Double Gloucester

Prescott, near Cheltenham is one of those places where the eccentricity of the English is on full display and my goodness it takes many forms. I should explain. Prescott is the venue where over the course of a weekend in early August the Vintage Sports Car Club (think cheese-cutter caps, Tattersal check shirts, plum colour corduroys and well worn brogues) holds a hill climb for members owning suitable cars. The event is held at the hill owned since the 1930s by the Bugatti Owners Club, and as I have described before is in an idyllic setting. The paddock for the competing cars is an orchard and each small 'equipe' sets up base around the individual vehicles. Most devotees have been attending for donkeys years and choose to camp in the considerable acreage set aside for such an uncomfortable pastime. They are rewarded throughout the evening by impromptu jazz sessions, outdoor cinema shows and talk of cylinder heads, superchargers and magnetos. A sort of internal combustion Glastonbury. There's a fine mix of accents to be heard too, from the decidedly cut glass "phar phar phar" of the PSBs to the "eeh lads" of the bluff Yorkshiremen to the "well oyl be's" of the West Country farmers. This is a place where millionaires mix with mechanics and some are both. There's an overwhelming sense of appreciation of the way in which these arcane vehicles are put together and the skill and verve with which they are driven. People get as much satisfaction competing in a home-built Austin 7 special as a pristine Grand Prix Bugatti and the lack of sponsorship means that it's individual effort that counts. The car above captures perfectly the spirit of the event. It was built prewar by Basil Davenport and consists of an early GN cyclecar chassis with a powerful V twin Vitesse engine. As you can see it carries the scars of decades of competition and wears no front wheel brakes, its uncompromising aluminium bodywork carries the driver in the most narrow of seats. Despite its spindly and what might by some to be considered 'unkempt' looks, it still has a remarkable turn of speed and is capable of competing with far more modern machinery. It is the essence of the spirit of the pre-war amateur driver and constructor and will always be associate with that other mecca of speed hill climbing, Shelsley Walsh in Worcestershire.

If you decide to make the pilgrimage to Prescott don't forget to visit The Bugatti Trust as well. A superb facility tracing the design and production of Bugatti cars, but also the furniture of Carlo Bugatti and the sculpture of Rembrandt, Ettore's brother.

Eric and James Ravilious

A superb exhibition opened last Friday at the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne. The Towner, long a repository of some fine work by that most English of watercolourists, Eric Ravilious, has a show featuring not only his paintings but also a photographic collection of the work of his son James. Sadly the two never knew each other as Eric lost his life in a flying accident during the war whilst employed as an official war artist. James grew up with his father's eye for truth and observation though, and his recording of scenes of village life and landcsape around his home in Devon never lapse into either chocolate box or have so much 'verité' that they become inaccessible - simply, it is as if the photographer is not there, his presence never trespassing upon the scene - a rare gift and proof positive that James was completely accepted by his subjects with an ability to blend into the background. Never asked to pose, the characters peopling his work are consequently full of life and vigour. Eric's work has always been amongst that of my favourite artists...watercolours and yet not in the conventional style, a dry brush, cross hatching, muted colours, extreme detail but also expanses of landscape and sky with hard edges to the clouds. Of course I'm no Bernard Berenson so my analysis is a bit thin and it sounds like it shouldn't work, but it does, triumphantly! There's a lot about his chosen subject matter that pleases a Sussex person and indeed much of the exhibition contains work from my area, but again not always the obvious...of course The Downs, but also Newhaven Harbour and the long-gone Cement works only a couple of miles from the highly decorated Charleston 'set'.

On show too are Ravilious' wood engraving (his engravings are stunning works in miniature by the way) tools wrapped in a velvet cloth and James' beloved Leica camera with its customised lenses. Thinking I might finally avail myself of the reproduction Ravilious 'Alphabet' mug by Wedgwood at the gallery shop I was told that they are no longer available and the manufacturer's future is far from rosy...sad but there were two lovely books to be had featuring the work of father and son to which I can turn whenever I need a Ravilious fix.

Without a safety net.

