GREEN LANE - GREEN HORNS

Having acquired a 'legal Green lane' map, of course, we had to have a go.
It can't be too bad, just a small run along a dirt track. "Come on, wife and
child, off we go, we can call at a pub for lunch at the start". Arrive at pub
just as another Landrover parks up. "Hello, are you a Green laner person".
"Yes." "Oh good, would you and your capstan winch and lady like to come
on this Green Lane with us?" "Oh goody, YES, we would." So off we go.
"Do you think this is it?" "Oh it must be, open the gate". WRONG, into
a sheep p en with two farmers, 23 dogs, their Landrover and about 500 sheep.
"Er, excuse me Mr. Farmer, is this the start of a Green lane?" "NO" and
so he told us where to go.

Off we went again. Three gates and away we go. Steady uphill climb, good
ground on to the top. "This is great, easy. Oh, look at the rabbits. Oh, what
a lovely view." A quick look at the map to ensure we are still on the road
through the dead bracken, suddenly no road but a valley with a stream in
the bottom cutting across our path. "Well, I'm OK on my S.A.T.S. but I
don't know about you on our 'ordinary road wheels' huh!".

We all get out and stand or hide in the huge cloud of diesel exhaust fumes
emitting from my friend's machine (Farmers can't see you if you hide in
the smoke). Down we go into the water up the grassy bank and out. "Come
on, it's easy". Down he comes and down he stays. Rope him out. Off we
go for about 4 metres (bit more than 4 yards for you old 'uns). What happened
to the road? What happened to the firm ground? We go for a walk or squelch.

Eventually finding a way round, but like driving across the furrows of a
ploughed field. Find the line (a thin one) of the road and off we go again.
Now this road has been measured out by the Romans to exactly one bog hole
per 8 metres. "This looks a bit deep". "Nah, stand back, I'll show you what
S.A.T.S. can do". REV, REV, launch, Ker-Splat, stuck. "By 'eck it is deep".
Rope. 15 minutes later: "It might be best if we drive round it". "Yes, I
agree". On and on, a bit squelchy but not too bad. Arrive at the top of the
last hill. Old mile stone declares its only 3 miles to town. Great, this is easy.
all down hill now. Suddenly again no obvious road. Where now? Heather
to the right of us, lush reeds to the left of us. ' 'There looks to be a few tyre
tracks on the edge of the reeds", sez he, whilst we all choke yet again standing
in a cloud of diesel fumes. "Hum, it looks and feels a bit spongy under foot".

through it". Easy of course, marvellous me can. REV, REV, give it some
wellie plunging headlong, elbows flapping, steering wheel spinning, mud
on the bumper, on the bonnet, on the windscreen, on the roof. KER-SPLAT,
foward motion had ceased. As the mud slid off the windows we realised we
were at an unusual angle and must have looked like the last minutes of the
'TITANIC'. Oh dear, tut tut, we won't get out of this one in a hurry. "No
problems" says my friend with the capstan winch. "We'll winch it out".
Manoeuvre, manoeuvre, fiddle with winch and rope, ready, here we go. "Yes
it's working, it's going to pull us out". Then it happened CLANK, CLANK,
One knack .... sorry, bust winch and two stuck motors. His motor had sunk
in whilst we were all watching my motor being pulled out by at least two
inches. Out with the high-lift jacks. "We'll jack the winch motor up and
keep pushing it sideways off the jack and onto firm ground". (What firm
ground). Much, much later after a lot of jacking and pushing and laying ropes
out and shackling this to that and everything within reach we were both very,
very stuck and very, very muddy and wet and it was very, very dark.

Decision time. Mr. Winchman rooted in the back of his motor (a subsidiary
of B&Q) and produced a tent, a small tent. So they camped the night at the
scene of the disaster, whilst we went for help. "Be back in the morning with
the cavalry, OK!"

Now, if you've ever stumbled across a swampy moor in the dark without
a torch with a 9-year-old child on your shoulders plunging up to your knees
in mire, need I say more . . . "We'll head for those lights and ask for help.
Who put this deep reservoir culvert in the way?" Eventually find a foot-
bridge then over this gate, wife and child, into a bunch of thistles. I'll follow.
Scramble up a bank and stagger into a farmyard, run out of farmyard pursued
by two sheepdogs. Decided to keep walking towards the town lights, but
we can cut across this meadow. "Who's been spreading sh . . , shorry, pig
muck in this field?" Over the wall back on farm track, and on ... "Oh,
not another sodding gate to climb over". Too tired, we'll undo this one,
there's a hell of a lot of string on this one. Fiddle, fiddle, curse, curse.

Child's voice out of the dark; "Why don't we open this end with this latch, Dad?"
"Good idea" says I re-assembling string hinges at my end. At last, tarmac.
Flag down motorist and cadge a lift into town where we hi-jack a lovely warm,
dry, clean taxi. Take this taxi to Halifax. Arrive home, get out of cold, wet,
dirty taxi (for some reason the driver turned heater off and opened windows, 

can't  think why). Paid a not too happy driver and went in for a
good hot bath. We'll sort the motor out tomorrow.
Sunday morning dawned and we were on our way back with the cavalry.
Could those two tiny dots miles away from anywhere and almost on top of
a moor be our motors, and had we walked all that way in the dark, wife,
child and myself?

