It’s minus 2 degrees Celsius outside and everywhere is sugared with frost creating a picture perfect winter scene, the freshness and chill of the air almost takes your breath away. As I drive around the Benefice [in the family Peugeot] delivering the Sunday notice sheets I see people enjoying their Saturday pursuits with families, pets or on horse back. It’s idyllic.
However the group that is clearly missing is the petrol heads, which some may well give thanks for. In the Spring, Summer and Autumn this group of eccentrics, of which I am a proud member, can be seen in their brightly polished pride and joys driving around the British Country Side waving or tipping their driving caps to passersby some times on there own or often in lines of automotive history and glory. There is nothing quite like the beauty of bird song been broken by the deep throbbing note of a V8 in the distance or the stilled quite chatter of a village High Street as the purr of a well tune E Type Jag passes through immediately taking people back to an age when motoring symbolised freedom and adventure, not speed cameras and CO2 emissions.
No at this time of year us petrol heads are confined to the garage and workshop, as the nemeses of us all, the grittier truck prowls around the country lanes spuing its cocktail of sand and salt devouring ice but also body work, seems and seals.
We have to be content with pottering around in the garage taking things to bits and hoping we can put them back together again, and on occasion wheeling our cars outside to run the engine for a while. So far I have change the coolant, repaired the brake light switch, checked the cam belt [scary] and polished just about everything waiting for the rain to wash the salt away and the sun to dry the roads.
I was never particularly good at waiting as a child, you know Christmas, Birthdays etc and not much better as an adult particularly when I’m excited about something. This is not helped by the fact that on my study wall is a large road map of France marked with yellow dots and fluorescent orange marker showing my route from Shrivenham heading towards Spain and Santiago.
Planning the route in my spare time has been great; I’m as far as Cahors at the present which is the planned stopping point for Friday 20th June. A 2000 year old town with the river Lot looping it, famous for its truffles, Saturday morning market, dark heady Cahors wine which was produced as far back as Roman times and the Cathedral de St-Etienne (St Stephen). It’s also a traditional stopping point on the Camino de Santiago.
As I bury my head in the many guide books I have acquired I’m whisked off to beautiful villages, sun drenched valleys and glorious winding French country roads lined with poplars. I can almost hear the throb of the engine and exhaust of my 7 as I go up and down the gears and turning through bend after bend. This is more enhanced by the joys of Google Earth which lets you see these places from above also all bathed in sunshine and even follow the roads as if driving them. The illusion does not last for long as I look up and out of my study window to the frost, cold and grey skies and then catch the pile of paper work in my in tray that need attention.
Only 21 weeks, 1 day, 6 hours, 34 minuets and 22 seconds to go.
However the group that is clearly missing is the petrol heads, which some may well give thanks for. In the Spring, Summer and Autumn this group of eccentrics, of which I am a proud member, can be seen in their brightly polished pride and joys driving around the British Country Side waving or tipping their driving caps to passersby some times on there own or often in lines of automotive history and glory. There is nothing quite like the beauty of bird song been broken by the deep throbbing note of a V8 in the distance or the stilled quite chatter of a village High Street as the purr of a well tune E Type Jag passes through immediately taking people back to an age when motoring symbolised freedom and adventure, not speed cameras and CO2 emissions.
No at this time of year us petrol heads are confined to the garage and workshop, as the nemeses of us all, the grittier truck prowls around the country lanes spuing its cocktail of sand and salt devouring ice but also body work, seems and seals.
We have to be content with pottering around in the garage taking things to bits and hoping we can put them back together again, and on occasion wheeling our cars outside to run the engine for a while. So far I have change the coolant, repaired the brake light switch, checked the cam belt [scary] and polished just about everything waiting for the rain to wash the salt away and the sun to dry the roads.
I was never particularly good at waiting as a child, you know Christmas, Birthdays etc and not much better as an adult particularly when I’m excited about something. This is not helped by the fact that on my study wall is a large road map of France marked with yellow dots and fluorescent orange marker showing my route from Shrivenham heading towards Spain and Santiago.
Planning the route in my spare time has been great; I’m as far as Cahors at the present which is the planned stopping point for Friday 20th June. A 2000 year old town with the river Lot looping it, famous for its truffles, Saturday morning market, dark heady Cahors wine which was produced as far back as Roman times and the Cathedral de St-Etienne (St Stephen). It’s also a traditional stopping point on the Camino de Santiago.
As I bury my head in the many guide books I have acquired I’m whisked off to beautiful villages, sun drenched valleys and glorious winding French country roads lined with poplars. I can almost hear the throb of the engine and exhaust of my 7 as I go up and down the gears and turning through bend after bend. This is more enhanced by the joys of Google Earth which lets you see these places from above also all bathed in sunshine and even follow the roads as if driving them. The illusion does not last for long as I look up and out of my study window to the frost, cold and grey skies and then catch the pile of paper work in my in tray that need attention.
Only 21 weeks, 1 day, 6 hours, 34 minuets and 22 seconds to go.
Good on you Richard. At first I thought you were driving to Chile as that's the only Santiago I know. It's good to have more eccentric Vicars around, my reverend friend in Richmond drives around on a Ferguson Tractor. I look forward to reading about your adventures. Now I must fix my 7 reversing light.
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