Today

Just got back from a spiffing weekend in Eastbourne catching up with family & friends. The weather was gorgeous. We stayed at the Hydro Hotel and, to atone for the amount of eating we'd done, we walked all the way to Paul's Sister's at Roselands. We walked along the seafront and saw the "Magnificent Motors" show get ready. Hordes of old cars - Austin 7's, Jags, Morris Minors, Bond Bugs, even Humbers. Paul was delighted and felt well rewarded for his effort. All along the way there were men saying things like "do you know that's a 1958 Rover blah-blah?"And their female companions were saying "Really, that's nice."

Paul got very cheerful over a white Daimler limousine and some rather nicely preserved Eastbourne buses (were they really that eggyolk yellow?) In fact, since marrying Paul, I've been involved with what seems like more than my fair share of older cars, from the frankly frightful, the possibly useable to the lovely Humber Imperial he's got now. And he's had some kind of car, with only one short intermission in 1977, since he was 15.

In My Day

Cars didn't feature so much in my childhood; living in London they weren't really necessary. My father used to talk about the Morris 8 he'd had in the '40s, and how one enthralled passenger had said with hushed awe to his wife "we are now going at 40 miles an hour."

So when Daddy got an old Daimler, nicknamed "Douglas" we were all very excited. I can't say I have any idea what model it was but it wasn't in the first flush of youth. We made a few trips, but its primary purpose was to pull a 4-berth caravan (Bluebird) that Daddy had also bought.

In the Spring of 1955 we set off to explore Wales. No motorways, so we took 3 days to get there. Each day had its special adventure.

Day 1

Found ourselves at Atherstone, near Birmingham. We decided to park on the common. Did so, then discovered that it was rather muddy and we'd got stuck. The next few hours, well into darkness, were spent sourcing a tractor to haul us out.

Day 2

Arrived near Shrewsbury. Everywhere very hilly. Chocked up the caravan and got some sleep. It must have been very cosy as it was a 4-berth and we were 6. In the morning off to buy breakfast and bits in town. In our absence the chocks gave way. That was bad enough, but the way we were sloping meant that all the cupboard doors flung open and there was washing powder mixed with the cornflakes, cups, saucers, knives, spoons etc.

Day 3

North Wales at last. Mountains, even. In the dark Daddy took a wrong turn and drove us with confidence into a slate quarry. Attempting to reverse out he drove over a railway line and fractured the exhaust and silencer. Eventually turned the caravan round manually, rehitched and resumed our triumphant progress with rattling and smoking exhaust, through sleepy Welsh villages.

Nothing daunted by this experience, Daddy set off again in the Summer with Bluebird and Douglas to explore Berkshire. Caravan seemed to be pulling a bit, but never mind.

In a narrow lonely lane Bluebird's axle gave way, spewing ball bearings all over the road. (Beatrice spent the next week collecting them.) From which you will surmise that we had no choice but to push the caravan into the hedgerow and have the holiday there, until we could get a transporter to take it home.

Douglas never recovered his equilibrium and died quietly and finally in the middle of London that Autumn.

Which set the tone for many years of incident-filled motoring with Paul.