Rosie Rides Out (pt 2)

It is 12:00 noon and we are packed up and ready to leave Burnbake. We take a look around and see that most of our neighbours have fair'd better that us, but, even so the scene is one reminiscent of a cat that has fallen in a bath. Everything and everyone is wet, to some degree. One tent appears to have gained a moat, it is completely surrounded by water. At closer inspection, it is actually sitting in about 3" of the wet stuff!


Having taken down the sad remnants of our awning and, rather unceremoniously, stuffed them under the rear seats in Rosie - we will take them out and dry it all off when we get home! - we slowly drive through the campsite and out on to the main road. With hindsight - oh what a wonderful human affliction that is - Rosie didn't seem quite right.  As we drove along the main road that runs from Corfe to Studland and the chainferry to Sandbanks, I remember thinking that she had acquired a bit of a smokers growl.  


Leaving the campsite and joining the B3351, we head east on the road that by-passes the wonderful seaside town of Swanage to the north. I know Swanage well, having first visited when I was about 5 years old.  My parents introduced me to the wonders of camping at a young age and, until I was 12, this was our means of achieving a two week summer holiday. At 10, I came here on a school holiday for a week. Six years later, I returned to the same hotel for a Geology field trip - the Isle of Purbeck is renown for its abundance of fossils and is a living, breathing text book of geological features.  Known as the Jurassic Coast, the strand from Weymouth to Swanage is rich with Ammonites, Belemnites and other fossilised creatures. There have also been found amazing examples of dinosaur tracks, some measuring over a metre in width and the clay also lays claim to the largest Pliosaur skull - probably the biggest scariest sea creature ever to have lived on our plant...but I digress (all this is, perhaps, for another blog).

Vicky overlooking Lulworth - 1983

Vicky and I came here on our first holiday together in 1983, camping at a site on top of the cliff above Durdle Door, near Lulworth Cove, and have since visited the area on numerous occasions. After we moved to King's Worthy, we realised that the Isle was easily within day tripping distance and would often take a day out to visit and walk in the area, or simply sit and relax on the Studland beaches. We both fell in love with Corfe Castle, which sits in majestic ruin above the pass into Wessex from Swanage town.


Swanage itself is a testament to bygone days of holiday making and day tripping. With its Fish and Chip shops, amusement arcades and pier, it a stereotypical English seaside retreat. Swanage is quintessential of its type. I never tire of it and always love to visit because it reminds me of a world that exists less and less in our ever over marketed world. It is what it is - no more no less - and for all of that, it is an honest place.

I've scuba dived off Swanage pier a couple of times as well as in Kimmeridge Bay - where I had my first and only encounter with sea horses - and did my Advanced PADI not too far west of there, in Portland Harbour.  Only last year, we took Vicky's mum and dad on a boat trip from Poole harbour to Swanage and back as a birthday treat for Bim. The place holds so many happy memories.

But enough...we are passing Swanage to the north, across the saddle of Purbeck, towards Studland. As we pass the golf course, with an icecream van parked in the carpark, I jovially announce that, "I would buy you all an icecream, but, having just got enough momentum to get us up this hill, I'm b***red if I'm stopping now".  Rosie climbed the long incline across the back of the ridge that, to our right, climbs to the top of the cliffs above 'Old Harry Rocks' - a series of chalk stacks that step out into the English Channel and mark the eastern end of the Isle.  Bearing north, the road sweeps us onto the northern promontory, known as 'Little Isle', that encloses the south eastern side of Poole Harbour. To our right, divided by a half mile wide band of gorse and trees, are the gloriously sandy Studland beaches. Rosie trundles along the road until we reach the toll booths for the chain ferry that will carry us across the 300 yard breach, made by the sea, between Shell bay and Sandbanks, on the mainland.


This place has always fascinated me.  The chain ferry is an open steel platform that pulls itself from bank to bank by means of unrealistically thick, heavy chains attached to either shore. It does this, non-stop, day in, day out, all year round. The trip takes about 10 minutes, plus another ten minutes at either terminus to disgorge its contents and swallow a return journey's worth of travellers. However, this is also the only entrance to, what is claimed to be, at least, the second largest natural harbour in the world. Therefore, each time the chain ferry crosses the void between the two points, it is like someone playing one of those old computer tennis games - except that you don't really want anyone to make a hit - as there is a constant stream of small boats, yachts, ribs, etc. negotiating the  lateral passage into and out of the harbour.  Added to this, twice a day, one of the massive Condor Cats, will enter or leave the harbour, gliding effortlessly through the seemingly too narrow gap. If you have ever seen the opening credits of the first ever Star Wars film, you will understand what I mean when I say that, however impressive the boats are that you see whizzing in and out of the harbour, when the Condor Cat passes through you have that 'Holy F**k' moment as when the battle cruiser appears over your head in the cinema and just keeps on coming.


As is often the case, we have to wait for the ferry to take the earlier arrivals across to Sandbanks and then come back for us. Passing through the toll gate, the attendant points out that our front off-side tyre looks a bit low! The delay waiting for the turn-around affords us some time to consider this. The tyre is, indeed, rather deflated - indicative of our night at Burnbake perhaps.  Barbara and I look at this with concern! Realistically, how far will we get before the tyre is too low to drive on? How far from the other side of the ferry is the next garage? What happens if the tyre does not stay inflated until we get to a garage?  

