The Black Mountains (Blatting for Jacko!)

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)

A whole load'a pics.

Never return to a lost hat!

Running on vapour, an old Sunriser returns and is out for a duck, 2 up in the bends, 'what's that brown stuff and no NIPs today...

Alarm! Scramble! Sun! 5.15 BST

All of which is a surprise having listened to the rain on the windows a few hours before and fully expecting not to have to take the RS 15 to operational status... it's tough having fun.

Right, roll call : Ian H? Present.

Paul C ? Present after 3 years or so, excellent, welcome back: famous for cold brakes and racing pads and frightening whoever's in front with grip scrabbling noises.Briefed to warm the brakes before using them today.

Rob W? Call up papers not acknowledged.Tut tut.(Since reminded us that he was in Italy blatting around Lake Como in a Fiat...so a reasonable excuse given the choice! )

Andy Coastal Command? Sent apologies, coil problems persist, parts are on order.

Cannonball Bob? Usually early at the appropriate RV ...and not present!

The call came in 'Mayday, Mayday, had to ditch... think it's a fuel thing... not enough of it!' 'Send a refueller and help me to clear the humble pie engulfing the 7 !'

Fuel gauges are never an indication of the fuel status in a 7.

Way over left on the passenger side they bounce, flicker and lie their way into the least popular position of all the instruments in the class. The end of blat reports are just never likely to see them performing with the integrity and energy of the oil pressure gauge or, the head of class : the Rev counter.

Only once does the 'I've done my homework: it's all here' over-bluff from the fuel gauge go on to reveal the empty satchel that brings the rest of the class average to a slow coasting stop and detention!

Long before have experienced blatters called on other pupils to support the class in this area, like the steady maths pupil that is 'Trip'. When it turns to 160 your attention is drawn to fuel reserves, and at 180, it's really time to attend.

So, here's Bob, of sound and logical mind, having run out of gas :-)

The Blat was not to be thwarted by mere pilot error ... we were away.

Paul C's straight cut bag of gears helps to keep tabs on his cosy proximity behind, some times closer than comfortable. Hindhead and Haslemere were dispatched as a warm up exercise ready for real engagement of the old A3 from Liphook south (now mostly deserted having been demoted to a 'B' road).

In and out of tree cover, through nicely changing elevation combined with lead swapping on the short dual carriageway stretches quickly had a man down... a lost hat. Paul C dashed back for the faithful brown beanie, whilst we sat playing the chuntering idle music to the well heeled sleeping neighbourhood.

'SHRT': Standard Hat Recovery Time came and passed.

The hat had made a dash for freedom or perhaps was scooped up by a passing tramp or hungry tarmac sniffing intake scoop. Check nose cones. All clear.

The morse signal came in.... H.A.T. M.I.A. N.O. D.R.I.V.E. A.F.T.E.R. M.A.S.S.I.V.E D.O.N.U.T.

R.E.Q.U.E.S.T. A.S.S.I.S.T.A.N.C.E. S.T.O.P.

Man down.

Warm tyres, grabby tarmac,the loud pedal and an Ital axle: do-not a happy do-nut make.

We found the drive-less 7 in a cinder layby, going nowhere. A nice spot to leave a car, no one around.It'll be fine, no one will find it. (See note 6)

So Paul , keen to have his promised breakfast, jumped in as observer with me and we picked up where we left off. Good man. Blatting for the greater good.

Petworth bends with two up was an exercise in energy management and a reminder that 7's are based around 'the less the better' when it comes to people. The 272 on to Wisborough Green stretched the Blatgland and warmed the soul further... something else had been warmed and loosened 'cos there was brown stuff coming out of the louvres at the front end of the bonnet.

Paul was invited to unbuckle and make his way forward to identify the leak source.He said no.

The breakfast in Guildford beckoned and we pressed on with brown vigour.

Mmmm...nice.

I had some brown vigour on my eggs. Paul ate by himself as he contemplated a lost 7 somewhere in Liss forest:

Outcomes and learnings:

1) Fill up with petrol.

2) Are hats worth returning to? Even ones that you have had since they were lambs?

3) Brown stuff happens when the expansion tank cap is left loose.

4) Remember where the 7 is parked , it saves a lot of time driving around with the trailer trying to find it again.

5) Drive shaft key-ways break off in woods in Hampshire.

6) Keep driving up and down the same road thinking your broken 7 has been stolen until you drive down the right road and find it!

7) Ian H didn't get arrested today.

From chilly sauce to maple syrup...X-flow cuisine.

A night run for kebabs, handling lunch and breakfast in America ...

