Running On Empty

The subdued lights of the Jaguar's dashboard gave Philip's face a greenish pallor as he eased the big car into the entrance to a farm gate. The fuel gauge was pointing perilously to the empty end of the scale, and cutting the engine dead he opened the walnut veneered glove box lid. The moon was just rising through a wood like a poacher's lantern and an owl screeched nearby. Reaching in Philip took out a yellow booklet that had been slid between a tin of travel sweets and a Bartholomew's map of Devon and Cornwall. With a sigh of relief he found his location on the A30 and realised he was only a handful of miles from Bodmin, and the indicator on the AA map told him that the Mid-Cornwall garage on Treningle Hill was open until midnight. He then checked his watch and the dashboard clock to see to his horror that it was five past twelve. The owl screeched again and as Philip looked into the driving mirror he thought he saw in the moonlight a figure crouching by the roadside hedge.

All Sorts Day

It all seems so long ago now. A cold lunchtime in late January, with us coming out of a very French wine bar just off the Charing Cross Road and me blinking at the light as I watched my publisher cycle quickly off into the traffic. Leaving me wondering "What have I done?". You see, it was January this year and somewhere between one libation and the next I'd said "Of course I can do it by the end of July". But I did, and I have to say that amongst all my books this is the one I've enjoyed putting together the most. And it's out today.

Everything became a pleasure. Pouring over Ordnance maps to find ruined Norfolk churches, talking to a very attractive driver of a new Heatherwick Routemaster in Victoria, having deep meaningful conversations with the Tiptree Jam people, polishing-up a Hornby O Gauge Fyffes Banana truck, turning up in a back street of Abingdon at a couldn't-be-bettered moment, remembering unprovoked attacks made on me by a chicken, attempting to whittle a list down to just three James Ravilious photographs, lying on a shingle beach in Aldeburgh thinking about my first pint of Adnams.

And the kindness of people. Edward Milward Oliver for sending me fantastic stills of Raymond Hawkey film titles, Tony Meeuwissen for sending me gorgeous examples of his outstanding work, Tom Harris for letting me crawl all over his newly-restored 1952 Jaguar XK120. Clive Aslet for writing such an insightful preface, Richard Gregory for meticulously and patiently making sure the whole thing got printed satisfactorily- which it was, by the exceptional Conti Tipocolor in Florence. And the inimitable David Campbell (the Charing Cross Road peddler) for well, another brilliant lunch, making it all happen and then just letting me get on with it. So many incredible people helped, I do hope I remembered you all in my 'thanks' bit at the back.

Your local bookshop will of course at this very minute be putting shed loads in their windows, but in any case you can read more here.



Growlers

Sorry, but I've had my nose in a book. A new Unmitigated book that should be out in the autumn. A lame excuse for the non-appearance of my blog I know, but anyway. Here's one of the photographs for what will be English Allsorts; in fact the last picture in the book. That's Bobby the Dog posing beautifully with a very nearly fully restored 1952 Jaguar XK120 Fixed-Head Coupe in Old English White. Found in a field in Zimbabwe in 1999. Bobby and her owner live very remotely in the Wye Valley in Herefordshire, and this photo shoot was just at the very start of a typically blokeish weekend that involved homemade cappacinos, glugging beer and red wine (in different glasses), cooking mutton in a fire pit and more Jaguars. More soon on the Allsorts front.

Creature Feature No 4

I woke up at four this morning. Very dark, very cold. So I made coffee and scurried back to bed with Notes from Walnut Tree Farm, the wonderful book by the late Roger Deakin that is now the third book of a superb trilogy that includes Waterlog and Wildwood. And I read:

The naturalness of an unnatural product. The great chrome Jaguar over the entrance to Marshall's garage showroom opposite the airfield at Cambridge. The early motor car names were all about grace and speed: Swallow, Jaguar, Alvis Silver Eagle, Singer Gazelle, Humber Super Snipe (Reliant Robin or Reliant Scimitar, you take your choice).

I exclaimed "I know that Jaguar! I've got a photograph of the very one!" (It's amazing what'll get you going in the cold, dark, early hours.) So obviously feeling very smug and self satisfied I fell asleep immediately.