.
Best road – The A6 in Burgundy north of Beaune… but the Valle D’Aosta down from Monte Bianco is something else.
Car spotting – France is full of Citroens and Italy is full of Fiats. There was a mid-engined modern-ish Ferrari in rosso red with yellow brake calipers near Modena. And a lovely Alpine A110S in that light blue of theirs, somewhere deep in Burgundy.
Mechanical mishaps – None. Apart from my rear number plate coming unstuck after baking in the sunny Italian car park. No Halfords in Italy. No specialist number plate sticky pads. But I bought some ‘bio-adesivo’ strips in a hardware store, which did the job.
Don’t do it – If you want the fastest, cheapest way to get there.
Do it – If you love driving. French and Italian motorways are quieter than the UK. Get your timing right around Paris, Milan and Mont Blanc and you’ll barely touch traffic. Glorious motoring.
On the two-day solo drive from the UK to Florence I noticed my mind wandering.
Yes, some attention was focused on getting the car up to speed. And keeping it there. Easy to do with modern technology. The car performed. My navigation app sang out directions. Usually along the lines of ‘keep going straight for another 64 miles.’
I say the car behaved. It did. But I hadn’t fully forgotten a serious breakdown back in December. (Blocked fuel injectors.. for those who care about such things.) That recent trauma meant I pounced on every strange noise, knock, hum or vibration. Probably imaginary. You tell yourself that. Or ‘pull yourself together’… and move on.
Plenty of lovely scenery to move on to. I shan’t forget the Aosta Valley as I dropped down from the Alps onto the flat lands of Piedmont. It was exhilarating. And a relief to be on the move again after queuing two hours on the hairpin bends approaching the Mont Blanc tunnel. But this was a road to turn off the music and focus.
I also found myself thinking of those who had passed this way before. Nelson and other sailors, rushing to meet their ships in Portsmouth with orders from the Admiralty. South of Paris I thought of the Maid of Orleans – Joan of Arc – heading there to rescue the city from the British forces.
In the Alps I wondered if Hannibal of Carthage led his elephants this way to defeat the Romans. Turns out they probably passed further south. And on the flat arrow-straight road between Milan and Modena I thought of Enzo Ferrari driving home from breaking with Alfa Romeo to start his own Scuderia.
There were less intellectual moments. The railway line runs alongside the Autostrada in central Italy… and I caught myself shouting ‘Go on then you smug, high-speed bastards’ as a Frecciarossa sped past. Ridiculous for a man of my age to flick a V-sign at a train.
Luckily, most of the journey passed in a calmer state. I like covering routes others have done before me. Satisfyingly following in their footsteps – or wheel tracks. Occasionally closer to home… when I thought about Mum and Dad taking the ferry to stay with friends in Brittany back in the early 90’s. Some of their favourite holidays.
I imagined describing this adventure to Dad. He would have enjoyed hearing about it. I would have loved telling him.
One anxiety regarding the UK to Florence road trip was toll booths. The French and Italian ones being on the left. Not a problem with a passenger in a right-hand-drive old Range Rover. But this was a solo trip.
You can get a little box for the windscreen and glide through the automatic télépéage lanes. Nice ping. Queues bypassed. Charges taken automatically. But a single scheme covering both France and Italy seemed to need a European bank account. And my banking arrangements are boringly domestic.
Shouldn’t have worried. You just get out and walk round… as captured in this pic taken at a French péage approaching the Alps.
One Italian booth refused my cards. I fed it cash. Another didn’t sense me because I’d stopped too far back. Pressed a button. All was well.
On the few occasions people queued behind me, I gave them a glance and an apologetic wave. They didn’t mind. One shrugged.. another smiled and waved back.
Once you see someone doing their best, it would be a bit much – even for an Italian – to lean on the horn.
‘Leave things tidy’ I’m muttering at a motorway services halfway down France en route to Florence. I used to work at one of these places as a teenager. Nearly 40 years later, I still look with horror at the people leaving an unreasonable mess.
I’m on autopilot. Stacking my cup and plate neatly. Wiping the table with a napkin. Even straightening the chair before I leave.
‘Pot Wash and Tables’ the supervisor would say when I clocked on back then. Meaning I had 8 hours clearing tables in the restaurant. And when the tables were clear I’d load the dirty plates, pots and cutlery into the industrial dish washing machines – watching out for gusts of steam at the back end of the conveyor.
Best be quick, or Janice on tea point will come in shouting again for more saucers. Then back out to clear tables. I can still see my brown fingers at the end of every shift, stained by stubborn tea bags refusing to come out of their pots.
I can also picture the congealed egg welded onto the stainless steel cutlery. And smell the ashtrays. Restaurants were smoking back then. Hard to believe now.
On my way down to Florence, I stop every couple of hours at services like this AutoGrill near Piacenza. Somewhere to let the old Range Rover rest, have a pee and stretch my legs.
Services are great places for people watching. Which I appreciate, being on a solitary drive. Wondering where that family is coming from or where that chap is going to… and what they do in normal life. I used to ponder on that when anchored there for my shift as everyone else passed through.
This is only my second voyage on a Brittany Ferry in 40 years. Hardly screams ‘loyal customer’. But I’m here again because of the first time. Funny how a brand experience can last decades.
Booking my first non-air trip to Italy, I had two key decisions to make. Rail or road? Not a hard one. I’m taking a bike over… love driving… and want some freedom and autonomy. Road it is.
Then Le Shuttle (Eurotunnel) or ferry. Also easy. Ferry. And that’s where it gets interesting. Because ferry makes less sense. The chunnel is faster, competitive and runs every half hour. But I didn’t want to use it.
I was drawn instead to a Brittany Ferry. Not a P&O one.. nor DFDS.. but a Brittany Ferry. It had to be Brittany. And I’m not even going to Brittany.
Our first family foreign holiday – apart from to Wales – was to a Eurocamp site near Douarnenez in Brittany in the early 80s. Dad packed us into the blue Vauxhall Cavalier… Mum read the map. Got the Brittany Ferry to Cherbourg and drove over. I remember parts of that holiday as if it was yesterday. Not 40+ years ago.
And so Brittany Ferries have captured my business once again. This time I’m paying… not Mum and Dad.
Some brand experiences stay with you. Especially the ones from childhood.
Andrew Greenhalgh 