As life grinds inexorably towards its dusty conclusion (you're particularly cheerful today - ed.) one wonders at what possibly could excite and stimulate more than the things one has already indulged (or in some cases, over-indulged) in. Yesterday's 'first ever' was a Gliding experience. A present from my wife for the significant birthday, a mixture of apprehension and procrastination pushed the event right to the wire and Sunday was the final opportunity before the voucher ran out. Providence provided the most glorious weather and an amiable and experienced instructor. Our local gliding club at Ringmer near Lewes was the location and we opted for an aerial tow whereby an aged Piper aircraft drags the glider by what looks like not much more than a piece of washing line, up to 2,500 feet. A parachute is helpfully provided accompanied by the words "bend your legs when you land"...which makes the EasyJet lifebelt instructions sound rather wimpish in comparison. After a thorough briefing we we were cocooned in our two seater tandem cockpit and airborne almost as soon as we were moving. Cast off somewhere over Firle Beacon, the flying tug veered sharply away towards Brighton whilst we banked towards Eastbourne. Silence! except for the rushing of the air around us, this was more akin to sailing...wonderfully graceful movements and changes of direction make one feel a part of the whole plane. The flat lands of Sussex lay spread out below us whilst the high Downs in their magnificence rise up against the channel beyond, a living Ordnance Survey map with all the features beautifully defined and laid out for me to spot. I felt as if I was the first person ever to have flown, so different was the sensation from that of package travel, and imagined what life must have been like for the young men stationed at the tiny Battle of Britain airfield beneath us at Ripe. Their view was much like mine but overlaid with a terrible purpose in what could at any time have become a life or death struggle. I counted my blessings. Through lack of thermal activity we swooped low over the trees and made a most dignified landing - total time in the air, just 18 minutes, and I luxuriated in every one of them. I'd definitely repeat the experience although being caught in a turbulent storm doesn't appeal much; apparently it requires a five hour solo flight before you get your 'wings' as a glider pilot - up there, alone with just your thoughts - it has an appeal...

The sepia picture is of Herr Fokker who gave several demonstrations of gliding in Sussex in the early 1920's. The Daily Mail also ran an international gliding competition at Itford Hill, close to Lewes, in 1922. Sussex can rightly be said to be the birthplace of gliding in England - hooray!

Nuclear near Romney

The little lanes of East Sussex, and there are many, afford the finest views and virtually the only remaining opportunity within the county to capture the essence of what motoring must have been like in the twenties and thirties of the last century. Our journey from New Anzac takes us to Burwash where Kipling made his home at the fabulous ironmaster's house of Bateman's and then eventually to far Dungeness. The day is far from clement and a bitter wind reddens our faces as we negotiate the twists and turns of the lanes 'Dumb Woman', 'Float' and 'Poppinghole'. Driving across the flatlands teeming with sheep and wildlife the roads brings us to ancient Winchelsea and our route leads through its ancient streets, emerging onto the Rye road. Skirting Rye, destined now forever to be an inland port, the tourists are already gathering and defiantly licking their ice creams, collars turned against the chill easterly. Towards the remote church of East Guldeford, we turn south for Camber and unlike most of the stony Sussex coast...sand! The holiday camp, so redolent of the 50's now sports a fine new overcoat but somehow you know that underneath it's still very much 'Hi-de-Hi' with red-nose comics telling questionable jokes and much boozy nocturnal activity between the 'huts'. Soon we are at our destination, although the nuclear power station curiously juxtaposed with a spanking new wind farm has been visible for quite some time. Past Derek Jarman's lonely hut with it's nature-defying garden and driftwood sculptures, we pull the Delage onto some shingle in front of The Britannia pub indulging in a pint of Shepherd Neame and a lunch of extremely good fish and chips. The unmistakable sound of an American steam whistle somewhat incongruously attached to a narrow gauge English 'Pacific' miniature locomotive draws us from the pub as one of The Romney Hythe and Dymchurch's finest drags in it's rake of carriages. We gaze at the lighthouses, and freeze quietly in the wind as the silent power station sends its charge down the arteries and veins of pylons spreading across the flatlands and beyond our view. We snap Jarman's hut as we leave this otherworldly part of Kent and and half expect to see his gaunt features framed by a hat and scarf appear in the doorway - we don't, but of course this unusual place is also one of ghosts.