Another weekend with a good forecast, we must have done something right and already the BlatMile count so far has easily exceeded the whole of last year. This is good.

Friday 7pm

Solent 7's have their monthly meet on a Friday evening and the last one that the Sunrise Sevens attended spawned the eminent Brighton run to the Market Tavern, so, rude not to put in an appearance really. The chosen pub, being Winchester way, offered a choice of 7 roads that would have CBB and I chasing pheasants and rabbits off the tarmac whilst in search of somewhere from the 17th century, that we would discover to be serving drinks in the same time frame, but at prices from the 22nd century.

£3.72 for a lime and lemonade?

I'll buy a bottle of Scotch and be done with it sir!

We were first on the bouncy castle tho'.

A fine evening in the country, but the shadows lengthened and faded and girls reached for cardies. Not having reached for the menu early enough to be served inside the predicted one and a half hours, and, unable to find an unoccupied cardie (sp?) to chew, I now needed a BlatSnack.

The mental route map ran through the options: Brighton really equated as too far east from where we were to head for The Tavern, cop out really, but the rest of the weekend was looking good to blat, so we put that in the 'next time' folder.

Loomies had a late night opening on a Friday : we had a look, but not that late apparently. CBB's petrol bomb progress singed the way clear back to Alton and Odiham, and by reversing the tried and tested route, lent a different aspect to that forgotten bend and missing dip or two.

This led us to the modern day roadside coaching in : The kebab van.

Glorious in its welcoming bath of neon light and flickering telly, (how do they manage to receive live turkish boxing on a coat hangar aerial?), it's popularity measured by the exploded contents of the wind blown bin.

I am not convinced that the kebab van equivalent of the McD litter patrol doesn't actually fill this bin before they start the evening and then spread more of their produce liberally about the road and pavement as an enticement to the passing motorist, drunk, policeman and... er... 7evener into thinking 'oooh, must be good, look how many people have eaten there'.

The funny cars looked more than usually so amongst the moth like arrivals of Saxo modded boygirls and out-of-body-clock-synched wedding guests in BMW's that all came, fed and were gone in the time that my chicken shish was born, lived briefly and was scattered on the pavement in customary approval.

The two stroke yamaha backed conversation in stilted boxing from behind the counter, suggested that our cars had engines that were 'a bit small innit'. The chilly size/strength ratio example I gave to illustrate the theory was lost amongst a brilliant piece of between flickers boxmanship and, with a new arrival of lexus light clusters, we moved on, scattering wrappers in appreciation amongst the fallen remnants of my simile!

Next,another 10 miles and then the flip side of nightstops, the Wild Bean Cafe (It's a BP garage isn't it, sussed that early on). Latte's and doughnuts under more bright neon ... we've been here before, and so have the lexus-lens kids and wedding guests et al. But, needs must, every blat sortie requires a de-brief and sustenance and this stop has petrol too, of which Bob likes to make full use.

A further loop south back up to the Hog's Back, not a food reference this time, a well named road, will conclude part 4 of the evening's blat. Bob and Miss England salute their departure with a ball of flame (blue then yellow) and make off back to Alton and Basingstoke...they like their petrol used in a blat of 5 parts.

Saturday: 10.30 am.

A lie in! Didn't sleep well ... the kebab and coffee that are essential Nighblat ingredients don't make for an easy shut down of all systems just 'cos it's time to sleep then. Good job that the Sunrise blat is planned for tomorrow. Truth being that the 7 Club Handling Day at Dunsfold is today and we'd planned a run down to have a look...20 mins away hardly constitutes an early departure and most of the other Sunrisers are either on half term, having girlfriends or 'off air', so any sense of my lack of commitment to the Sunrise cause this morning goes unoticed.

The sun shone.

Right, breakfast time, and a blat to Dunsfold...what do you eat after a short and defensive struggle through the grid lock of Guildford that soon turns any driving ambition to thoughts of bacon and egg rolls instead?

A bacon and egg roll then.

And dispensed from another van...mmm. CBB assures me that his friend in the Health and Safety Squadron would take his chances from the mobile caterer over a budget restaurant anyday.

So, a bacon and egg roll is bought from a ten year old with burns.

Caterham 7's were put through their paces as bacon and burgers were fitted in faces.

The sun shone on some more.

Tea was next on the ingested catering list, Rob W joined us and we watched instead of 'doing' for once... and the sun shone a bucket load more.

To interrupt the BlatSnack thread , a mention must be made of the RS Caterham Levante in attendance at this handling day. £100k's worth of cereal packet shaped carbon fibre with a siamesed motor bike engine, making a mini V8, and throwing out 500 broken horse powers!

