"Two fat blokes paint a 1961 Fisher Holivan" is a timelapse video in the style of the silent comedies from years ago and stars Gar with Ian who agreed to help paint the Holivan ahead of its planned starring role on the group's stand for the Practical Classics Classic Car & Restoration Show at the NEC later this month. ​

My alarm sounded at 8am. I'd had a superb night's sleep, as did the others in different rooms. Ian and Jon were very glad not to have heard my snoring and I didnt have to endure my eyes being assaulted by Ian in his stripey green undies. We had really fallen lucky booking the Flambards Hotel and Tea Rooms and I recommend it to anyone visiting Cardigan.

As I ventured down to breakfast I was pleased to see the young family from the room next door were still friendly and chatty - obviously there was good snore-proof insulation in the walls!  In a very odd twist, the husband was also called Gareth Cole. Don't know what the odds are of 2 people with the same name checking into a hotel at the same time and being next door to each other,  but their 6yo son thought this highly amusing.  But as you all know,  there's only 1 ' Gar'.   Ian , Jon and Brian were all in good spirits,  a very decent full English was consumed and Brian said how impressed he was with the hotel (if Brian's happy then we're happy).

We arranged to rendezvous with the convoy at 10.30am at the Quay in Cardigan. I had planned a nice gentle start today,  no rush and no fixed schedules with a simple route that anyone could follow; just a cross-country jaunt through Newcastle Emlyn to Rhandirmwyn - a mere  47 miles.

​After yesterday's shenanigans I was pleased to see everyone had stocked up on fuel, chocolate, sweets etc, so I put on my best Michelle-of-the-French Resistance voice and said 'Listen very carefully, I shall say zees only wunce'.  My instructions were clear:  "It doesnt matter if your sat nav says turn left, turn right, turn around or do the Hokey Cokey - you follow me,  all clear?"  "Yes, Mein Fuhrer" came the reply.

The sun had even made an appearance and we waved to the townsfolk as an old Mondeo led a pack consisting of the 3.6 XJ40,  Rover P5b coupe, Jensen Interceptor, MGB roadster, Granada 2.8 estate, Morgan Aero 8 and the BMW 3 series Chase and Photography car. It was quite an impressive sight and we made a nice noise all together wearing our tour plaques and daffodils.

The next hour passed in driving bliss. It was warm, sunny and I had my arm on the window with my herd all following behind. As we started nearing the Cambrians the road started to elevate, so I took the opportunity to pull everyone over to admire the view. You could easily see for 10 miles and everyone was all smiles (you've cracked it today Gar old son) I smugly thought to myself.  I could see the keen photographers taking shots that I'm sure will be very popular with the group once they are all uploaded to the website.   

​As we passed through the tiny hamlet of Rhandirmwyn the satnav immediately lost signal; this was fully expected and I stopped everyone to let them know we were relying on our eyes for the next few miles. The turn onto the lane that leads to Lynn Brianne dam is a 'blink and you'll miss it' affair, so we kept it to 20mph on the single track road as it continued the climb into forested mountains.

At the last second I recognised the lane, did a hard left and the convoy followed suit to arrive at the Dam visitors car park. A stampede for the toilets ensued led by Andy 'tiny bladder' Perman. He's normally know as '2 pants Perman'  after once forgetting to bring any on tour.  Since then he brings an abundance of underwear so a new name was needed!

At this point Paul our photographer said to me in the carpark, "Is there some sort of natural phenomena around here you want me to photograph?" I led him over to the dam wall and let him look over the edge, down the several hundred-feet drop. "Whoaahhh"  he exclaimed,  "that's made my knees go a bit". I then showed him the vast lake on the other side of the dam. "This should keep you busy for a while - get snapping!"

After treating ourselves to ice cream we settled in a group. The lovely Sat Nag Pat produced a stunning ginger cake and Ian brewed everyone a hot drink from the back of the Granada. As I sat on a rock eating nice food with my friends in a stunning location, I couldn't help but think "Life is good right now".

A local couple in a vermillion orange MGB had also parked up near to us. Being the sociable (and nosey) sort that I am, I went over to speak to them. They had seen our cars wearing daffodils and thought it was a lovely and respectful gesture upon visiting Wales. They were proper valley people with strong accents, very much like my family back in the Rhymney valley.  They even corrected my pronunciation of Llanwrtyd Wells. After 1 or 2 attempts I got it right; I later relayed said translation to the gang and they just looked at me as if I was speaking Klingon and had just given an order to launch a spread of photon torpedoes.

At this point young Jonathon Woodward made a fatal error. While chatting to the same couple he attempted a Welsh accent and said,"Ooh theres lovely". Their faces immediately clouded over and they started to pack up. Jon being ex-military realised something was up.

​Fearing an attack with a sharpened leek and a daffodil thermometer he quickly beat a retreat to the Granada. He later asked me what was that all about. I explained that Welsh people endure folks attempting their accent wherever they go in the world, usually with good grace and humour - however an Englishman attempting that accent while in the heart of Wales was akin to flying to New Delhi and berating the locals with your best "It ain't half hot mum" Indian accent.

Now at this point I was still on a smug high from everything going so well. I told the gang the next bit was simple but beautiful - just turn left as we leave the dam and that is the stunning 13-mile Devils Staircase single track road. The road would take us straight into Llanwrtyd Wells and our hotel for the night. Nothing could go wrong, just enjoy the scenery and be careful of the steep edges and wildlife.

Off we set and stopped within minutes for the first set of photos overlooking the stunning Arfan reservoir.  The sheer scale of this area is breathtaking. The cars looked like toys on the little road with huge mountain sides above and below. This section is more open land with sheep grazing the slopes and you can see cars on the other side of the valley as the road snakes it's way back and forth,  you do have to be careful as the views are mesmerising so it can be hard to focus on the road.

