Pulled Over

I have dug out a couple of links for you, in case you're curious.

Duncombe Park itself is on.

http://www.duncombepark.com/

I love that it's owned by Lord and Lady Feversham. We come from Faversham, in Kent, and I can imagine that if one lived in a house (hice?) that posh one would pronounce it "Feversham" too!

The Cafe solo guy is on

http://cafesolo.org.uk/

... a very funky site with lots of animated stars twinkling in the background.

I didn't tell you, did I, that on the way up North we were "pulled over" by the wannabee police patrol guys ("Highway patrol?"). There we were, minding our own business plodding North having just sorted the first (Peterborough) fuel problem, when these guys slowly overtook, cut us up a bit and pulled in in front, with the flashing sign on their roof saying "Follow Me Vehicle Inspection". Gulp! None the less Dad gives them a thumbs-up out the window to let them know we have got the message and will follow.

Once he's got over the feelings of guilt (What I do?) that you always get when the Feds single you out Dad went on to worrying that maybe we were leaking fuel and we'd be taken off the road - condemned! So, the wannabees indicate left and whizz up a slip road, then round two round-abouts at speed. Dad suspects that all is not well - they do not seem to be driving in a 2CV-following-you-and-trying-to-keep-up friendly manner. It is all we can do to keep them in sight. At one point a van gets between us and they don't seem to care.

Anyway, after a few yards they pull into what looks like a lorry servicing area, and then bimble about as if undecided where to park. Dad follows patiently. When they eventually stop, Dad steps out and presents himself. The wannabees look totally confused at this. Why is this weirdo following us in a 2CV full of dogs?

"But, your sign..." says Dad. "What?" they ask. "Follow Me Vehicle Inspection"????!!! (now a tad annoyed)

It turns out they have left the sign on by mistake or pressed the wrong button on the dash. they don't want us at all, and we can go on our way. They try to lighten the mood with jokes about "I'm surprised half of Nottinghamshire didn't follow us in here" and "My mate only stopped you coz he wanted to buy one of your dogs" Fnarr Fnarr. How we laughed.

Very droll I'm sure
Deefski (acquitted)

Southbound again

It rained for pretty much the whole of Friday afternoon, and we spent it huddled in the beer tent, out of what was by then a chilly wind. Megan has a special way of looking miserable, shivering occasionally to emphasise the point. Mind you, she does choose to sit out in the drizzle, too, rather than in the tent on the bed with the rest of us. Never mind, says, Dad, with 24 different real-ales to choose from, they're well set up.

With the general chill and wet, and a sick car to nurse home, we decide to strike camp Saturday morning after a good latte from Cafe-Solo man (we love the Citroen chevrons he draws in the white foam top, with darker foam!). There's nobody about as we pack up. We dogs watch the pack-up from the warm and dry of the car back seat. Only little Theo and his bro' come to see us and pester us one last time.

On the road we must remember that we effectively only have the top third of the fuel tank to play with, and with the range on a 2CV being 200 miles if you're lucky, we must stop and buy another £7's worth every 60-70 miles. A pain, and rather confusing for the dogs, who expect to drive for 2 hours, then get out and have a stretch of the legs, maybe re-fuelling, maybe not. The "normal" car does 660 miles between fill-ups! And so we chug southwards seeing the county markers click past - Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Essex. We slot in behind HGV's again to hit that relaxing 56-60 mph groove. Not too close - we're not "tailgating" here or trying to slipstream anybody.

And so the hours go by and we cruise home uneventfully, except for one little palpitation. We'd pushed the "70 miles" a bit close to the wire, refuelling in Peterborough, then doing the A14, M11, M25 bit all in one run (no easy services), and on the sharp left hander, M25 to A2, the fuel sloshes to the right of the tank and she sucks air, doing a couple of kangaroos, just to give Dad heart failure. Dad nurses the car to the Northfleet fill-up. Sorted. We complete the 290 miles home in 6 and a half hours.

Of course, now that we've given up camping, the sun's come out, so Dad's able unpack the tent and hang it across the garden to dry it and clean off the cow-pats before packing it up.

Dad texts 2CV Llew about the fuel problems. Llew (love that guy!) re-assures us it's not a biggie, and he can fix it one evening this week.

A quiet evening unpacking, cleaning stuff, getting clean from camping grunge (but not for dogs yet).

That brings us to Sunday morning, when we listen to the rain drumming down and we are delighted we are home, dry and safe, not still on that site thinking about packing a very wet tent up in the rain. Megan is positively luxuriating in the warm clean (new) bed linen. Mum puts it on the bed when we go away.... something about wanting to feel ladylike for once, and not wrapped around with mingin' dogs and husbands. (Goes to town - make-up, scented candles, nice wine, posh table linen, girlie film, chic-lit, etc) The Nerve....

Deefer

When it's not raining...

How's this for a pretty view across the Dales, with the 2CV camp setting up in front of Duncombe Park's house. Lovely (when it's not raining). Unfortunately, it's been a bad August for rain and looks like being the wettest ever on record. The camping field had soaked up a fair share of it and was a bit boggy, especially on the flat bit at the top.

The constant passage of narrow 2CV tyres don't help, and we dogs had a sorry time having to cross these minor morrasses each time to and from the loos, beer tent, cinema tent, food tents. Who am I trying to kid? No sooner were we out of the car than all three of us had rolled in some soggy cow pat or a pile of sheep poo or whatever, have you.