There mentioned it.

How big is it? How Much is it?

And man did the sun shine ... and so did I. Jeremy Clarkson and Co have clearly not put the coins in the ozone layer meter over Top Gear Land where we stood. The water bowser being used for the skid pan was looking like the only way of extinguishing the kilojoules absorbed by my nose and forehead. Clown like, I sought sanctuary in some shade by discussing alloy wheel refurbishment with a driving instructor in a Ford Focus :-/

The RS Levante continued tearing more seconds off the 0-60 test event, and more holes in Jeremy's ozone account , and there in we were reminded of the outcome for not being in banking (or even wanting to use them) , our cars being perhaps a tenth of the value of this thing .Yeah, but is he happy?

Compare the Cosworth powered CSR 260 ... a short reign as king of Caterham Hill with that of the Levante.

(If you're quick these vids will run in tandem to give a bit of a race thing!)

Time to go, I need an ambulance for my face.

Sunday 05.15 BST

Sunrise Squadron Scramble!!

Back on it, the face flames have been dowsed and the previous evening's tirade of clown abuse has left no lasting damage. Any DNA changes from the intake of radiation are not obvious in the simple requirements of left, right and 'go' at this stage. Maybe that comes a generation or two later, won't harm this morning's Sunrise Blat then, green light go!

The clear sky and cool air at this time of the day cleans the tubes, but it hasn't helped Andy (of Coastal Command) to get his kite to fly this morning. Somewhere in Worthing a X-flow cranks on it's battery to all the neighbours, for about 20 mins. The vinegar stroke that a good squirt from the coil would have concluded, was not to be. Andy retires from the mission and a wingman goes without. We've cleared his locker and stopped his priviledges.

Ian H, fresh back from holiday and with the sound of NIP's rustling in his licence, slots straight into formation. We RV with 'CBB and Miss England' (they are one and the same) in the Cow Car Park in Hook (where today some free range Aberdeen's stood and wondered as to X-flows and their comparably steamy breath and fluid losses).

Today the mission objective is to convert the previously blogged NatBlat route into a fully operational alternative to the Southern based routes. 80 miles north to Pangbourne, Didcot and back south to Basingstoke and home. Just as well Andy (CoCom) missed this one,to join us he'd have been way up on the carbon footprint profile thing and that. Somewhere a cormorant remains clean and thanks a silent X-flow in Worthing... just visible, under a webbed foot, the handle of the wire snippers.

The best bit of this route comes after 40 mins of light exercise through country lanes and small villages (see NatBlat entry), speed cameras and new found fondness of our permits-to-blat keep the pace even. Tom of the Tom has us repeating a triangular road section a few times as one of the satellites, that makes him do his thing, falls through Clarkson's ozone hole or something.

CBB and Miss E stop for some fuel right at the nub of the good bit, they like fuel those two.

He advises that the quality of top shelf literature is particularly rich and plentiful at this BlatStop. Which reminded me, where are we going to get the day's BlatSnack? (The blog thread re-aligns smartly back on topic.)

7.20 BST and all is good.

And so to the long awaited 'downs section'. Do you remember the cartoon road analogy?

Meep meep !

12 miles of coitus un-interruptus!

Yup, grab the adjective book and include all the balancing, finger tip, apex cutting, foot dancing, tyre grabbing stuff you can and spread it on the next 12 miles promised by T of T to the next roundabout... and it'd not even come close.

This is top shelf, plain wrapper, trouser bursting BlatPorn.

Sullied by our exuberence and self abuse, we stave off the inevitable post coital depression with the weekend's final BlatSnack at the 'hope it's open' American Diner thing.We're 'twixt Newbury and Basingstoke and, as we park, the blinds open and the door unlocks. 8 am .

Our two wheel half brothers are standing their machines on pegs and are already looking for strong sweet tea, presumably after having ridden the crest of a continuous accident all morning, as is there wont.

Waffles, maple syrup and eggs to the sound of 'doo wop' surrounded by 1950's ephemera add an unusual culture shift and time travel conclusion to the main part of the weekend. Or does it?

Consider: The car that is our star in this blog was first set free as the Lotus 7 in 1957. This 50's roadside diner, in it's optimistic deco revival make up and period enthusiasm, represents the wave of response to the post war austerity years that helped give possibility to the man on the street for a better and brighter future. It's a dead cert that, across the country, a brace of Series 1 7's will have stopped for breakfast and coffee at similar roadside stops on a Sunday summer morning,in the same way, 52 years ago ... and every year since.

So here's an image that says something about car design, enthusiasm, hope, simple pleasures and BlatSnacks :

...and still the sun shone :-)