After a quiet year, chaos. I was due to meet friends in Scotland in mid-November, and we decided to drive up together with a stop in Northumberland for stargazing and a visit to Hadrian’s Wall. We took his Landrover and my very elderly car, so that he could return home before the friends’ reunion to let in the builders (long story… this old house is getting a new floor at long last) while I had a long weekend with the friends.
The Northumbrian trip went really well. The final day was rainy, and we didn’t find Sycamore Gap (and wouldn’t have been so keen to get out if we had), but we did visit The Sill, a landscape exhibition near Vindolanda. Worth a visit.
On Wednesday, we left the hotel and began the drive together to Melrose, me in the lead. As soon as we left the villages behind there was a problem. The turbo in the Landrover broke. Again. That’s the fourth time. This is a vehicle that was sent back in disgrace after 500 miles, and proceeded to eat its turbo, clutch and oil-cooler over a suspiciously short time. As the previous Landrover managed to survive my driving with no more than routine maintenance for almost 100,000 miles, this level of breakdown spoke of a Friday afternoon job.
It couldn’t be fixed at the roadside. The RAC tow-truck would take hours to arrive, and we knew from a friend’s experience that they wouldn’t take the driver home in the cab as they used to – that they would call a local taxi for him, if one could be found to take someone 250 miles. Worse, the Landrover risked being taken to an RAC regional border and dumped off for another tow-truck to pick up later, with my telescope and tripod locked in the back. No thanks. Instead, I escorted him home. Top speed around 45mph all the way and the acceleration of a pushbike.
Thursday morning, I set out again for Scotland from home in my Peugeot. It’s now 17 years old, third-hand and with 156,000 miles on the clock, bought to get me through the last few years at work and still plodding along. Nippy, reliable and battered enough not to attract unwelcome attention in a car park, I’m fond of it.
It was fine all the way up there, but the moment I pulled out of the parking space on the way home the brakes felt – wrong. Softer. I got it as far as the A1M, intending to pull in to the first set of services and call the RAC. If they dropped it off at their regional border and the car got stolen I would write off the loss of my dirty clothing and the car with a shrug and put the insurance money towards another old car.
What happens in a Peugeot when the brakes fail completely is that there’s a loud beeping sound and the dashboard lights up with a red STOP sign and the handbrake symbol. Luckily, just as I approached the turn for Newcastle. I sat in a layby on the road sweeping down into Newcastle for three hours in pouring rain, waiting for the RAC to find me and judging how dangerous it might be to still be sitting here after dark.
The RAC no longer operate a priority system for women stranded alone in their cars. I discovered also that the get you home policy has been amended to finding me a hire car somehow. The chances of me getting an unfamiliar car out of a busy city centre without a scratch is not great. I drive a battered old car for a reason. Even when I’m stationary, some berk is likely to play dodgems and take a stripe off the paint.
By the end of the three hours, with the cheery updates from the RAC telling me every half hour that they were still “incredibly busy” (understaffed), I was considering what we’d do next July when our membership expired. Not renew, after forty years of membership, and take our chances with calling a local garage if we broke down again.
What I got at the end of three hours was Ian, a cheery, competent man who pinpointed the problem in three minutes flat and towed me to the nearest garage with a chance of fixing the problem. He stayed to make sure I was okay there and nipped into the workshop to see them take the brake apart, then shot off to his next stranded motorist. The garage, Team Valley Services, did a fantastic job. It took three hours, but I left there with both sets of rear brake shoes and pistons replaced and a clear explanation of what had gone wrong. The piston arm had missed the brake shoe, shot out to its fullest extent and hosed the brake shoe with brake fluid – slippery and corrosive, it had removed all braking from one side.
I got home at 10pm, but with a fully operational car. The Landrover goes in on Monday to have its parts spanked yet again. How long it will run for is anyone’s guess. He shoulda bought a Peugeot.
Julia Chalkley 