Kintyre

It was probably rash for Land Rover to take a full page of The Daily Telegraph claiming you could drive across Kintyre. I knew Kintyre. In 1940 I watched Donald Smith of Drumalea set off, with Home Guard* armband and rifle, to scan sea and sky for Germans. We had family in Campbeltown. My favourite uncle Johnstone Milloy; his sisters Flora, Jessie and Minnie were teachers who, it seemed, had educated generations. My step-grandmother Martha came from Drum-something-else near Machrihanish where I watched Spitfires, and Liberators from America.

So I knew the dotted line in Land Rover’s ad was a boggy hillside and challenged it. I took one of the new V8 Land Rovers on it and got bogged down. Land Rover was cross, said I hadn’t been driving it properly so sent top cross-country driver Roger Crathorne, a Range Rover development engineer, to show me how. They sent a Range Rover, with a winch and flew me to Machrihanish. A Land Rover Product Strategist, brought along the same V8 Land Rover with the same tyres I had used. A wet peat bog was passed by outflanking it. A ridge that had looked impassable because there was a ditch the other side proved no great difficulty. The secret was to tackle it obliquely so that there was always one wheel on hard standing.

The Forestry plantation, however, was impenetrable. Ditches dug to drain the hillside were too much. We could have used ladders to bridge gaps, but that, we decided would impugn the spirit of the advertisement. We tried the hill from the middle, reaching Lussa Loch by the forestry road but that was no use either. Only something tracked was ever going to negotiate the sage and peat above Putechan. The Range Rover’s winch pulled us out.

With ground-anchors, helpers and time it would have been possible, but that would have been as relevant as putting the Land Rover on the back of a tractor or lifting it across by helicopter. It turned out that somebody from the advertising agency had been told that anywhere you could walk, you could drive a Land Rover. The advertisement was duly withdrawn. It was 1980. Roger Crathorne is now retiring but not before contributing a treasured foreword to The Land Rover File, 65th Anniversary Edition






*Donald’s armband still said LDV (Local Defence Volunteers) as I recall. I was only six.

Veteran Cars

Veteran cars. Nice in their way but would you buy one? Bonhams’ catalogue the other day had Lord Llangattock’s elegant 1902 Panhard Levassor at an estimated £550,000 to £650,000. You need a lot of cash-in-hand to shell out so much for something to drive on the London to Brighton. Don’t misunderstand me; I like the London-Brighton. I did it in 1992 and fared better than Prince Michael that year - but only just. He failed to finish but the Benz I borrowed from Stuttgart got a finisher's plaque, passing the pylons at Brighton with five minutes to spare. I was cold and wet but the experience helped understand a little why people do it. I had a minder and an entourage of back-up so it was easy enough, yet the driving needed concentration. Doing 12½ mph could be scary. Uphill was painfully slow. Downhill alarmingly fast.

Somewhere near Cuckfield I was unable to shift down to get engine braking. The transmission brake was never very good and it seemed to get in the way of the gearchange lever, so we were suddenly quite out of control. At breakneck (literally) speed we passed a bunch of policemen and cheering bystanders who little realised I was hurtling to disaster in a double-fronted shop. Happily Herr Benz's steering and stability was up to the job, so we teetered across mini roundabouts and went on our way, but it was an anxious moment. Braking was indifferent in the dry, precarious in the wet, and almost non-existent when hot. An accident on a Veteran with no seat belt, no crush zone, no airbag and a long way down if you fall out was not to be countenanced.

The right pedal on the Benz was the brake, the middle one a combination of gearchange lever and transmission brake, the left one did something obscure I never discovered. A handbrake of sorts acted directly on the rear tyres and my minder pointedly told me it was a parking brake only. You changed gear by preselecting 1 2 or 3 (there is also a reverse - this was one of the first cars ever to have one), then engage it by a lever on the vertical control column. Steering was by tiller - logical in an era when only horses or boats were ever steered. A pointer shows which way you are about to proceed and final drive to the back axle is by chain.