Barbara and I do not need to discuss the implications! Another victim of the forget list...we forgot to buy a spare wheel!! Rosie only has four and they are already propping her up from the tarmac. Even if we did have a spare wheel, we don't have a jack. Do you know what...even as I type this I'm thinking 'you mindless prat!' How on earth can you drive off in a 40 year old vehicle without basic things like...a spare tyre...a jack...!! But!! being the gadget guru that I am, I triumphantly produce my box of magic tricks. My little grey box that is a phone charger, a fluorescent lamp, a 'jump start' and also...Da DAaaa...an air compressor. We have time on our hands, waiting for the ferry, and so I attach my trusty machine to the offending tyre and flick the switch. It leaps into action and, by the time we are due to embark, has pumped enough air into the tyre to alleviate our fears. Job done, the ferry awaits and the homeward journey should be one of routine.


Gaining the farther shore, we climb up and over Sandbanks and onto Banks road.  Leaving the wind and kite surfers in the bay, we turn right and head, parallel to the beach, to Branksome and then on to Bournemouth. The weather is, by now, in our favour and we are all in good humour. We make the Wessex Way, the main road out of Bournemouth, in good time and Rosie is fair eating the tarmac.  On the dual carriage way, we even manage to overtake a car or two and revel in our, or Rosie's, achievement.  All is going well and we are talking about the lunch that we might enjoy when we get back to Winchester. In no time at all, we are on the A31 heading east - this effectively means just two big roads 'till home, the M27 and the M3. Just as we pass by the New Forest town of Ringwood...Floomph..flooph, floph, floph! 


I quickly pulled in to a convenient turning and bring Rosie to a halt.  This sounds like the exhaust has blown. It's probably 20 years since I have done any serious car mechanics. But, in my favour, that was on old Mini's and my MG Midget.  Rosie's finer parts are probably of a similar make up, so I thought I ought to be able to, at least attempt a, repair. The last and most catastrophic element of the 'forget list' hit me square between my Rosie-tinted glass covered eyes! The tool box! The only 'tool' in the van was the one who had been driving it! I had broken just about every rule in the 'you're going out in a ridiculously old vehicle that no one else on this planet would drive unless they are half wit on a bad day' rule book! 


Could we limp on?  If it was just a blown exhaust, we should be able to make it home, albeit that nothing between here and Winchester will sleep for an hour. So I start to drive, steering us back onto the main road. It becomes obvious within a few yards that this just isn't going to work. Poor Rosie has no power, she is working her pistons to the bone but is barely able to get us up the first incline we come to. This just isn't going to happen.  I pull over again. I feel the eyes of my passengers looking to me for an answer - all six pairs, Barbara, Freya, Megan, Bizzi, Pepper and Inca. No one is saying anything.  Eventually though, Barbara and I agree that going on is no longer an option. We have stopped next to a garden center with the rather ungarden center name of 'In-Excess Gardens'. It takes 15 minutes to slowly reverse down the, now busy, dual carriage way enough that we can drive into the carpark.


Trying to pretend as though this is what we had meant to do all along, Barbara and the girls went into the garden centre for some retail therapy while I called and waited for the emergency services. In all credit to the RAC, they arrived within 40 minutes which, on a sunday afternoon in June, I though was pretty decent. A swift analysis from the expert confirmed that there was no way Rosie was going to get back home in assisted.

The choices, wait another 2 hours for a low loader, or be towed back to King's Worthy. I chose the latter. However, it then transpired that Rosie lacked the appropriate physical accoutrements to be able to use a tow bar, therefore, we would have to use a tow rope. Not I big deal, I thought, I've done this a few time before. Once hitched up, I then spent the next hour following the RAC van, on the M27 and M3, at about 50 miles per hour, suspended from piece of ribbon six feet long.


Rules of being towed: 

1/ use your brake to keep the rope taught. Never let the tow rope go slack - when it snaps tight again, it will probably break; 

2/ don't keep your foot on the brake - you will only be pulling the towing vehicle backwards and damaging its clutch, and you will burn out your own brake pads; 

3/ When approaching a stop - such as a junction - use your brake to slow the towing vehicle so that the rope remains taught;

4/ when pulling off from a stop, let the towing vehicle take up any slack and DON'T touch the frigging brake because the frigging rope will frigging snap!

5/ Don't blink - you will go into the back of the towing vehicle.

6/ Don't breath - air displacement might cause the vehicle to change direction

7/ DO NOT REVERSE POLARITY!!!!!

8/ We're all going to die!!!!!

After 60 minutes of staring at the rear bumper of the RAC recovery van, praying that Rosie's brakes will act, react and disengage appropriately, we make it to the relative safety of King's Worthy and, as agreed with the RAC man, head through the village and out again to the farm yard where my friendly car mechanic Mick Adams has his workshop. It is only at this point it dawns on me that we, and Rosie, are about to be towed past our local pub, the King Charles, on what is now a sunny Sunday afternoon. Everyone will see us! Oh, the ignominy!! I crouch my head down in the hope that no one will notice, knowing that anyone there that knows me will also know and recognise Rosie. As we reach the pub, my relief is palpable. Today is the day of the annual Go-Kart race, held in the farmer's fields opposite the pub. Whilst there are 3 or 4 times the number of people normally there on a sunday, their attention is conveniently and welcomely diverted.


We get to the farm and unhitch our sad and incapacitated charge. We are met by Megan's dad...yes, David - for it is he! - and, leaving Rosie for Mick to inspect the next day, we are taken back to his house for lunch and a much needed glass of Prosecco. Our weekend was coming to an end. We were tired and our adventure is nearly concluded. And, bless him, David never once said 'I told you so'!


Epilogue

So, Rosie has blown a hole in her engine casing. This means a re-build - possibly a new engine. We knew, when we got her, that looking after a 40 year old campervan was never going to be without incident. We had hoped the the incident wouldn't occur quite a soon as it did. However, in the (misquoted) word of Oscar Goldman...


"Gentlemen, we can rebuild her. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic campervan. Rosie will be that van. Better than she was before. Better, stronger, faster."

Thank you for reading.