I still haven't found any photos of John with me (any photos of John, to be honest!) so rather than have page after page of boring text, I've found a few of the 86 Circuit, as well as a previously unseen picture (and as far as I know the only one of its kind!) of dad driving the first Mexico through Lettermore Forest on Mull.
In
its day the biggest and best tarmac stage event in the British Isles. Over 600 miles of stages on closed roads,
over five days, with an entry list to drool over – the top five were Hannu
Mikkola/Arne Hertz, Jimmy McRae/Ian Grindrod, Russell Brooks/Mike Broad, David
Llewellyn/Phil Short and, from Cork, Billy Coleman/Ronan Morgan. At 26 were Harry Hockley and John Meadows,
whilst we were seeded at 61 in Harry’s old Group N Vauxhall Astra GTE.
The
format was to start in Belfast on Good Friday, tackle several stages and return
to Belfast; head south on Saturday, into
the Republic, and on to Waterford, where the famous ‘Sunday Run’ was based, so
two nights in Waterford before setting off again to head anti-clockwise on
Monday and Tuesday, with no halt, to the finish back in Belfast around late
morning on Tuesday. Once again we
stayed at the Europa Hotel, where the top crews booked their rooms from Friday
to Tuesday; John being a bit careful
with his money, made sure we checked out on Saturday morning and were booked
back in on Tuesday night. Remember this…
With
us were Pete Croft and Mick Fishlock, our ‘Irish Service Crew’, and Thursday
was taken up with scrutineering, documentation and so on. Rothmans (cigarettes) had a huge presence,
sponsoring Jimmy McRae (Metro 6R4), Billy Coleman and Saeed al-Hajri, the
latter two in Porsche 911s. John was not
only careful with his money, but – how can I put this discreetly – seemed to
miss the company of his wife if they were parted for more than an hour or
two. And I don’t mean in a platonic
sense. On learning that Saeed al-Hajri
had six wives, I remember him whistling and saying, not without a tinge of jealousy,
“Bloody hell. A different wife every
night. And all six on Sunday!” I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to print
that now…
Billy Coleman / Ronan Morgan
Rothmans
had a huge hospitality vehicle, the biggest converted RV you’ve ever seen. As competitors we received a personal
invitation to visit their mobile hospitality suite at all the service areas, and
we were not a little amused by the fact that at several service areas the
‘Rothmans caravan’ was leaving at exactly the same time as we were arriving.
The
Good Friday section north of the border was pretty straightforward and
uneventful. Clearly, things were lulling
us into a false sense of security…
Saturday
morning was an early start, certainly before 5 am. One or two stages led us to the north/south
border at Newry, where we had already filled in reams of forms detailing what
spares we were intending to take over the border, how many we were intending to
bring back (all of them?), then a couple more stages before service just to the
north of Dublin. There was plenty of
time here – enough for Mr Grindrod to come and say hello. “How’s it going in the
6R4?” “Well, the service boys have a bit of a problem because we’ve a warning
light showing that we’ve never seen before.
They looked it up and it’s a fault on the auxiliary fuel pump. Didn’t
even know we had one, and the main fuel pump’s working fine. They asked me what I wanted them to do about
it. I’ve told ‘em to take the bloody
bulb out of the warning light.” That
fixed it…
Jimmy McRae / Ian Grindrod
Then
from the service OUT control through the centre of Dublin at 0730 to the start
of the next stage on the other side of town.
Our instructions were that we were to be ‘picked up’ by a police motor
cyclist and escorted through the city. .. .. WOW! We were ‘picked up’ by the
next motorcyclist and instructed not to question anything but just to follow -
this crazy motorcyclist - through town, 70 mph, through traffic lights on red
(he stood up off his saddle on approach to check the way was clear), the
works! What an experience!
In
Waterford we stayed overnight (two nights) at a hotel called Dooley’s Bar. I cycled through the town a couple of years
back and it’s still there. Service was
along the dockside: David Llewellyn
overslept and roared up the road in his Audi Quattro, probably doing 100+ and
deafening everyone at the same time.
On
the famous Sunday Run we were amused as at every service halt we would pass the
Rothmans motorhome on its way out as we arrived. The local accent is totally unlike Dublin and
at times unfathomable. One young man had
to ask me the same question about five times, and when I finally cottoned on to
what he was saying (“Who are you driving for?”) I still didn’t understand that
he simply wanted to know if we were sponsored, and if so, by whom!
David Llewellyn
The
pacenotes we’d bought were working reasonably well, but in the afternoon we had
a not-very-high-speed moment when the car got away from John on an acute left
junction and for a moment I thought we were going to have a big accident with a
very solid-looking estate wall. At the
stage finish John asked me if I’d been worried. “No,” I replied. “Why not? I
was terrified!” said John, and I said “I’m in a well-prepared car, with a full
safety roll cage, extinguisher, external electrics cut-off and full harness
belts – basically John, it’s as safe as sitting at home watching the TV.” He decided I was definitely mad.
On
Monday morning the long trek clockwise around Ireland started.
Entering
Limerick in the mid-afternoon, the huge numbers of spectators had caused a
half-mile queue for some traffic lights, so we straddled the centre white line
and – in common with all the other competitors – overtook everyone until we got
to the lights, where there was an Irish bobby, on point duty. Confident after our Dublin experience that
there’d be no problem, I wound the window down and was about to thank the
officer when he shouted at us and gave us a proper telling-off – “What gave us
the idea that we had some kind of God-given priority, huh?” I could have said
that the last three days could be a clue, but bit my lip, took the verbal
beating and we carried on, suitably chastised!