The ride turned out surprisingly smooth with two lots of front springs, a small transverse leaf and two fore and aft elliptics. The single cylinder engine could be retarded to teuf-teuf astonishingly slowly and I stalled it only once. It produced great pulling power at idling speed almost from rest, like a steam engine. A tidy flap at the back provided access to engine and lubrication points, which had to be attended regularly. Cooling is by gilled-tube radiator, notably good that boiled a couple of times on long climbs. With no fan and certainly no rush of cooling air, it was a wonder it didn't more often. The fuel is pure refined spirit - pioneer motorists bought it at chemist's shops.
The charm of a Veteran, which so thrilled pioneers of 110 years ago, is that it represents such a triumph over being stationary. It scarcely matters how well it goes - the clever thing is that it goes at all. If I had a spare half million – I just might.

Top: Ruth and Eric at the start, Hyde Park, early morning. 2) Joanna started the Run in the Benz. 3) Charlotte rides towards Brighton. 4) Joanna inside a wolf fur in the backup Benz - it was a cold day. 5) Anne, Charlotte, Jane and Joanna at the start.

Land Rover

I wish I had thought of LXV for the 65th anniversary edition of our Land Rover File. Land Rover thought of it first, for a 65th anniversary special edition Defender. If you haven’t driven a Defender for a long time you will be astonished how refined they are now. Short of elbow room maybe, but with the 2.2 diesel and not the old Ford Transit 2.4, along with an improved NVH package introduced in 2011, they are quite acceptably quiet. Drove one at Packington Estate, testing ground for the original 1948 Land Rovers, where they had 130 heritage Land Rovers with which to compare it. Certainly it’s nothing like the rest of the modern range with automatic electronic gizmos, hill descent control and air suspension. Yet it is perfectly civilized, with 6-speed manual transmission and a decent turn of speed. Nought to 60 in 14.5sec and 90mph isn’t bad and the LVX has 16in Sawtooth alloy wheels and Santorini Black paintwork with Corris Grey roof, grille, headlight surrounds and facia. There are leather seats, upright but perfectly comfortable and practical, with LXV embossed headrests and orange contrast stitching, extending to the steering wheel and centre cubby compartment. Even the ride is quite smooth; maybe something short of serene, but nothing like the spine-jarring turbulence once associated with Defenders. There is a union flag on the back. Be prepared for a surprise at the price. It now starts at £28,765. They hadn’t thought of variable-vane turbochargers and high pressure fuel injection on Land Rovers in 1948, but there is a lot in the LXV with which Wilks family members, present for the celebrations, were perfectly familiar. Shown a copy of the new Land Rover 65th anniversary book, Stephen Wilks, president of the Land Rover Series One Club pointed to the family Anglesey beach picture on page 15 and said gleefully, “That’s me, aged 7.” Land Rover milestones. Packington.

Weep for a Wolseley

When a serious commentator like Martin Buckley contemplates a Wolseley Six Eighty you are obliged to help. We were a Wolseley family, and while I wouldn’t put the 6/80 among his allegedly rubbish cars, it did have shortcomings. Valves. Wolseley’s obsession with shaft-driven overhead camshafts stemmed from copying Hispano Suiza aero engines during the First World War. It continued as Nuffield Morris Engines in the 1930s, so when a post-Second World War Wolseley was contemplated ohc seemed just the thing. There were two. The 4/50 and the 6/80, essentially Minor monocoque masterworks, developed under Alec Issigonis into cars not so much badge engineered, as family resembled. Torsion bar sprung, with decent ride and handling the 6-cylinder was 7in longer, had bigger brakes and fatter tyres. The middle bit with the doors and boot was pure Morris Oxford with not much room in the back.