As the road nears the summit you enter the National Forest and the scenery changes once again, the open countryside giving way to massive trees on either side of the road and the open spaces between them filled with purple heather and bluebells in the shade of the trees. It's really quite magical and you understand why its voted the number 1 cycle, hike and driving route in Wales.  

We levelled out over a series of cattle grids and I spotted a long steel bridge across the next river. After pulling the convoy over, I asked Paul to go on ahead & set up the video camera to get some footage of the cars crossing. Being first to cross and showing off a bit I zipped across the bridge flashing my lights and waving, not realising the bridge has a dip and hump at the other end!

I winced as the sump made hard contact with the road and limped off out of shot hoping I'd not damaged anything. Luckily all my gauges behaved and with my ego deflated I slowly led the convoy onto the last part of the Staircase towards the hotel. Now as pretty as the scenery was, it started looking less and less familiar despite having done it once before only 2 years previously.

13 miles passed and the expected town did not appear. Descending a 16% road I spotted a sign for Tregarron and my smugness evaporated quicker than a Taliban peace promise. I couldn't work out how I'd gone wrong when the route only led to one destination! I stopped everyone again and asked if anyone had a satnav or phone signal? All were dead,  except Paul's phone which wanted us to return the way we had come, but for 9 miles.

This didnt seem right and I feared the nav was taking us back to the dam and the longer route along the A roads, but with no choice we spun around following Paul, climbed the 16% road and started back into the National Forest on the same road we had traversed earlier. I stuck it for a few miles then became convinced we were heading back to the long way round, which would add another 30 miles to the trip. I then started honking the horn frantically trying to stop the cars ahead; I still had no phone signal to ring anyone but 4 cars did stop while the rest sailed on, oblivious.

An Ordnance Survey map was produced and opened across the bonnet. "Where are we Gar?".  "Umm well to tell the truth I've never used a map in my life". "WHAT?".  "Well I passed my test in the 90s and I've always had a Tom Tom". Looks of disbelief were exchanged, however we did start to make sense of it. We had to pass through Abergwesyn to reach our hotel at Llanwrtyd Wells,   then back the way we had come to Tregarron and onto a road called Abergwesyn road.   

Common sense said surely the Abergwesyn road would take us to the hamlet of Abergwesyn,  so we spun around and headed back once again to do the 5 miles back to Tregarron and hopefully the road to the hotel. As we arrived at Tregarron the sat nav took us on the Abergwesyn road for all of 300ft before it asked us to turn around and retrace back 9 miles the way the first half of the convoy were already doing. Feeling once again like the Twilight Zone had descended upon us, I held my hands up in desperation.  Phil then produced another map which clearly showed that the Abergwesyn road DOES NOT connect to the hamlet of Abergwesyn on the other side of the valley!  Unsurprisingly, this brought the convoy to a halt.

At this point Pat Osborne and Jo Tait were both wearing the expression that strikes fear into men's hearts. The look that says "You're a bunch of incompetents and if you don't sort it fast we will take charge".  Then like a beacon from the sky Nick's phone found a signal and showed the route directly to the hotel,  but once again going back the way we came for 9 miles before making a turn. I asked everyone if they had seen a junction on the entire route? "Nope" came the 10 replies. "Who cares?" said Nick "it's the route back to the hotel.  Zero your trip counters, so if if we lose signal again we know the turn is in 9 miles".  Smart man.

The Jensen is a remarkably quick car for a 44yo. It corners well and effortlessly powers up the steepest of the hills. It was great fun trying to keep up on the twisty bits but everyone did their best. Still skeptical of this route and the turning nobody had seen, I kept quiet. As the 9th mile approached I couldnt believe what I saw; there in front of us was the same steel bridge I'd asked Paul to video us crossing,  and right next to the bridge was a tiny lane with a sign for Llanwrtyd Wells!

Winding my neck in like a tortoise, I realised that I (and everyone else) had missed the sign post because we were too busy waving at Paul and the video camera as we approached the bridge. At long last we were back on the correct road and soon the final 1 in 3 descent to the valley.

Despite all that had happened, Nick still pulled us over at a parking spot to take in the scenery. It was stunning; a clear open valley,  a river running through the middle with a trio of low raft bridges that zig zag across it. It was eerily quiet apart from the water - you have no sense that anyone else is within miles of you. I've honestly never been anywhere so peaceful within the UK. Everyone should see this place just once.

The remaining convoy arrived at the Neuadd Arms Hotel in Llanwrtyd Wells and I heaved a big sigh of relief to see the others had already arrived and checked in. Keen to do the same, we approached the desk. The landlord gave me my key and said, "That's them all". I turned to Brian next to me - yes our cheerful easy-going Yorkshireman - rubbed my temple and asked if they had any more rooms as we now needed 9, not 8. We originally had 16 booked but 7 had been cancelled over the previous weeks. The Landlord said he did have one room he keeps spare for situations like this,  but it wouldn't be the double room with easy access shower I'd originally booked for Brian.

The hotel is nearly 300 years old with a faded grandeur feel to it - open fires, big creaky staircases etc.  Brian's room turned out to be on the 3rd floor up 2 flights of stairs and no lift. Jon Woodward helped carry his case upto his room. I quickly made my way to the "Green Room".  They had given me this suite when we originally booked the whole hotel; it's a lovely oak panelled room,  king-size four poster and a whopping ensuite. After the day we'd had I did what any mature 44yo would do: I leapt backwards into the 4 poster and did starfish moves in the luxurious bedding.