Early
evening found us in Galway, where crews were provided with a hotel meal; we got to the dining room and Ian Grindrod
beckoned us to join himself and Jimmy McRae, Billy Coleman and Ronan Morgan. We were in exclusive company, dining with two
of the top five drivers, both in the Rothmans Team (Billy in the gorgeous
Porsche 911). We mentioned the elusive
motorhome. Then Billy said to Jim, in
his broad Cork accent, “Have you got that bridge in the Partry Mountains stage
double-cautioned on the notes?” Jim looked at Ian, who replied “Yep, got that,
it’s deceptively sharp.” Billy replied “It’s no good double-cautioned. Jeez,
when you get there it’s at the bottom of a really steep hill, it’s tight, it’s
narrow – you need to triple- triple-caution it, mark my words!” I quietly took all this in…
When
we got to the Partry Mountains stage, after dark by now, we arrived at the
bridge (which I double double-cautioned John about); on the bridge were bits of
a car, and for the next 100 metres along the road were strewn bits of Rothmans
Porsche 911 – Billy Coleman had destroyed his car (and his chances) on the very
bridge he was warning us about!
On
the next stage our alternator packed in.
John was all for giving in on the spot, saying we would never manage the
next stage and the road section to the service area. I wasn’t so sure. I told him to switch off
everything except the engine; let the
next car pass, then set off behind, switch off all lights and keep up to the
next stage start. Then start the stage
and pull over after 100 metres, switch off lights and wait for the next car,
follow it for as long as possible, then wait for the next one, and so on. We would lose time but we could keep going
until the lads were able to fit a new alternator.
So
that’s what we did. John wasn’t happy
about driving without lights, and the battery was very nearly flat, but it got
us to the end of the next stage, then the road section to service in, where we
booked in and were told we had a five minute wait. “I need a fag,” said John, and before I could
stop him he’d pressed the cigarette lighter.
The engine stopped immediately.
The only thing you could hear was me shouting and swearing at John! I got out and ran to the service crew, 400
metres along the road, and told them they’d have to come back to me to push the
car into service. But it was no
good. New alternator, new battery, but
nothing would persuade the car even to turn the engine. The car’s ‘brain’ had decided it wasn’t not
to risk an engine start and that was that.
We
were disconsolate. John apologised for
not thinking when he pushed the cigarette lighter, but I wasn’t in the mood for
talking. We put the car on a rope and
started to tow it back to Belfast from near Sligo, a journey of over 140 miles,
with John in it on his own.
It
started to rain. Peter, driving,
complained that John must not be used to being towed, and sure enough the rope
snapped twice: each time it became shorter as it was re-knotted. The second time, tempers were getting frayed
– Pete complaining about John, while John was reminding everyone that with no
power he was driving not only without lights but without power steering, wipers
or heater. I stepped in, Mr Know-it-all
– “John, it’s easy. If the van’s rear lights are this far apart (I gestured
with my hands) all is fine. If they’re this far apart (wider) you’re too close
and the rope’s slack. If they’re this
far apart (narrower) you’ve snapped the bloody rope again!” “Well if it’s that
bloody easy, YOU can drive then!” And John went and sat in my seat in the
van. There was nothing for it, my big
mouth had just bought me a 120-mile drive of nail-biting concentration.
But
we did get back to Belfast without the rope snapping again. By now it was daylight, in fact just before 9
am. As we arrived at some traffic lights
in the city centre they changed to red and Pete braked hard to stop. Without a servo I only just managed to bring
the car to a halt about three feet from the back of the van, with the rope on
the floor. There must have been
something going on as a band was playing on the opposite pavement.
A
man in his fifties failed to notice the rope and decided to cross the road
between the van and the car… just as the lights turned green. Peter set off, the rope tightened and I
dutifully set off. I’ll never forget the
sight of the whites of that man’s eyes as he stared at me as if I was a
complete eejit, whilst I gesticulated to impress upon him that I was not in any
way in control of the situation!
Two
things happened after we got back home.
Some time the week after I bumped into Ian Grindrod – we were crossing
Edisford Bridge in opposite directions I think – we stopped for a quick natter
about the rally, then Ian asked “How did you enjoy your breakfast before you
sailed home?” An odd question I thought, and then I remembered and thought Ian
might have heard too… “Well,” I replied, “John certainly enjoyed it, because it
hadn’t made its way on to the bill before he checked out.” Ian looked
puzzled. Clearly that wasn’t what he was
angling at. “But what about the breakfast itself – did you enjoy it?” “Well, it was fairly normal,” I replied, “What are you
getting at?” And then Ian went on to explain that he knew the room we were
staying in on the fourth floor because he’d called around with something on
Thursday evening. And he was walking
past on his way back from the bar late on Tuesday night and saw, hanging from
the door handle, our breakfast order.
“So I ticked every bloody box and put it back!” said Ian, now obviously
very pleased with himself. “Ah,” I said, “You know how careful John is with
money? Well we checked out on Friday morning and checked back in on
Tuesday. We were on the sixth floor the
second time!” Ian’s face was a picture. And we never did find out who got the jumbo
breakfast!
Fast
forward another six weeks: I’m at the
office and a call is put through to me, a man with a rich Irish accent who says
“Mr Honeywell, it’s the Irish Customs Office here, and we’re wondering if
you’re still in the Irish Republic.”
Struggling to keep a straight face, I said “You’ve just rung me… in
England.” “Ah, I thought as much. Well, we’ve a record of you entering at Newry
on Good Friday but no record of you leaving.” I told him that we’d been forced
to retire from the rally very late on Easter Monday and had entered Northern
Ireland at Enniskillen. I didn’t go on
to say that the border guard was too busy reading a comic to bother with us.
“Ah, right ho – that clears that up then. Have a nice day!”
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