Tim took a train down to Somerset on Friday to pick up Burt. I managed to get out of work an hour earlier than normal, to catch a train down a few hours after him.
Travelling down on the Friday night we had a great plan to pick up Burt, then drive down to the Devon coast and go surfing first thing on Saturday morning, then drive back as Tim had to work on Sunday morning. Tim took the body boards and wetsuits on the train. Whilst I took large rucksack full of towels, sleeping bags, change of clothes etc.
I had to get a train to Reading, then one to Taunton, then go back on myself for Bridgwater. The train to Reading was rammed with people heading to see Bon Jovi at Twickenham. For one scary minute I thought me and the rucksack weren't going to get on the train. After 4 hours travelling I finally arrived in Taunton, where I was accosted by lots of students with similar size bags asking me which platform was Castle Cary. Obviously they saw me as the wizened old Glasto veteran, and even though I said I didn't know, they followed me like little lambs to my platform. Quizzically looking at the electronic board they asked if this was the right train? For me but not you!
Finally arriving in Bridgwater a full 3 hours after Tim, I called for my Burt shaped taxi. As me and my fellow Bridgwater travellers waited for our various lifts and taxis, around the corner appeared not one but 2 VW campers, travelling in convoy, as Mark and Sandra were keen to take their VW, Tony (Soprano), for a run.
They were absolute stars. Packing tea, coffee, sugar, milk, cups, plates and cutlery in the van for us. They also gave us their old atlas, only a couple of years out of date and slightly falling to pieces. They'd given Tim directions to a campsite at Woolacombe, which they recommended. A phone call to the site had confirmed our stay for the night, we just needed to arrive by 11pm. Easy.
Sandra said goodbye and headed back to Tony. Mark explained she'd been quite teary all afternoon and couldn't do an emotional goodbye. We said we'd take good care of him.
It was quite overcast and dusky as we set off. With the written directions missing (later found in Tim’s back pocket,) I navigated using the crumpled map and got us back on the motorway, then on to the A road to Barnstaple. A busy dual carriageway, after 15 minutes we came to a standstill. As time passed, the sky began to darken and we began to worry. Tim recalled Mark mentioning a new bypass that was built avoiding Barnstaple. We began to move slowly. After 30 minutes we came to a roadworks sign. They were doing late night road resurfacing. As we finally got passed the works the road became just two lane traffic. By this time I had lost the light with which to read the map.
Trying to use my phone as a torch was causing Tim driving problems as it reflected on Burt's large windscreen. So with no idea how far from Woolacombe we were and fading light it was with relief that I spotted a signpost turning right to our destination. As soon as we turned off the A road we knew we'd made a mistake. Dark with dense foliage, the road was a narrow country lane. It was clearly not any form of bypass. Hindsight would tell us we were on the bypass. This road being what it bypassed.
It is at this point we find that Burt has two headlamp settings. One showing everything just one metre ahead. The other showing as a very faint glow somewhere in the distance, barely making out the road. We began to crawl along, hoping for a turning or opening big enough to manoeuvre Burt round. After 10 minutes we were resigned to travelling on the same course. With no visibility, trees followed by more trees, winding roads, no sign of life or even any other roads leading to life. In the dim light we were straining to see, everything around us a ghostly grey. At this point it starts to rain...
As our tiredness grew, every flicker we hoped was a sign of life; each time it was our overactive imagination. We began to feel like the road was something out of a horror movie. This was not helped by the roadside clearing after 40 minutes to reveal an old massive steel monster of building, with the sign "Plant Crossing." At any moment we expected Danny Dyer, with an arm missing, to come screaming out in front of us, such was the scary doom laden feeling. This is the point with which Tim breaks the news we running out of petrol...
The key when someone says your running out of petrol in the middle of nowhere, in an area you don't know, in the middle of the night is not to panic. We joked and laughed as we crawled along at about 20 miles an hour. All the while hoping to reach a town or village or a lay-by before the inevitable happened.
By this time we'd become resigned to the fact we wouldn't see Woolacombe or it's welcoming campsite. It was now very nearly 11pm.
Just when all hope was fading we stumbled into a town, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Everywhere was quiet, but at least it was reasonably lit. There were almost tears of joy as we saw a garage until we realised it was shut. Small town, middle of nowhere, late on a Saturday, with not one other vehicle on the road there was obviously no call for it to be open.
Burt started to splutter. Even he was beginning to feel like if couldn't go on. He'd done so well to get this far.
As we headed through the town, we saw a campsite to our right. It would have to do. A Static Caravan affair, there was a reception near the entrance, followed by a sloping road. Under Tim's instructions I went in to "flutter my eyelashes" at someone and hope someone would take pity on us. They couldn't have been more helpful, waving us down the sloping path. We could camp in one of the 2 camping fields at the bottom, and as long as we left the next morning at no charge.