Joining my fellow tourers for an evening meal I was confident nothing else could go wrong - or at least, nothing I could be blamed for! I entered the bar and Brian was on me like a Jack Russell on a postmans leg. "I've got some bad news for you", he said. "That room's awful and it's PINK! You can't swing a cat in there. The bed's soft and everything's pink! Pink carpet, pink bathroom suite, pink curtains. Even the bloody TV is pink!" 

I was tempted to ask in what way was this bad news for me, but thought better of it. Instead I did the honourable thing and offered Brian my suite. I told him it was on the 1st floor and very comfy but he refused, saying he'd stick it out but would have words with the owner in the morning.  He might have changed his mind if he'd seen the room he had turned down but I had offered, so didn't feel so bad about it.

A pleasant evening passed with a decent meal and quite a few drinks. Despite all the hiccups, everyone told me what a great adventure it had been and what fabulous scenery we saw.  I was quite emotional as one person told me they had seen parts of the UK they had never seen thanks to the tours and another said I should be proud of how I'd brought so many people together from different backgrounds over the last 5 years and the friendships that had been forged.  Wow ... praise indeed.

We said our goodbyes the following morning after breakfast. Brian was the last to emerge from the hotel;  he'd told the owner what he thought of the pink shoebox they had put him in and emerged smiling saying that no money had changed hands, either for the room or for his breakfast.
 
As they say in Yorkshire ...  'That'll Do '

One thing I'm still learning about when organising trips is time management and leaving enough time between stops. As we headed off from Barmouth we had 4 hours to cover 78 miles; no problem at all - 18 miles an hour with quick stops to regroup.

So the scheduled 9.30am start went out the window as we headed off around 10am. After crossing the Penmaenpool bridge things started to improve; the rain eased off somewhat and the mists started to lift. As we travelled along the coastal road the scenery became even better. The roads were great; stone-walled twisty lanes revealed fantastic view after view across the estuaries and bays.

The stretch of road between Barmouth and Tywyn beach is highly recommended to everyone. Anthony Osborne seemed to be having a great time in the MGB throwing it around the corners and I'm sure a few of us spotted some understeer/oversteer flicks on some of the bends.

We headed off minus 3 cars towards Borth beach and our lunch stop further on respectively. It was quite sad to see the state of these small coastal towns - many lovely old granite stone pubs had been boarded up, shops and visitor centres the same. You could really see the devastating effect Covid has had on the tourism industry - none more so than in Borth itself.

Very little was open; it was dead quiet considering this was the holiday period and the only thing happening was an idiot boy racer thrashing his diesel eurobox up and down the promenade.  After getting a few shots of our cars we decided to head for lunch.  Sat nav said 19 miles - 40 minutes getting us there at 1.20pm. The landlord had already phoned me to ensure we were coming and I assured him we were on our way and not to worry.

Shortly after our departure we were passed by 2 police cars at high speed that were going in our direction. 10 mins later my traffic warning popped up to say the route to our pub was now 'Black' and the road was blocked. I quickly pressed it to reroute the convoy. Unfortunately the new route would take another hour, getting us to the pub for 2.15pm. I signalled to turn left not right at the upcoming island so I could pull over to inform the gang and phone the pub. Just as we got to the island the "Dam Busters"  consisting of the Jag and VDP crossed the island directly towards the accident. I pulled over feeling the vein in the side of my forehead bulging.

At this point nearly everyone's satnav and phone signals started to drop in and out,  giving wildly different routes and arrival times to the pub. I made a grovelling phone call to the pub to tell the owner we'd be 45 mins late; he was far polite than I expected but informed us they had wanted us there at 1.30pm as they were closing at 2pm and no they wouldn't stay open waiting for us.

Fearing the no-dinner mutiny could soon turn violent, I had to think fast. Lunch was lost so i told everyone to put the code for our final stop into the navs - Cardigan Island Park Farm. I knew this place had a large car park, full facilities and a big restaurant that served food all day. Only one person had a signal but that was good enough,  at which point Thomas "4.8 V8" Griffiths informed us that he was "Running on fumes".

The nearest fuel station was 8 miles away up some steep mountain roads,  so I told everyone to stay together, make sure Thomas got fuel and we would then all drive together to Cardigan Island. Everyone agreed (yep no problem Gar, you're the man Gar,   following you Gar) etc etc. Having set the fuel station as the next destination on the nav we set off.

A quarter of a mile later, 5 of the 8 cars turned off behind me and took a different route. At that point I started feeling like I was either in the Twilight Zone or Groundhog Day. Despite this we carried on, filled up the Morgan and were rewarded with a fantastic drive across the mountains which took us past the Devils Bridge Waterfalls and ironically the Internal Fire Museum that we had planned to visit if only it had been open.

​Thankfully everyone did eventually arrive at Cardigan Island; I could say it was a relief, but i think the following photo says it all:

By the grace of the Welsh Gods the much needed refreshments were top notch at the Farm Park and slowly smiles started to return (including mine). We headed off on the short drive to our 3 different hotels/B&Bs which I'm pleased to say were all lovely and we took a much needed power nap after check in (well I did!).
 
Being in Welsh Wales we decided to try some local fare. At our hotels restaurant I had a stunning trio of lamb chops and Jon had pork & leek sausages with mash - comfort food that was much needed after the days driving. I phoned the other tourers to enquire if they were also sampling local Welsh fare in the town?  "No, we're in the curry house" came the reply, "actually the curry boat, a floating restaurant in the Cardigan estuary". 

We parked up the cars for the night and went for a few drinks at the lively Black Lion in the town centre,  where we were joined by our group photographer Paul Cheetham,  who had braved an 8-hour journey from London so he could join us on the Sunday tour.

