Navigating for Brian Harper in the Minisport Mini
I thought it might be an idea to pause the narrative and review some of the many true stories that have all stemmed from my involvement in rallying. Later you'll see that a large proportion originated on the wonderful Isle of Mull. I can't give you a reason for that, apart from the fact that it's such a wonderful place. If the weather was warmer and drier it would be perfect; of course, it's the people that make the difference, but whether it's the locals, or the visitors... I think it must be a combination of both!
In
the mid 70s we finished a rally at Forton Services on the M6. Dick Atherton finished in his Triumph 2.5Pi,
quite a big (and powerful) car in its day.
A friend of Dick’s wasn’t so lucky – his mini needed a tow home to the
Blackburn area and Dick was happy to oblige.
They’d just got the tow-rope fastened when another crew in a Hillman Imp
asked if he would mind towing them home too.
“Don’t see why not,” was the reply to this rather unusual request, and
so the Imp was attached by another tow rope to the back of the mini. Everyone figured that at 6.30 on a Sunday
morning there were unlikely to be any police cars about.
All
went well for about 10 miles heading south on the M6… until the driver of the
Imp dozed off and started drifting to the right. There was nothing the Mini driver could do,
so whilst Dick fought to keep his car in the inside lane, the Imp, in its
journey to the overtaking lane, dragged the Mini to the centre lane. What a sight that must have been, with the
Triumph, Mini and Imp straddled across three lanes, and the first two blowing
their horns in an attempt to wake the driver of the Imp! (They did, and
apparently everyone got home in one piece.)
George Hill and Keith Wood at the start line of the 1971 Tour of Mull. Look closely at the crowd - a very young-looking Yours Truly is on the left, whilst just behind George's car is none other than Roger Clark, probably Britain's best rally driver in the 1970s
Before
we were married, Val and I – like most other couples I guess – used to go out to
pubs to socialise, and the red Mexico TCW was my only transport. She was used to my driving – well, pretty
much. One evening in Ye Olde Sparrowhawk
at Fence, we were chatting with some friends and Val said “I’d like to navigate
for you on a rally if you’d let me.” I
immediately replied that she wouldn’t like it.
“Yes I would! What makes you say I wouldn’t like it?” “Well,” I replied, “You wouldn’t like the
speed I drive at.” “Rubbish!” said Val,
“I don’t mind the speed you drive at!” … “But I’ve never driven at rally speed
when you’ve been in the car.” This took
Val aback somewhat. “You always drive at rally speed.”
I
couldn’t persuade her that the pace she thought was rally speed was actually
(for me) driving very sedately with consideration for my passenger(s) and she clearly didn’t
appreciate how much faster I could – had to – drive on rallies. It was agreed that we would use the narrow,
mainly twisty but occasionally fast, Padiham Heights road, from Fence to
Sabden, on the way home. Poor Val. Suffice to say that when she’d regained her
composure she vowed that she never, ever,
wanted to navigate for me. Ever.
Having
said that, another evening we’d been to the Bay Horse at Roughlee and came back
home via Downham village. From Barley
the road climbs to Annel Crossroads, then across the side of Pendle to an adverse camber medium
right before dropping again past Gerna to Downham. There was a touch of frost, and as I put my
foot on the accelerator half way around the medium right, the back end let go
and I found myself in a clockwise spin.
“This could be nasty!” I remember thinking, as the car, now going
backwards after spinning 180°, continued to 270°… and I thought… “if I keep the
clutch engaged and tap the brakes now, it might just lock the front wheels only
and finish the spin…” so I did, and as the spin reached full circle, I dipped
the clutch, dropped it into second and continued as if nothing had
happened. “You’re brilliant!” was the
unexpected message from the passenger seat.
The
first time Val and I went to Mull together was 1978, two months after we were
married. We only had the one car – the
rally car – so we had no choice but to drive it to Mull, hope it got around in
one piece, and drive it back home. For
some reason my usual route to the M6 North was through the Trough of Bowland,
then Dolphinholme, ignoring the No Entry signs at Forton Services and joining the
motorway there. Val had a portable TV on
her knee. Mark, not quite three years
old, was wedged in between bedding and a back seat so full of luggage that we
thought it would take a tin-opener to get him out. Until he was sick somewhere near Sykes Farm
in the middle of the Trough. We had to
move very fast! I clearly hadn’t thought
that one through.
When
we got to the Corran Ferry we all needed the toilet, and with a good 10 minutes
before the ferry would return, off we went.
But on our return I saw that I’d left the keys in when I’d locked the
car. Disaster! Or was it? The car in front was a Ford Granada. Not long before whilst on a rally, father and
I had moved all three Escorts and a Capri blocking a farmer’s track by opening
each one with the same key for dad’s Escort.
I asked the Granada owner if I could borrow his car keys. He looked at me very suspiciously but I
assured him my intentions were honourable.
Granada keys in Escort door, quick wiggle… and we were in. I took them back with grateful thanks and we
continued on our way!
Trying to behave myself in Lettermore Forest
Mark
was around 11 years old when, one wet day on Mull the weather confined us to
indoors, and we decided to play the ‘Word Association Game’ – Mark, me and
dad. It was going well – ‘Football –
ground – coffee – tea …’ and so on, when in walked 4-year old Catherine. “What are you doing?” she asked. We explained the name of the game and how it
worked. “Can I play too?” she asked, and
her face beamed when we said she could.
She wasn’t bad at it either – for a 4-year old. A couple of rounds ground to a halt and we
re-started, then the next time it was Catherine’s turn to start. “What do I do?” “Think of a word” we replied, “Any word?”
“Yes – any word”… Long pause… and then Catherine said “Res‑pons‑ibility”. You can’t play Word Association when you’re
rolling on the floor laughing…
One
year in the early 70s three ladies who went to Mull that October were all
pregnant. I think my sister Pat had a
craving for coal, whilst Susan said she “couldn’t bear the thought of
prawns any longer.” Class will always
out. Pat #2 was the furthest into
her pregnancy and the only one who at that stage didn’t even know it!
It’s
the Sunday night after the rally, again back in the 70s, when there were no
ferries on Sunday, everyone stayed on the island, and a very large proportion
had way too much to drink. The crowd in
the Western Isles Hotel was getting a little boisterous when in marched a
policeman, dragging behind him a man in his 30s who was far too drunk to even
contemplate walking. “Has anyone here
NOT had anything to drink?” shouted the bobby.
Although no one was expecting a positive response, one chap – I think he
must have been on some form of medication that tells you not to mix it with
alcohol – said “Me sir – I have had no alcohol this evening.” The policeman walked over and handed him some
car keys – “Well sir, I’ve just stopped this poor fellow from driving his car –
would you be good enough to take him home and then drop the keys off at the
police station?” Times have changed…
Jimmy
Fleming was a regular competitor in the 70s – he had a car dealership,
somewhere near Glasgow I think. More
than a little flamboyant, he would arrive on Mull with service barge, car on
trailer, and service crew, plus a certain glow which stemmed from the fact that
the ferry was at that time
Has it really come to this? How it's possible for an old has-been to have some fun!
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