Hedge Fund

This is not as common a site as it once was. A properly laid hedge and right on the boundary of urban Brighton. Such skill, such precision, such artfulness in bending nature to man's will. They say that a job done well will last fifty years before it'll need doing again. Probably the finest livestock barrier devised, and growing and enriching itself naturally after this drastic surgery, although in this case the livestock is human on the eastern edge of town. Bordering land owned by the City, one can only assume some sort of unusually imaginative and benign decision was taken to adopt this far-from-cheap form of hedge maintenance. If you want chapter and verse on the craft of hedge laying, and it is poetry! - read Roger Deakin's 'Wildwood' which covers the subject wonderfully well.

Brighton or bust!

The pictures remind me that this coming Sunday is the annual Pioneer Run from Epsom to Brighton for veteran motorcycles. This event always attracts the best of British eccentricity. These shots demonstrate it perfectly. Not content to hitch a wheezing ancient motorcycle to a heavy sidecar, the hopeful owner then fills it with a wife and two dogs. Obviously one wears a tie when riding such machines...and a deerstalker hat if possible too. The De Dion tricycle (I think that's what it is), being rather sporting and fast requires its owner to sport a conventional crash helmet.

Nery-a-cross word

This curious device is named a 'Ner-a-Car' and aptly too, for it is neither a motorcycle nor a car but successfully combines the bad points of each. Heralded as the new 'best thing on wheels' by its inventor, one American gentleman named Carl Neracher, it was made under licence by the grandly titled Sheffield Simplex company of Kingston upon Thames. For the mechanically inclined it has friction drive involving the forcing of a buffalo-hide covered roller against a brass flywheel which effectively, or rather, ineffectively gives speeds of slow and not-so-slow. It has two brakes, both on the rear wheel and operated independently. The handlebars are really there as a place to rest your arms, for the device is hub-steered like a car and despite the primitive appearance the motorcycle can be manouvered by moving your bodyweight in the required direction. The handling is extremely stable and quite in advance of anything of its time.

Having always been fascinated by the off-beat when it comes to transportation I heard of this device languishing in a disused fish shed in Maldon, Essex. The owner was charming but already had too many sick donkeys in his sanctuary and saw that I would give it a warm, dry stable. It is in what we old vehicle freaks call 'oily rag condition' which means that it's very original but has never received the dignity of polish - rather it has been preserved by liberal applications of a diesel-soaked rag. Consequently it looks (and smells) quite delightful. Having lugged the beast home I studied the miniscule instruction manual and it struck me that here was a machine that was quite serious in its intent; it would be laughed off the market today but must have been quite a revelation back in 1922. Apparently the Ner-a-Car was advertised in magazines like Country Life as well as in Legal and professional medical journals. Many found a following amongst midwives and country doctors, particularly attracted (it says here) by the ease of control and the comprehensive weather equipment. I can tell you that I doff my cap to the sturdy midwives of the 1920's for it is anything but easy to ride requiring octopus-like dexterity to even start the machine in motion. However, on a flat surface, like a billiard table, say, and with a fair wind behind you on an extremely quiet country road there is a certain charm with the tiny two stroke engine emitting clouds of noxious fumes which are thankfully left far behind as you buzz serenely along at around 25 thoroughly English miles per hour.

Last summer the lanes of a remoter part of East Sussex were home to me and the Ner-a-Car as I triumphantly completed a journey of some twenty or so miles, much of it spent with my 'assisting' the little 'bike up the mighty hills thereabouts. But I made it! and my triumphant return to that most delightful of pubs, the Six Bells, Chiddingly was greeted by gales of laughter by the crowds of young motorcyclists who gravitate there on a Sunday. Their mockery turned to undisguised amazement when I parked in their midst and to downright admiration when I regaled them with my (slightly exaggerated) tales of the open road. Ner-a-Car, Ner-a-Bike, Ner-a...nything really, just a huge amount of fun at the expense of its thoroughly worthy inventor - I love it.