Tales were swapped, pints downed and laughs a-plenty ensued. By around 10pm I noticed Ian could barely keep his eyes open,  so I signalled his lad Jon and we took him back to the hotel.  Apparently some inconsiderate person had kept him awake the previous evening by snoring rather loudly (see Part 1 here if you don't know who it was).
 
To be concluded in part 3

​A full 12 months to the day that we originally planned to visit Wales it was now finally here in 2021. This was to be an experimental tour for us. Rather than having one base campsite or hotel that we returned to every night we planned to stay in 3 different hotels over three nights at different destinations;  Barmouth, Cardigan and Llanwrtyd Wells respectively.

We had been very disappointed that the Museum of Internal Fire Power would still not be open,  housing a fantastic selection of large steam and diesel engines it promised to be a 'highlight' of the tour. Despite being closed to the public for 13 months they had somehow fallen behind with maintenance and were not ready to reopen on the 21st as they had been advertising on their website.  Undeterred, the plan was to meet at Telford Services on the Friday morning on the way to Barmouth.
 
We originally had a very healthy 20 cars booked for the tour but life gets in the way and by the Friday of departure we were down to just 8 cars,  however we were being joined by Thomas Griffiths and his wife Gloria for the first time. TG had kept it quiet what he was bringing and as the rest of us gathered for a coffee and chat at the busy services a very tasty looking Morgan Aero 8 rumbled past us with both passengers looking at us. Ian Woodward leaned into me saying, "Is that the Griffiths?".  To which I replied, "I sure hope so with a car like that!". It was them and introductions having been made they very patiently waited while the rest of us had a good drool over the Morgan.
 
Keen to get going I told everyone to enter the postcodes of their respective hotels into the sat navs; I knew they would all have the codes as I had supplied all this information weeks before.  Several sets of blank stares looked at me similar to how sheep do when you honk the horn. Off we set for Barmouth with instructions to stay on my bumper. 

I had pre-programmed the route to avoid the congestion-filled A5 and to take us through the picturesque and hidden small villages on the alternative route.  This worked very well for all of 10 minutes until I crossed an island only to see in my rear view view mirror Phil, Brian and Thomas all turn left and go in a different direction.  "It's going to be a long weekend" I muttered as I carried on my way with just Ian and Anthony & Pat following me. However all was well as we found each other again several miles later at the natural habitat of the V8 classic,  the nearest fuel station.  With tanks refuelled and onboard buffets restocked we headed for Barmouth.

 The rest of the journey passed without incident apart from a few sat nav shenanigans finding the hotels in Dollgellau,  a theme that would recur but more of that later. We checked into our hotels having arranged to meet in Barmouth at the Harbour Fish Bar. This place had been recommended to us wholeheartedly by Graham Adams despite not actually being on the tour himself.  Of course Graham had checked that this place had reopened since Covid before sending us all there in the pouring rain - hadnt he?
 
After we found an OPEN restaurant we settled down to some locally-caught fish n chips as we admired the pouring rain and empty fairground rides outside (did I imagine that item on the news that the globe had just had its hottest July on record?). Our later arrivals joined us, introductions were made and all seemed well except ... I had noticed that Gloria Griffiths looked a tad bothered by something.

​It turned out the hotel booked for them had fallen some way short of its 4 star rating, especially the worn out interior of their room.  Not wanting their first tour with us to be spoiled by this I suggested they have my double room at the hotel we were staying at in Dollgellau and I'd bunk in with Ian and his lad Jonathon. It was a triple room with 3 beds so being the gentlemen they are they agreed so we could let the Griffiths stay in a better location.   Now my reputation for loud snoring and other noises precedes me but they said, "Ahh it's only one night".

​Moods improved as the customary full English (or Welsh) breakfasts were consumed to the background sound of pouring rain.  Overnight I had posted online the 6 sat nav codes for Saturday's drive from Barmouth to Cardigan. The route included 3 stops, a  pre-booked lunch and a final stop at Cardigan Island. What could possibly go wrong? 

Leaving Barmouth beach in convoy I planned to shorten our journey by crossing the 150 year-old Penmaenpool bridge, saving us 7 miles going the long way around. We had pre-arranged for Jonathon Woodward to run across the bridge first and film us coming across. 6 miles outside Barmouth we made the turn onto the little toll road leading to the bridge.

I sat for a few mins expecting to see Jon and his camera run past and cross the bridge. Then I ventured out and walked the length of the 7 car convoy but there was no sign of the Granada estate. With rain pouring down my face I called Ian to see if they missed the turn.  "Umm errrr sorry mate we won't be at the bridge. Jon has left his boots in the wardrobe at the hotel and we are heading back to Dollgellau.  We will catch up with you at Tywyn beach".
 
I'm not saying I swore badly in both English and Welsh, but even the seagulls gave me a shocked look.

The morning of Friday 23rd April finally dawned, exactly a full 12 months on from when we had originally booked to go. The forecast was good all weekend and I'd spent the best part of 2 weeks fussing over the Triumph, in fact if I'd touched it much more I feared it would take out a restraining order on me. It was my first long trip in the Triumph 2000 and I was excited to see how it would perform and behave.

Fully loaded I set off from Sunny Sutton Coldfield to meet some of the convoy at the services on the M42 at Hopwood. The decision was quickly made to shoot across to  the M40 and then take the A429 through the picturesque Cotswolds villages and stop for lunch outside Kemble Airfield. Off we set with my Triumph 2000,  the Brooks brothers in their campervan with yellow Stag on the trailer, Nick Arthur and Jo Tait in the Jensen Interceptor and Phil, Lorraine & Lucas Allin in the P5b coupe ' Big Rov,'.  Some lovely driving roads on this route although I was having a little 'V8 envy' as the Jensen and Rover effortlessly left me behind on the big hills.