As we approached our friend had de-camped and were ready for the off as
somehow they had 'unstuck' their motor from the mire, but the Titanic was
still sticking up. Never mind, put 3 or 4 rope lengths on it and see if the
rear chassis cross section will come off before the towing hitch is ripped
off. After several neck cricking jerks the Titanic surfaced and was free, but
oh, what a mucky mess. Usual laughter and jokes followed about three miles
across a moor in the dark. Ah well, it all ended well, no real damage done,
and now the 'Old Boot' is back in its garage all clean and ready for another
do. I suppose I'll have to strip and clean the brakes yet again!
Our very grateful thanks to Michael Chaloner. Paul Brown, Jeff, John and
Gillian (Yorkshire Owners' Club) for turning out at such short notice and
giving up their Sunday. Without their help we would now be Landroverless.

'THE COBBLER'

LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT! JACK FROST IS ABOUT!

Even a few years ago, following a brilliant season and winning everything
in sight, Yellow was getting cantankerous in his old age . . .

"It's about time I had some proper seats", he complained on Christmas Eve
and when was my oil last changed?"

His words fell on stony ground. In fact Yellow's performance "in the field"
of late had not been up to the usual standard. Those big hills were getting
too much, and ouch! did those axle-twisters at Castleford give him a groin
strain(?).

Truth be told. Yellow was jealous! Flying Pig Mk2 was getting all the
spannering. Yellow watched with envy as box after box of shiny new bits
went into the garage.

Later that night. Yellow had a strange visitor.

"Have you got lots and lots of that nice green antifreeze in your rad?" asked

the strange white man.

"Naw, said Yellow. "Can't be bothered with all that, and who are you
anyway? I thought Father Christmas was supposed to come tonight".

"Ah, well he's very busy so I'm helping out. I'm Santa's friend. Jack Frost,
and here's a couple of special little presents he sent for you," offered the
stranger. "A cracked block and a split head".

"Oh, thanks" said Yellow happily, wondering what on earth he was mean)
to do with them.

Jack slipped quietly off into the chill of the night . . .

Yellow festered happily in his corner. At least somebody had remembered
him at Christmas, although he wasn't too sure what to do with the presents,
or indeed who had sent them.

Two weeks later and it was time for a quick check-up before the do at Tong.
"Why is there ice in the rad?" . . . "Should there be a six-inch crack in
the cylinder head?" . . . "What's that big hole in the block?" . . .HELP!!

Flying Pig, still wingless, was hastily evicted from the garage to make room
for Yellow.

"Please, nice Flying Pig my best friend, can I borrow your old engine with
6.9:1 compression ratio, and 1949 carb?" asked Yellow meekly. "You've
got a nice fast V8 now, so you won't be needing it anymore will you?"

to lend me your wings for the next do."
"Oh yes! yes! agreed Yellow, "anything you say".

There was only enough time to do a quick engine swap, although a very old
and dusty spare ally head was dug up from under the shelves and pressed
back into service. Yellow coughed back into life a week later, and there was
barely time for a quick run round the block before loading up on to the trailer
for Tong. Sad to report, Tong was not a good day. Yellow could only manage
40mph flat out in the muddy conditions, but. despite a broken spring slowing
things down even more, a finish was achieved. Yellow went home knackered,
but the lesson was learned—

NEVER TAKE PRESENTS FROM STRANGERS!

THE PIG-MASTER Guardian Angel of 80's (but £700 poorer)

*     *     *     *

MOUNT TABOR TRIAL

What nonsense. I thought, when Andy told me it was going to snow as he
rang to arrange to pick me up for the Mount Tabor Trial. How right he was.
as it was to prove later.

We set off for the event at 8.45 a.m. with just a few spots of rain falling.
As we progressed, it became heavier and by the time we reached Halifax
it was sleeting and when we got to Mount Tabor it was snowing properly.

Signing on was slow, to begin with Graham, our scrutineer, refusing to take
his gloves off as it was so cold. made the competitors write their own tickets
after being scrutineered. Eventually 34 competitors signed on for the 15-section 

trial and battle commenced. By this time the snow was much heavier and was accompanied by a driving wind.

The gallant band of marshals including Gareth Almond and his lad. Dave
McGivern, John Lowery, Chris Wright, first aider Andy Morse and Scrutineer
Graham (marshalling two sections at once) and a few more I didn't know.
did a fabulous job in appalling conditions which were getting worse by the
minute. I knew it was bad when Michael Challenor appeared with a shovel
to dig me out of the horse box!

By 12.30 p.m. seventeen competitors had retired as they could not see the

sticks or the sections and at 1.00 p.m. it was decided to call it a day with
seven sections instead of 15. Prize giving was abandoned, as only two
competitors were still on site and we even had to leave the horsebox there
until later due to the conditions, the worst I've seen in my 17 years in Pennine.

The journey home was a nightmare — just getting off the site frightened me
to death. Halifax town was solid with traffic, cars everywhere including up
lamp posts! We kept having to make detours to get through. Graham (as is
his wont) ended up driving his Rangey through the pedestrian precinct to
get through and he apparently overtook the snow plough in the fast lane of
the M62 — typical Graham.

It took us 1 1/2 hours to do a 20 minute journey and I can only say I was glad
that I was in a diesel Landrover and not a car.

Many thanks to all who braved the elements both setting out, marshalling
and competing and a special thank-you to Andy for my safe journey home.

Hope to see you all at Tong.

JOY

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