When the sun shone, though, you could definitely tell it was August - temperatures shot up to 20-23 and it was lovely out of the wind. Some lads flew kites to entertain us (we love chasing around on the ground as the stunt-kites fart and whistle about overhead).

We meet first-time campers Mike and Bev (plus young Elliott) and help them get a palatial tent up (you could park the car in this one). At least, I think we were helping. There were a few raised eyebrows when I started strolling about over the pristine white bits, but we got there in the end.

Mike and Dad shared a few beers and tried to protect me from a small Herbert called "Theo" who decided it was fun to be "a dog's worse nightmare" - Dad called him that but, un-abashed, he wore it like a badge of honour. About 5 we'd guess (maybe more), he thought it was great fun to run at me swinging a pretty fish-shaped windsock on the end of a huge roach-pole under my nose, then took exception if I woofed at him and chased him around. He wouldn't go away. Short of going "Grumpy old git" on the little tyke, we were at a loss. Mike said "Grumpy old git" was definitely worth a try!

We meet an amazing bloke. Driven by 2 passions, 2CV vans and coffee, he'd set up in business selling nice lattes, cappuccinos, espressos and so on from the back of a converted 2CV van. You know the ones I mean - l they look like a 2CV at the front, but there's a corrugated iron shed welded on the back!). He calls the business "Cafe Solo". You drink your coffee while listening to his CDs of Django Reinhardt and Stefan Grapelli. The guy lives on Holy Island and is, part time, a coast guard for the tidal causeway.

As well as serving superb coffees, he was keeping us amused by tales of rescuing hapless motorists who'd ignored the tide-time warnings and whose cars had been inundated by the incoming tide. At least one a month, he said, had to be helicoptered to safety. On Japanese chap in a hired (Hertz) car had very little English, and kept saying "My luggage! My luggage" as his car sank. Trying to help him with possible insurance stuff, they's asked him for his Hertz paperwork.

On it was scribbled dozens of Japanese calligraphy characters and next to them, their translations into English, which were all words like "Laxative", and "Diarrhoea". "You'll probably not be needing those now...." they'd suggested. They'd phoned Hertz to explain that if they wanted to come and get their car it was in the North Sea. At first the receptionist thought it was a gang of Geordie lads having a laugh with her.

Daleswoman Deefski

Yorkshire (again)

Adventuring again! Not satisfied with the trip to Yorkshire, narrow-boating a few weeks back, we're off up North again at the behest of the 2CVGB club, parent club to Dad's "Kentish Hoppers" crowd. It's the annual "National" meeting, taking place at the gorgeous Duncombe Park, in Helmsley, just east of Thirsk.

Just east, that is, but for Sutton Bank, of which more later.

So, leaving Mum behind as ever (Mum doesn't do camping!), we are all loaded into the 2CV last Thursday for a gentle toddle North, 290 miles, but determined to mainly (again as usual) tuck in 50m or so behind an HGV so that we can relax into a 56-60 mph stroll. You get to see the backs of a lot of HGV's in a 2CV and we're not particular which - Czech lorries, bulk food tankers, big grey container lorries with MOFU registrations (hmmm), NFT lorries..... We keep the speed down, mindful of the problems "we" (I wasn't born yet) had getting to Kelso (Floors Castle) for the International Meeting in 2005.

It nearly works - we get up past Peterboro' when the car suddenly starts kangaroo-ing, as if for fuel starvation. Dad recognises these symptoms (correctly) and guesses (wrongly) the cause - we had exactly the same when a fuel line blocked a couple of years back. So Dad starts with the routine of "dive under n/s front wheel arch - disconnect fuel line - blow backwards up it to clear block - reconnect (hopefully no face full of petrol and/or hand soaked in the stuff). Restart". Kinda works, and we get to a fuel stop. Dad figures that the extra fuel pressure from gravity might help.

Seems to have cracked it. Off we go again, and this time, nearly reach Thirsk, but then we kangaroo to a stop again, this time nowhere near a petrol station. We need the AA. AA man listens to Dad's description and susses that it's not a blockage, but an air leak in the uplift pipe from the tank, so the car is behaving as if it's only got 1/3 of a tank, then running out while still 2/3 full. (In fact, had Dad been more observant, you can see the stream of air bubbles in the (transparent) fuel line, where the petrol should be flowing!).

AA man tows us 6m to a friendly garage (friendly to AA men and, it turns out, westie owners, so friendly to we three too!), we tank up, and we're off again. AA man (bless him) advises us to just keep the tank full and stop every 50 miles for more, till we can get home and fix it.

Re-assured and mobile again we decide to risk Sutton Bank , a 1-in-4 (25%) uphill on the A170 between Thirsk and our destination, Helmsley. Caravan and trailers are banned, and even well-loaded 2CV's are risky, but by charging at it in 2nd, and then banging down into a high-revving 1st every now and then, we make the mile to the high ground. Scary, exciting, probably even a bit daft in a car with dodgy fuel supply, but we got away with it.

And so, coasting down through the Dales to Helmsley and sweeping majestically into Duncombe Park. What a beautiful place. First sight of it in slanting evening sun, through the trees, had us feeling like characters out of Pride and Prejudice (the bit where the heroine first sees the rich guy's pad - sorry about this, I asked Dad but he's a literary ignoramus.... Mum would be appalled!!!!)

More soon - I can't spoil you all in one write-up!

Deefer