Alas, the valves. The 2214.8cc produced 72bhp @ 4,700rpm and you could do over 80mph, but to an 18 year old a 0-60 of about 21sec probably seemed lacklustre, and 6/80s didn’t have a rev counter. Taggart’s service manager grew weary of warranty claims and mentioned, unkindly I thought, to father that the trouble was over-revving. In fact the valves and guides were made from poor materials and overheating was endemic. 6/80s had no temperature gauge. By 1952 the cylinder head and cooling system were redesigned, starting with engine number 20,301. I have no idea if ours was before or after, but it certainly burned a lot of valves. Owners nowadays use Stellite. Father replaced it with an Armstrong Siddeley. So, blemished rather than rubbished for Classic & Sports Car readers. I liked the 6/80, steering column gearshift notwithstanding. Ours was metallic green (top at Dunure, Ayrshire). I was into photographing cars even then – I thought you had to if you wanted to be a motoring writer. Mother had the Wolseley tricked out with trendy tartan seat covers over the fine leather seats; they were as good as new when it was sold.

Pity it didn’t have rack and pinion, like the Minor. They didn’t think R&P would work in a big car and it had low-geared Bishop cam steering. Four and three quarter turns lock to lock meant a lot of wheel-twirling when you were in a hurry. Nice wood facia. Mother liked that. Two big SUs and although there was 57 per cent of the weight on the front I don't remember too much understeer. Didn't really know what understeer was. Got the 6/80 stuck in a sand dune at Troon late one night. Girl involved. I was 18.

Duncan Hamilton

Duncan Hamilton was not so much economical with the truth as reckless with it. Jaguar historians don’t believe his story of how he and Tony Rolt won Le Mans in 1953. It is always a shame to let the facts stand in the way of a good story, but it seems the infraction that caused all the trouble was during Thursday practice not, as Hamilton tells it, the day before the race.

The ever-trustworthy Andrew Whyte noted that Lofty England “doesn’t go along with Hamilton’s version … of the incident,” and published a photograph showing that there were indeed two Number 18s in front of the pits during practice, - no big deal but against the rules. Sir William Lyons had to pay a fine for the infringement.

Norman Dewis, the Jaguar test driver told biographer Paul Skilleter how Lyons summoned Jaguar public relations executive Bob Berry in the small hours after Thursday practice, to compose an apology to the Automobile Club de l’Ouest. Lofty spent Friday sorting things out. So whatever prompted Hamilton and Rolt to “go on a bender” the night before the race, it wasn’t the threat of disqualification, which had been lifted.

Nevertheless Hamilton’s version prompted a review of the reissued book, which I have included in the new ebook Eric Dymock on Cars 1991, available to purchase on Amazon at an introductory £1.27.

The Sunday Times 20 January 1991

Racer who lived in the fast lane

DUNCAN HAMILTON is not so much economical with the truth as reckless with it. In an introduction to Touch Wood, his father’s reissued autobiography, Adrian Hamilton cheerfully acknowledges that when first published in 1960, “it just didn’t matter if in places it might be less than nitpickingly accurate — it captured the flavour of a bygone age in which sporting achievement alone was never enough without fun along the way”.

Duncan Hamilton’s idea of fun might not have been everybody else’s even in 1960. Boisterous to the point of delinquency on his own admission during service in the Fleet Air Arm, his high-spirited, perilous career continued after the war in motor racing.

He drove Talbots, ERAs and HWMs with great vigour and his victory at Le Mans in 1953 became the stuff of legend. Partnered by Major A P R Rolt* in the official Jaguar team, his car was disqualified the night before the race on a technicality and, in Hamilton’s own words, they “went on a bender”.

Reinstated the next morning, their only cure for a substantial hangover was the “hair of the dog”. They not only survived one of the world’s most arduous motor races, but won at a record speed, nearly 10mph faster than the winning Mercedes- Benz the year before and for the first time more than 100mph.