Arriving at Kemble Airfield we were pleased  to see Celebrity Admin and Fat Bloke Mike Peake who had sneaked out of work early for a long lunch break and brought his Herald convertible 'Poppy'  to join us for a natter and catch up .

At this point Nick & Jo confessed they had missed the instructions to provide your own linen and towels and to bring a packed lunch for today and provisions to cook later. However upon inspection the Interceptor's boot it was found to be full of beer and wine (priorities yanow) so a swift diversion to Sainsburys was quickly arranged with our convoy delighting the locals as we rumbled through little towns and hamlets. We had been killing time as we couldn't get into our accommodation before 5pm, however a phone call from fellow tourist Mick Taylor informed us we could get in from 3pm.

The drive then turned into a scene from Wacky Races as the Stag, Jensen and Rover took off at Mach 1,  leaving me and my humble 2 litre to follow behind.

​Phil took pity on me after a while and slowed enough for me to keep up with Big Rov, however we never saw the Stag or Jensen again until we arrived in Charmouth 😀

​Arriving at Seadown Holiday Park after a steady 6 hour drive,  we were quickly settled into our respective accommodations and the rest of the group started to arrive throughout the evening. I'd made a roast chicken and roast pork joints for my group of 4 and carved them onto baguettes. Between the long drive and chilly evening sea breeze we all decided to retire to the warmth of our statics and were looking forward to the next morning.

Saturday morning started with a Yorkshireman burbling past in a yellow V8 stag saying 'Ayeup lads,  breakfasts on the go'. After being cooked a fantastic full English by Ian Woodward we all assembled on the touring pitch next to the Brooks campervan to get some photos,   hand out route maps and attach our freshly made tour plaques,  both supplied by Phil and Lorraine at our sponsors 'Alvaston Press '.

We were also pleasantly surprised to see Mike Peake had snuck out from home early in the morning to join us on tour,  thus avoiding decorating duty and risking the wrath of his good lady.

 
Here is the list of cars and owners

• Ian Woodward -  Granada mk2 estate 2.8 Ghia auto,  co piloted by his brother Jon.
• My Triumph 2000 auto co piloted by Jonathan Woodward.
• Capri 2.0s owned by Mick and Gill Taylor.
• MGB convertible owned by Anthony Osborne and his ever patient wife ' Sat Nag Pat '
• Vanden Plas 1500 auto Allegro owned by Andy Perman.
• Triumph Stag V8 manual with O/D owned by the Brooks brothers.
• Jensen Interceptor auto owned by Nick Arthur,  co-piloted by Jo Tait.
• Mike Peake  -  Triumph Herald convertible. 

 
 Pre Millenial visitors
 

• Jaguar XJR supercharged V8 owned by Jason Wright,  co - piloted by Andrea Stanley. 
  
• Lexus LS400  V8 owned by Keith McGovern ,  co - piloted by Mette Cooper.
  
• We were also joined by Darren Williams,  his wife and brother, but they asked for their car not to be featured as it's a modern sporty hatchback.

Heading off from the campsite onto the Jurassic coast road towards Bridport and the B1357 towards Burton Bradstock, Abbotsbury and our first destination at Portland Bill. Of course despite me asking everyone to fill up the night before to avoid immediate fuel stops we had to 'immediately'  stop for fuel for surprise guest Mike Peake (apparently there's no fuel stations between Swindon and Charmouth) 🙄.
 
From there on Dorset started to charm us very quickly. The road along the coast is a stunning set of sweeping curves and climbs and descents, a real driver's road that's guaranteed to put a smile on your face all the time admiring the deep blue sea,  immaculate beaches and the sun reflecting off the water.

Always eager to find a spot to pull in and take photos, myself and co pilot Jonathon woodward looked for a layby big enough to take 11 cars but they were either too small or already had cars in them, until I spied what I thought was an empty car park with a great view across to Portland Bill.

I saw just one car with an elderly couple enjoying a cuppa by it,  so we turned in and surrounded the bemused couple, only to realise it wasn't a layby after all but a private single track drive to a farm - oops!  Nonetheless we all squeezed down the lane and took some pictures right before the farmer turned up hoping to exit his own driveway.  Cue 11 old cars frantically trying to reverse or mount the grass verges to get out his way; to be fair he smiled as he drove his rusty and battered old farm truck between our cars with inches to spare either side 🤔

From here we headed across the stunning Portland beach road seeing the cruise ships moored up before the long climb up to Portland Bill. We parked up near the lighthouse with everyone emerging from their cars uttering the universal first question "Where's the toilets?". Suitably relieved, we set about very carefully traversing the outer path alongside the cliffs to take in the breathtaking views. The strong sea breeze made it feel colder than it was, resulting in a few of us getting sunburned balding heads.  Once we returned to the cars we chatted with some excited other tourists who were taking pictures of the cars. 

At this point Mike Peake was handed the keys to the Stag; now much as Mike loves his Herald it's quite a jump from a 1.3 to a V8 and the resulting smile as we left Portland Bill speaks for itself. We all enjoyed a spirited drive past Weymouth to our next stop at Cerne Abbas,  and once more the visiting V8 pre Millennials certainly made short work of the hills.

I decided on a cultural stop at Cerne Abbas to admire the ancient stone giant carved into the side of a hillside. Naturally it quickly descended into crass "Carry On"- style humour in which I refused to partake "ahem". Jo Tait asked "What was the point of the giant?:  To which I cuddled up next to her and in my best leering voice said that if you wanted to conceive it's believed you improved your chances by making love on the giant,  to which she replied "After climbing that hill I couldnt be bothered!" 
 
The 'Druid ' atmosphere however had more of an effect on Lorraine Allin who took herself off up the mountain to get a better view of the giants ummm charms - either that or she wanted to prove she's fitter than the rest of us fatties. Sensing the gang was flagging a little I loudly asked "Anyone fancy going to the pub?"  Well - they were down the hill and back in the cars in record time!