Such relief swept over us. We coasted down the path without starting Burt's engine. Pulled into the field, passed a few tents and parked up next to a fence. Within a few minutes we had the bed out and we were asleep.
Next morning on opening the curtains we got the shock of our lives. There along the fence we pulled up to is this sign.
Travelling down on the Friday night we had a great plan to pick up Burt, then drive down to the Devon coast and go surfing first thing on Saturday morning, then drive back as Tim had to work on Sunday morning. Tim took the body boards and wetsuits on the train. Whilst I took large rucksack full of towels, sleeping bags, change of clothes etc.
I had to get a train to Reading, then one to Taunton, then go back on myself for Bridgwater. The train to Reading was rammed with people heading to see Bon Jovi at Twickenham. For one scary minute I thought me and the rucksack weren't going to get on the train. After 4 hours travelling I finally arrived in Taunton, where I was accosted by lots of students with similar size bags asking me which platform was Castle Cary. Obviously they saw me as the wizened old Glasto veteran, and even though I said I didn't know, they followed me like little lambs to my platform. Quizzically looking at the electronic board they asked if this was the right train? For me but not you!
Finally arriving in Bridgwater a full 3 hours after Tim, I called for my Burt shaped taxi. As me and my fellow Bridgwater travellers waited for our various lifts and taxis, around the corner appeared not one but 2 VW campers, travelling in convoy, as Mark and Sandra were keen to take their VW, Tony (Soprano), for a run.
They were absolute stars. Packing tea, coffee, sugar, milk, cups, plates and cutlery in the van for us. They also gave us their old atlas, only a couple of years out of date and slightly falling to pieces. They'd given Tim directions to a campsite at Woolacombe, which they recommended. A phone call to the site had confirmed our stay for the night, we just needed to arrive by 11pm. Easy.
Sandra said goodbye and headed back to Tony. Mark explained she'd been quite teary all afternoon and couldn't do an emotional goodbye. We said we'd take good care of him.
It was quite overcast and dusky as we set off. With the written directions missing (later found in Tim’s back pocket,) I navigated using the crumpled map and got us back on the motorway, then on to the A road to Barnstaple. A busy dual carriageway, after 15 minutes we came to a standstill. As time passed, the sky began to darken and we began to worry. Tim recalled Mark mentioning a new bypass that was built avoiding Barnstaple. We began to move slowly. After 30 minutes we came to a roadworks sign. They were doing late night road resurfacing. As we finally got passed the works the road became just two lane traffic. By this time I had lost the light with which to read the map.
Trying to use my phone as a torch was causing Tim driving problems as it reflected on Burt's large windscreen. So with no idea how far from Woolacombe we were and fading light it was with relief that I spotted a signpost turning right to our destination. As soon as we turned off the A road we knew we'd made a mistake. Dark with dense foliage, the road was a narrow country lane. It was clearly not any form of bypass. Hindsight would tell us we were on the bypass. This road being what it bypassed.
It is at this point we find that Burt has two headlamp settings. One showing everything just one metre ahead. The other showing as a very faint glow somewhere in the distance, barely making out the road. We began to crawl along, hoping for a turning or opening big enough to manoeuvre Burt round. After 10 minutes we were resigned to travelling on the same course. With no visibility, trees followed by more trees, winding roads, no sign of life or even any other roads leading to life. In the dim light we were straining to see, everything around us a ghostly grey. At this point it starts to rain...
As our tiredness grew, every flicker we hoped was a sign of life; each time it was our overactive imagination. We began to feel like the road was something out of a horror movie. This was not helped by the roadside clearing after 40 minutes to reveal an old massive steel monster of building, with the sign "Plant Crossing." At any moment we expected Danny Dyer, with an arm missing, to come screaming out in front of us, such was the scary doom laden feeling. This is the point with which Tim breaks the news we running out of petrol...
The key when someone says your running out of petrol in the middle of nowhere, in an area you don't know, in the middle of the night is not to panic. We joked and laughed as we crawled along at about 20 miles an hour. All the while hoping to reach a town or village or a lay-by before the inevitable happened.
By this time we'd become resigned to the fact we wouldn't see Woolacombe or it's welcoming campsite. It was now very nearly 11pm.
Just when all hope was fading we stumbled into a town, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Everywhere was quiet, but at least it was reasonably lit. There were almost tears of joy as we saw a garage until we realised it was shut. Small town, middle of nowhere, late on a Saturday, with not one other vehicle on the road there was obviously no call for it to be open.
Burt started to splutter. Even he was beginning to feel like if couldn't go on. He'd done so well to get this far.