On a more practical note, the AA’s books on guiding motorists around Britain have set their own high standards. The latest series, Britain on Country Roads, includes one that helps drivers avoid main roads and encourages them to explore places bypassed by motorways and trunk routes. It describes 96 mini-tours of 50 to 90 miles, illustrating places of interest, and includes careful route directions. The maps are clear and the quality of production is exemplary.

*Anthony Peter Roylance "Tony" Rolt, MC and Bar (1918 – 2008) was more than a motor racing hero. Awarded the MC as a Lieutenant in the Rifle Corps in the defence of Calais, he was taken prisoner and after a number of escape attempts was sent to Colditz, where he planned to escape by glider. Hamilton’s book gained collectors’ status, the AA books have not. Some second-hand bookshops refuse to stock them; they take up so much space. So many were sold and then languished, mostly unread, on bookshelves throughout the land to accumulate on house clearances

Blackout blunder

Blaming the rise in road deaths on the blackout could be wrong. The notion that road accidents killed more people than the Luftwaffe in 1941 was challenged by research suggesting it was down to fewer traffic police and withdrawal of safety propaganda. Unlit streets and cars with hooded headlights (like those on this 1940 Ford Anglia) coincided with 9,169 fatalities on British roads in the second year of war.

Yet in work done for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents (ROSPA), historian A D Harvey pointed out that the casualty rate slowed in 1942 and 1943, when the black-out was still in force. His study claimed it was the result of more policing, and better safety publicity.

When records began in 1926, 4,886 were killed on British roads. It got worse in the 1930s, with over 7,000 deaths a year before the introduction of The Highway Code. Even this failed to stem the destruction and the Minister of Transport, Leslie Hore-Belisha, imposed the 30mph speed limit. He set up pedestrian crossings (Belisha Beacons), and brought in the driving test. Fatal casualties reached 7,343 in 1934, before his Road Traffic Acts checked the rise.

In 1938 there were still 6,648 fatal accidents, but after the street lights were switched off in September 1939, the toll rose to 8,272. The Birmingham Post blamed drivers' exasperation at the absence of road direction signs, painted over or taken down to confuse invaders. The Manchester Guardian's explanation was, ‘the psychological effect of living dangerously in war-time’.

Jaguar advertising in The Autocar of 5 March 1943 relied on promises of better times to come.
Among other explanations was the inexperience of service drivers, yet military vehicles did not show up as culprits. Most of the accidents involved private drivers still at the wheel despite the privations of petrol rationing. Pedestrians suffered worst in the early months, although by 1941 seem to have been keeping out of the way, or wearing light-coloured clothing as suggested by Air Raid Precations (ARP).

The Jaguar factory was given over to manufacture and servicing of Whitley twin-engined bombers.
The Home Office thought, 'War-dangers have caused road-dangers to be taken lightly,' and called a conference in 1941. It was attended by the Ministry of Transport, the Ministry of Home Security, eight chief constables, an assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan police, the War Office provost marshal, and representatives of the Admiralty and the Air Ministry. The Home Secretary and the chief constables decided that the biggest problem was diminished police supervision. Young policemen had been called up. Those left were busy enforcing black-out regulations and taking part in civil defence.

'The Police War Reserve has not the same interest as the regular police,' according to the chief constable of Manchester. There was a failure to prepare the reservists for traffic policing, and road safety publicity campaigns, developed in the 1930s were run down. The chief constable of Lancashire said, 'Instructions to school children, which had largely fallen off, were worth continuing'.

Mark V Bentley of 1939-1940 with headlamp mask. Wings and bumpers were painted white to beat the blackout. Policing became stricter and safety publicity revived. Deaths came down in 1942 to 6,926, and in 1943 to 5,796. The trend continued to a low point of 4,513 in 1948 then, with increased traffic, got worse again. In 1966 7,985 died. Improvements came slowly. By 2008 the figure was down to 2,538, in 2009 2,222 and 2010 1,857.

Hore-Belisha's Highway Code stemmed fatal the tide in 1934.