A few car swaps happened again here as I handed over my Triumph keys to Jon Woodward and Ian gave me the keys to his awesome Granada estate as we headed off for a well-needed drink at the Half Moon Inn near Melplash. We arrived 45 minutes before they opened at 5pm, but they were so delighted to see the old cars, they let us in in groups of 6 and sat us in the beer garden. The landlady's 3 young sons were very pleased to see the old cars and took many photos for the pubs Instagram account,  with the promise we'd be very welcome back anytime as would most classic car clubs,  beautiful old pub that serves Dorset Gold.

Saying our farewells to the pub we headed back to Charmouth and our waiting dinner. My brother Neale (who lives in the village) had very kindly offered to cater for the 22 of us and brought to the campsite a lovely slow cooked beef in red wine stew,  fresh baguettes and jacket potatoes while his good lady Paula made 2 big Dorset apple cakes with cream for dessert.

It was very welcome after the day's activities and we were all grateful to them. My soon-to-be-14 yo nephew Thomas is just starting to get interested in classic cars, and instantly loved the yellow Stag,  especially after being taken for a circuit of Charmouth village in it.

Just as we thought that was it for the day the Warden of the camp site approached Tosh and made him an offer for the Stag which he accepted and just like that the Stag was sold! What a result as it was for sale.
 
All in all just about a perfect days touring,  a steady 85 miles and I hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I did 😀

by Gar Cole.

The Group grille badges have always been received warmly by our members with very positive comments in the quality and detailing. A common question I'm asked is why it takes over 8 weeks to make just 60 - 80 badges, well last year I was invited to our suppliers workshop for a tour; if you're interested in top quality old-school British craftsmanship then read on.

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There are no computers on the shop floor, just old-looking mechanical presses and other interesting devices. The badges start by being stamped out from a sheet of 2.5mm thick steel. Once the desired amounts are cut they are individually smoothed around the edges with a belt wheel, then placed into a clamp where there are stamped with our design using our custom tool head.

Now the artistry starts; the writing and outer edges of the flag are raised with the coloured areas recessed from the press, the white, red and blue enamel paint is applied by hand (fascinating to watch), the outer lettering is also covered in white paint at this point as is the centre writing in the middle of the flag in red paint.

Once applied the badges are 'cooked' in the oven for 30 mins at 220f. Following this they are allowed to cool and 'stabilise' for 24hrs. The next process is to lightly sand the leading face; this carefully removes all the enamel paint from the raised surfaces of the lettering, outer ring and the flag borders which re- exposes the base steel metal on the raised surfaces.

After cleaning , the coloured areas are filled in with a type of wax using a tiny pipette - this protects the paint from the next process. The badges are then dipped in a large bath of bubbling steaming chemicals firstly for a short 20 seconds, then twice more, each time progressively longer to build up the 'Rose Gold' plating which interestingly is their most expensive finish - we do like quality in this group.
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Following the plating process they are hung to cool again, then the protective wax covering the paint is dissolved in a solution. Finally the newly-plated rose gold finish is polished to a bright shine on a finishing belt machine. All very labour-intensive, but the quality speaks for itself; currently available to buy below.

The anniversary of my Dad's passing recently came and went so  it's at this time of year many memories and emotions bubble to the surface to fill my thoughts. I still love to talk about him even now,  things he'd done in his life and the incredible experiences he had,  and the happy memories we made over the 36 years I was lucky to have him around.

​He came from a long line of gifted men who all shared a love for all things mechanical and the desire to see their sons succeed in different careers instead of the traditional working class jobs available at the time.   It's a story of trains, planes and automobiles compiled from records from Ancestry.Com and family tales; their story is my story. Still with me?

My great grandfather George J Cole (1873 - 1951 hailed from the Forest of Dean but his son and my grandfather Thomas we know was born in Filton (Bristol). This started our search on Ancestry where we found out he was a train driver for the GWR railway company,  something we hadn't known until recently. He was registered in this profession on the 1911 census and we were surprised such a relatively young man of 37 had made his way through the ranks to engine driver.

He was also registered as living in Filton with a young lady called Mary who was 'domestic service'. We know this girl was my grandfather's mother although they never married. We were later shocked to find that George was already married and had a wife and family of 6 children already registered in Waterloo.  I guess you could say he was 'tooting his whistle'  at both ends of the railway line!  We have no idea if either lady knew about the other but he seems to have kept this deception going between his marriage in 1894 and relocating to South Wales in 1914. He transferred to working out of Pengam railway goods yard near Cardiff, which we assume was to do with the war effort delivering munitions to the ports.

My Grandfather Thomas J Cole 1912 - 1980,  born in Filton but raised in Abertillery was a sporty and restless character who excelled at mechanical engineering. He was a keen long-distance cyclist and played rugby to a high standard for Gelligaer Rugby club for 2 years (1932-33). After marrying my grandmother in 1934 he relocated to Filton in 1936 with his pregnant wife to work for BAE systems, where he worked on fabricating the sheet metal for the aircraft bodies.

He worked firstly on the Bristol type 105 'bulldog'  and later after the war broke out the 'Beaufighter'  working for BAE. Aircraft in general were Thomas's passion,  my grandmother and 3yo father Gerry returned to South Wales to live with her parents after war broke out in 1939 for their own safety as the Aircraft factory was a major enemy target.  Sadly this was borne out one sunny day in September 1940;  Thomas and his co workers had just headed out of the factory for their lunch break when a surprise air raid by 80 German aircraft rained bombs on the plant and surrounding area.

