Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [52]
How I laughed as I sped past the vacancy signs on family hotels and the hordes of people crammed into small restaurants. I admit, though, that it was quite difficult to drive straight past the Ilfracombe Tandoori with only the ingredients for a fish-finger sandwich on board.
Eventually, I settled on a small plot overlooking Woody Bay, arriving just as the sun tensed for its final plunge into the sea and threw a last, defiant burst of liquid gold over everything. Even a bottle of vegetable oil looked beautiful when illuminated by its reflected glory.
I raised the roof, erected the table and prepared the seafood delicacy. It was nine o'clock, and the remainder of the evening would be spent in reading and quiet contemplation; solitude and blissful silence broken only by the occasional interjection from a sheep in the adjoining field.
That night, as I lay in the faintly fetid interior of my Celeste, I wondered what it was that made the motor caravan so appealing to someone who would regard normal caravaning as the most loathsome experience on earth, were that accolade not already reserved for anything to do with tents. Something certainly did.
At around £28,000 the Celeste represents an outlay roughly equivalent to nearly 300 days' worth of quality bed and breakfast for two, or about 10 years' holiday accommodation. That's one way of looking at it, and a way that makes it seem expensive.
But here's another. It's still a good deal cheaper than that second home in the country we all secretly yearn for. Yet, essentially, that is exactly what it is. Anywhere you like.
THE MOTOWN STORY
I never much liked motor shows. This one's no different save for a few details, such as that the silvery ticket in my hand cost $250. But that's all right because it's all for charity and anyway, someone else paid. The women are largely in little black numbers and the blokes are in what Americans insist on calling tuxedos. This is gala night, the last and most exclusive preview before the doors are thrown open to Joe Six-Pack.
Mounting pressure on the thorax suggests that Car Magazine snapper Steve did a rather overenthusiastic job of tying my bow tie, but at least I'm wearing the one piece of clothing actually specified in the bottom right-hand corner of the invitation. Elsewhere, this has been dispensed with in favour of an invariably jewelled collar stud. This is not about cars at all, it's about the great and good of the city putting in an appearance, preferably a memorable one. People gush and so does bubbly, but sadly into that vessel that is so inextricably linked with civic functions and rejoices in a suitably ominous oxymoron – the plastic glass. Later, these will be found abandoned on boot lids or trodden into the carpet, like the aftermath of the school disco. At least Mercedes-Benz has real American beer in real, cool glass, but even here someone overhears our conversation and says, 'You guys are from Australia, right?'
Mustn't be cynical, especially as I got in gratis; look at cars instead. But this only makes things worse. Just what are European car makers trying to say? Everywhere there is fatuous imagery of furry animals and trendy young people, probably dolphins too if you look hard enough. On the VW stand the fine and handsome Passat is sidelined in favour of the ridiculous new Beetle, adorned with flowers and the current Miss Michigan. She has fine teeth, but then it's illegal not to in the US. Tiresome car makers' bicycles are irritatingly evident and the Porsche stand is showing a weird film of microbes and sperm, all to do with great ideas evolving or something. If Henry Ford hadn't hijacked the word for use elsewhere I'd say it was bunk. Now the Chevrolet Silverado, an awesome V8-engined pile of extended-cab pick-up displayed with funny-hatted and denim-clad chap strumming country songs on his guitar