A flock of 7's compete with the woolly ones on their own turf - former holiday seaside splendour - a sense of directionlessness and camping it right up proper.
640 miles, 70 x 7s, sunshine and sheep...and it all started from a pub near the horse running place in Chepstow. The start was at 10 am and the initial damp weather and similar enthusiasm was left on the other side of the Bristol channel along with the sat nav signal which fled back down the ozone drain. At the same time the road signs turned to consonants and the tarmac turned into roads again. Smooth roads, remarkable, and the 7 feels like a real piece of driving kit again. Love it.
The briefing by the blatmeister ,Dave Jackson of Welshland, had us directed to follow in groups of ten , despatched in 10 minute intervals: it's simple, follow the guy in front!
You can guess....within 20 mins the 10 were 6 and then 3.
We boiled a brew and wondered as to our fate as lost and tender Englishmen in a mining community, where presumably they do singing and stuff. I think the sign might have said 'miming' community as nothing happened, if it did, it was silently and we weren't looking.
The route through the Black mountains that the Evo team use for testing was nearby and part of the planned route, the 7's sensed their way back on track and the first of the day's legendary sprints had us scrabbling to avoid sheep whilst opening the taps in the sunshine wreathed in smiles. These were mainly at CBB doing the 'I'll go left, as the sheep went left, as he went right, as the woollen chicane went right, as Bob went'... you get the idea, the directional changes of both were rapid and meaningful.The sheep lost the staring competition and stepped aside to let the 'Ball by.
And on we went across mid Wales where we did our best to loose each other completely at one point, I was eventually to meet up with CBB at the Elan Valley visitor centre, having come at it in opposite directions.With roads this good I think 'driving' was more the order of the day than navigating, looking in the mirror or generally giving a monkey's about anything else!
How very selfish, but that seems to be a little bit of what this is all about, this driving thing, which is worrying. Rob was already in Aberystwyth having taken a different Elan Valley!
In the end we did all make it to the rendezvous, on the seafront, in the sunshine, at Aberystwyth. Discussions and dissection of who went where and why were had, and then the pastie and chips from the hut were discussed and dissected with similar incredulity.
Slowly the 70 7's left the seafront in groups, pairs and singles, the Victorian terraces reflecting the noise of seagulls, four cylinder barks and the questions about kit cars from holiday makers.
And then, we too were on our way in a 3 car formation to the campsite which lay somewhere a long way back through the mountains and over the other side...what, more of them there roads?
Well get me back in the seat then for a whole portion more! Such is the addiction , further heightened by more sunshine, a sense of direction this time, and the lure of not being in another one of those seaside towns in the UK, where holidays aren't going to be made and the Pleasure Palace has long since pleasured and lies pale and peeling in flacid hope.
Various halts were necessary to capture the images en-route ... check out the click link at the end of this entry for the full eyebag of pics. Without the deadline of the pastie and chips rendezvous , we'd drive a bit then go back for pictures, then drive it again. Insatiable and self gratifying, but it's 'fill ya' boots time' as it's a long way back to do the same again.
Don't let it stop!
The family run campsite owners welcomed us into their grassy embrace like returning pilots from a hard fought sortie.What they actually were, was kind. They listened to our over stimulated tales from the roads that they travel daily....to collect milk, and then offered us a pitch a good way from others, how welcoming they all seemed.
Sporting the smirk of self appointed heroes and with the slow arrhythmic drum roll of X-flow idle chunter, we passed our firmly staked out fellow residents on to our assigned field station site. Children emerged from their tadpole hunt and wondered as to the funny men struggling with big tents and small cars.Their parents doing their best with explanations avoiding Freudian theories and late development accusations.
Morning: Sun, early mist and the snores from hydro carboned sinuses still rattling on behind thin wet nylon.
But eventually things are wiped, folded and packed into small places and the previous evenings discussions with a local, at the local, has given us an objective to fulfil the Sunday morning religious experience that we have come to expect at home: the breakfast blat. Just 'cos an airman is a long way from home does not mean he should forgo the civilities he has grown to expect, even in these foreign lands.
The cafe was identified and the route was planned for a 'medium' blat rating.
Daffyd in the cafe, wasn't able to accommodate the coach load that I hinted at when enquiring for a table, referencing our appetites, but he had room for three of us at any one of the tables that were all free.The flies didn't eat much and refused to sit down, we ate loads and ignored the bare wired electrics and wheezing of the leaky hot water maker, that was Daffyd's unseen keeper, behind the curtain. Still unseen, she wished us well on our journey.
Opposite: a closed 50's service station ,complete with rusting petrol pumps, wooden service counter and, still hanging, a framed, signed picture of the Rootes brothers wishing all in the garage their very best for the future.Does it still count now that it's a charity shop with broken windows?
No more the Hum of the Singer or the tune of the Humber
And still there was more blat to come.With the breakfast pooling heavily the next leg was back to the campsite to collect the rest of our drying tent materials and then to point eastwards and back home.
There were a good many miles to enjoy cross country back through 'Avan'ta'vowel', 'Isitwyrthyt' and the like, before attempting to pick up the top of the Wye Valley road at Monmouth and the river route back down to Chepstow from where the long circuit had begun only yesterday!
Although, just out of Monmouth where it goes from a 30 - 60 limit , who do we find lurking in a hedge with a big ice cream van and a camera??
Like moths we honed in on the big clear NSL sign with the taps nicely open, straight into the gaze of the glorious technicolour panaflex lens, our performance destined for the full critique and consequent damnation ... nice. Just not fair somehow, and the lunch stop at the old railway station lost it's charm as we cursed the bursting of our bubble!
The ensuing pace was less eager as a result, but somewhat agressive. Challenges to our road postions and line astern formation on the motorway back in England were met with formation overtakes and synchronised head shakes.
The A4 renewed a certain amount of enthusiasm that only the Witshire rolling chalk downland can drag from hardened and tired 'Elan Valley' veterans! Final stop for the journey, and we're back at Nelson's for afternoon tea.
'So where were you when Jacko died?' they'll ask in years to come... I'll say: 'Wales, so it couldn't have been me'...'which Jacko do you mean anyway?'
(Post Script: The speed camera didn't have any film in it)