The raid lasted less than 1 minute yet substantial damage was caused to the factory and sadly 132 people died in the raid,  92 of them Bristol employees. My grandfather Thomas was one of 315 casualties, being hit in the lower left leg by shrapnel. They managed to stem the bleeding and save his life but he lost his leg below the knee.   After this devastating incident he returned to his wife in South Wales. It's clear he didn't let this injury get him down as my aunt Pat was born a little over 9 months after he returned! Thomas later went on to be union shop steward at Penalta coal mine and worked hard to improve the working conditions of the men right up to his retirement in 1977.

My Dad Gerry J Cole (1936 - 2013 ) born in the Rymney Valley was gifted both academically and mechanically. He excelled at Pengam grammar school,  with one of his school friends a certain Neil Kinnock (he later became the Labour Party Leader then an MEP). Money was scarce in the Welsh valleys and my Dad left school at 15 in 1951 to find work.

It was always assumed in mining communities that boys would head straight for the mines; despite my grandfather Thomas being union rep he didn't want his eldest son to work underground. My Dad was also a restless soul, an avid reader of adventure novels who longed to travel.  Luckily his own Grandfather George was still alive and despite being long retired as a driver he managed to get my Dad an apprenticeship at the same Pengam train yard that he had retired from in 1946.  My dad loved it,  learning his heavy engineering skills maintaining the rolling stock and he reveled in his free employee travel pass,  visiting places such as Weston-Super-Mare and London for the first time.  

Aged 17 he signed up for the RAF in 1954 and was stationed at Boscombe Down. Continuing to develop his mechanical skills and following his father in a similar path he became an airframe maintenance technician and was soon off around the world. His first trip abroad was in an aging Shackleton bomber heading out to Ceylon (modern day Sri Lanka ),  a noisy 14-hour trip with 3 landings to refuel en route.
 
Later in 1955 he transferred to RAF Akrotiri on the island of Cyprus. The island was under British control at that time and rebel EOKA forces were fighting for a union with Greece. Dad's arrival got off to a bad start after their plane was shot at over a wooded area and forced to land. He spent the next day patching up bullet holes in the wings and fuselage;  strangely he never wanted to go on holiday there later in life.   

He later spent 3 years stationed on Malta, which he described as the best time of his life. He and 4 mates bought an old Ford V8 pilot between them,  so they could pretend they were a higher rank and it was shared out on 'date nights' ,  the local ladies never seeming to notice that these young guys didn't actually all own a car of their own.

During 1958 he flew out to Christmas Island with the Vickers Valliants of No49 squadron. They were so excited to be part of watching Britain's nuclear testing. Dad and his mates were fascinated and had a great time out at the island watching this awesome spectacle. Of course many years later everyone realised the danger they had all been exposed to without adequate protection. An estimated 88% of the servicemen went on to develop cancer - another of his lucky escapes. 

During his last 3 years in the RAF Dad was in the V bomber squadron,  maintaining the planes including his beloved Vulcan. As part of the ground crew he often took part in the ' fast scramble '  exercises using the vehicle-mounted turbo starters.

After leaving the RAF in 1963, Dad returned to Wales riding around on his Royal Enfield 350 bullet and caught the eye of my mother. They married a year later and he worked at Cardiff's Rhoose airport.

His restless nature returned after several years and they relocated when he started working at Elmdon airport (now Birmingham international), in 1972.  At this time Mom was working for a company called 'Andrews Heat for Hire'.  Some might remember that name as the main sponsors on Russell Brooks' rally car during the late 70s / early 80s.

Dad was between jobs after leaving Elmdon having called his boss an 'insufferable prat' who hadn't a fraction of Dad's experience but treated his employees like idiots.   At the Andrews Christmas party the parents met guest of honour Russell Brooks and he and dad got on really well,  so much so that he joined the crew on the 78 Circuit of Ireland Rally.

While not a car mechanic, Dad was brilliant at quickly fabricating brackets, mounts or other parts that failed and had to be quickly made and fitted between stages. He described it as quite a rush being part of that world with fast-paced days and hard drinking nights. Brooks went on to win the 1978 event, but with 3 kids aged 13, 10 and 1 (me), Mom wasn't keen for him being away from home too often.

Growing up with a Dad like this was a gift for me. I loved cars, planes and trains so he took me to watch rallies, many airshows,  built me amazing model railways and of course he was car mad. He had Granadas, SD1s, Land Rovers, Jaguars, Vauxhalls, Minis, in fact most British tin. He would come in from work excited and say 'get your coat on ma boy,  I've seen a cracker at a little garage in town'. He would buy cars cheap, fix them up perfectly, get bored and sell it on before doing it all over again,  much to the annoyance of my mother.  He encouraged my love of cars which continues to this day.  However where George, Thomas and Gerry seemed to be born with a spanner in their hand, I'm actually hopeless at it!  My Dad joked I was born with a cook book in my hand.
 
My best mate has been gone for 7 years now and I miss him with all my heart. When you have somebody that always has your back and always wants what's best for you that leaves such a void when it's gone,  but I know that continuing the interests we shared through this car club and the brilliant and gifted people its brought me into contact with,  the places we've been and shows we've put on makes me feel I'm adding to their story in my own way.
 
Gar J Cole

I hope those of you who are our members enjoy the group and like that we are 'enthusiasts' of all British vehicles. The Admin team along with loyal members have long tried to combat deeply entrenched opinions about certain cars or marques that aren't based on experience but word of mouth. In this regard I believe we have had some success, myself included in that group that's been educated about some vehicles, which brings me to the autumn of 1986....

Back then I was a gobby car mad 8 year-old; everything I knew about cars came from Dad, uncles or guys down the local Working Men's Club, where I was allowed in if I kept quiet while the Rugby was on 😀. In those days school yard jokes were about Skoda, Lada and Reliant, despite none of our families or friends owning any of these cars it was drummed into us they were no good and to be avoided.