As we headed through the town, we saw a campsite to our right. It would have to do. A Static Caravan affair, there was a reception near the entrance, followed by a sloping road. Under Tim's instructions I went in to "flutter my eyelashes" at someone and hope someone would take pity on us. They couldn't have been more helpful, waving us down the sloping path. We could camp in one of the 2 camping fields at the bottom, and as long as we left the next morning at no charge.
Such relief swept over us. We coasted down the path without starting Burt's engine. Pulled into the field, passed a few tents and parked up next to a fence. Within a few minutes we had the bed out and we were asleep.
Next morning on opening the curtains we got the shock of our lives. There along the fence we pulled up to is this sign.
We'd had no idea that we were anywhere near the sea. The signs into the town said Coombe Martin. Now looking on the map in daylight I could see the route we'd taken and that we were indeed near the sea.
We got up and out of Burt to find not only were we on a cliff edge but in a very muddy field, which we were at the far end of. This could be fun getting out of.
We headed back into the town to get a can of petrol, getting directions from a very helpful employee of the caravan site. We joked we might need their help getting out of the field later! He said it wasn't a problem. It worryingly sounded like he had experience of this and had heard the joke before.
30 minutes later we were back with our green jerry can full of unleaded. We cheerily waved at our fellow campers and announced that we were their morning’s entertainment.
Another of the caravan site's staff happened to be in the field and came over to watch as Tim went to start Burt. Burt cursed and muttered to life, he wasn't too happy with us. Into first gear and after travelling a good metre the back wheels started to spin. Burt was going nowhere. 30 minutes later we had 2 members of staff, a father from Coventry camping with his family, and me trying to push Burt out. The camping crew, like seasoned pros, pulled out some well-used plastic matting from their stores, to put under Burt’s wheels. With every attempt Burt slid, skidded and spun his way round the field until he'd turned round to face the way he came in, but was still no closer to the exit. Just nearer to the fence. Gulp.
We got up and out of Burt to find not only were we on a cliff edge but in a very muddy field, which we were at the far end of. This could be fun getting out of.
We headed back into the town to get a can of petrol, getting directions from a very helpful employee of the caravan site. We joked we might need their help getting out of the field later! He said it wasn't a problem. It worryingly sounded like he had experience of this and had heard the joke before.
30 minutes later we were back with our green jerry can full of unleaded. We cheerily waved at our fellow campers and announced that we were their morning’s entertainment.
Another of the caravan site's staff happened to be in the field and came over to watch as Tim went to start Burt. Burt cursed and muttered to life, he wasn't too happy with us. Into first gear and after travelling a good metre the back wheels started to spin. Burt was going nowhere. 30 minutes later we had 2 members of staff, a father from Coventry camping with his family, and me trying to push Burt out. The camping crew, like seasoned pros, pulled out some well-used plastic matting from their stores, to put under Burt’s wheels. With every attempt Burt slid, skidded and spun his way round the field until he'd turned round to face the way he came in, but was still no closer to the exit. Just nearer to the fence. Gulp.
With one final attempt one of the workers slid over. Me, and the wife from Coventry, stifled our laughter. It was time to call in the big guns. And so the call went out for the local farmer's assistance. In the middle of his morning milking, we were told he could 10 minutes, he might be an hour, but he would come with his tractor.
I had a wander back up to the reception area where there was an onsite shop. Bringing back with me such delights as a box of Jaffa cakes and cans of Dr Pepper. Perfect for breakfast. Containing all the nutrients needed for a hard days pushing orange campers around in fields. And brown and orange, they matched our now muddy looking camper. Our friendly neighbours did offer us a bacon sandwiches, but it didn't seem fair to accept them.
After 40 minutes there was the sound of a diesel engine chugging into the field. The farmer had arrived not with a tractor but his Land Rover. He’d got the rope attached ready to go in seconds. Tim barely had time to take the handbrake off and Burt flew out the field. I swear I literally saw all four wheels leave the ground and him take off!
After a few hand shakes and thank you’s, we slipped them a £20 so they could have a few drinks on us, then set off on our way back up the hill out of campsite. Burt chugging all the way up. We headed back to the petrol pumps and filled Burt to the brim. Then treated him to a power shower and got wax. He deserved it.
After all our excitement of the previous 12 hours, it was nice an hour later to be stood at the cliff car park finally over looking Woolacombe Bay. And after refuelling ourselves on pasties and tea we headed down to the beach for a relaxing few hours reading and surfing.
We made it home safely on Saturday night, with only a minor petrol gauge scare which led to an unscheduled pit-stop in Slough. It's going to take a while for us to get to know Burt's travelling limits and that petrol needle seems to know just when to say empty.