Walking along the canal bridge one rainy day a Reliant of 70s vintage buzzed past me with that distinctive note they have. 'Alright plastic pig' I cheekily waved at the driver. Immediately he screeched to a halt, did a quick turn around and stopped next to me. I had that dread feeling you get as a kid when you know your in for a rollicking. 

Living in Birmingham, I was surprised when the window wound down and a booming Scottish voice called me a 'cheeky wee @@@@@' , but said while laughing at the same time, 'Don't you like these cars son?' Well my Dad says they are horrible'. 'And has your father ever driven one?' Nope, he's got a 3.0 Granada Ghia, I bragged like the precocious spoiled brat I was.

'Hmmm well thats very nice for him, your father is obviously doing well for himself, but we can't all afford posh cars, or even want them for that matter. This car suits me fine, it's very economical, the insurance premium is low and I can take the wife and wee one with luggage to the coast which I couldn't do with my motorbike. And did you know you can drive these aged 16?' This pricked my curiosity. 'Just think' he said, 'would you rather be soaked on your push bike at 16 or warm and dry with the radio like I am now?' I took his point as the rain was pouring off my head by now but I didn't dare walk off.

Trying to have the last word I played my Top Trump. 'Ahh but these have only 3 wheels, they tip over easily so my Dads mate said. 'Ohhh is that right is it? Tell me boy, how many normal 4 wheeled cars have you seen crashed and rolled over?' (a common sight in 80s B'ham). 'Errmm, well loads I guess'. 'And how many 3 wheelers have you seen upside down?' My eyes looked at the ground as I sensed my Top Trump was failing. 'I've never seen one rolled over'.

A big meaty hand came out the window and patted me on the shoulder 'You see son, it's never the cars fault, just the big Numpty behind the wheel! Now away home with you before you catch your death' and off he buzzed in a puff of blue oil smoke leaving me feeling thoroughly chastised. That day always sticks with me.

​Fast forward 8 years to 1993 aged 16 visiting family in Wales.

Now at this point all I'd ever driven was a 25cc moped on some fields behind the house. Unbeknown to me with Roderick being a mechanic he had that 850cc running well, mildly tuned with a bigger SU carb and a fruity exhaust, some stiffer rear shocks and a pair of fat minilights. I asked why he hadn't put 3 alloys on it and he said 'Who's going to see the front one underneath the car? Waste of money you wally brain!'. I nervously pulled out onto the quiet village road and accelerated away. Having never driven on the road before it felt quick despite never passing 30mph' it felt more like 60. I'd just started to get into it on the twisty roads between Pontlottyn and Bargoed when Police sirens wailed from behind. I stopped and freaked out, omg what's Mom gonna say, etc etc.

The policeman leaned in looking first at me, then my uncle. 'Alright Rod, ows it going? 'All good cheers Dai, just letting my nephew have a go, he don't like Reliants apparently'. Before I could say anything Dai the copper said 'I thought it had been stolen, I saw this spotty kid with the silly spiky hair doing 27mph and knew something was up - you never drop below 55mph between villages!' then he laughed and went back to his car.

At this point I'd sweated through the back of my T-shirt and told Uncle Roderick he could drive back. What followed was a 4 mile white-knuckle ride taking bends at quite high speeds with total control, even though I was convinced we were going over the mountain edge. Uncle Rod confirmed that day what the Scotsman had said 8 years before - it isn't the car, it's the Numpty behind the wheel.

​From then on I've had a more respectful admiration of these basic little cars that owners seem to love.

I was prompted to write this as today is my cousin Molly's 13th birthday. Sadly her father Roderick passed away 2 years ago aged just 55. He was in the process of restoring a Reliant at the time of his passing; they even had Reliants on the cakes at the wake. His daughter Molly wants the car for her prom when she's 16 - the car is a 76 P reg Robin similar to the one in the photo. The engine and box are removed as is the steering, but the body and interior are intact apart from a broken rear window caused by local yobs. The family are trying to decide if we're going to try and find a company that's willing to reassemble the car and MOT it in time for May 2023; failing that we will have to hire one.

So am I a Reliant convert? Yes I think so; I appreciate them for what they are and what they were built for. My personal favourite is the Regal saloon with the Anglia-style fins and rear windows. If any of you owns one, please bring it to one of our driving tours or shows 😀

Episode three in our new series ' An Unsung Hero ' is dedicated to Anita Peake , wife of Admin Mike.

Mrs P is a front line NHS worker (much respect) and is often working when our tours and shows happen but it's always a joy when she joins us. It must be said a nice hotel certainly makes the tours more appealing to the ladies of the group. I can't understand why they don't like the idea of a row of tents in a field listening to a large group of middle aged men snoring.

Realising it would be nice to have the car finished and usable before the end of 2019, Anita and the girls gamely helped Mike with body prep, sanding, fitting parts and trim and keeping the tea coming (according to Mike). I particularly love the photo of Anita in the boot; lo and behold Poppy was all shiny and ready for the New Forest tour of September 19. Anita joined us on tour (once luxury accommodation was booked first) and a great weekend was had by all.

On our last very wet and windy tour of the Yorkshire Moors in November Anita wisely jumped into the most modern car in the fleet (mine) and we enjoyed sweets as well as a working heater and CD player! We tried not to be smug at the others with their misty windows and below-par heating.

Anita, those of us who know you adore you to bits and respect the work you do and of course the brilliant support you give the group and hubby Mike. I think we all agree that in the not too distant future Mike should be treating you to a holiday in the sunshine, somewhere hot with no tents, no cooking and definitely no rubbing down of paintwork on old cars 😀