Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [59]
Low range, first gear, diff lock, feet right off the pedals, thumbs outside the steering wheel in case an unseen rock sends it spinning wildly; down I went, gently gently gently gently, the engine moaning, the seatbelt threatening to take my head off, trickles of water re-emerging from under the seat and re-entering my boots.
The thud of the front wheels into the ditch, and renewed contact between the head and something of military issue hardness, was the cue to snick it into second and gun the diesel for the long and slippery climb. My one criticism of the TD5 blown diesel is that it can leave you a bit bogged down in the lower end of the rev range, and it's a bit of a double bummer to find yourself bogged down by both turbocharger technology and the terrain. The gearchange also owes a certain amount to Victorian railway engineering.
But at least I remembered to put the diff lock on. In fact, I had almost achieved a faultless performance and attained the summit when Roger came on the radio and said, 'That was very good,' which I somehow misunderstood as an instruction to drive straight into a tree.
In all I hit two trees, got stuck three times, forded two rivers, had two tows, made one dent in the Defender and lost one leg, but only off my adventure trousers. The total distance covered was only about 45 miles, but at least half of it was the really difficult stuff you see in the Camel Trophy brochure. Normally, the Defender would not figure highly in any discussion of vehicle refinement, but when I finally turned on to real tarmac again I felt as if I'd stepped on to a sheepskin rug after a day of walking barefoot through gravel.
Here is why I would, in the end, recommend something like the Defender Challenge. Off-roading around your local disused quarry is right up there with ironing your socks, but a proper 'expedition' with a genuine objective – a decent dinner and the beer I was hoping for on arrival – is, I almost hesitate to admit, pretty invigorating stuff. Best of all, and as with being flogged, you'll feel much better for it afterwards. Mainly because it's over.
DON'T FORGET YOUR TOOLKIT
My friend Sophie was on the phone, speaking in a slightly manic tone disturbing in most people but quite becoming in one who is half Italian. 'My aunt's given me her old car. Will you come with me to pick it up and drive it back?' Can't you do it by yourself? Where is it? 'In a little village on Lake Como.' Italy? Fantastico! That's altogether different. I'd be delighted. What is it, by the way? 'A 1967 Fiat Cinquecento.'
Ah...
Lake Como is an unutterably beautiful place; much prettier, to my eye, than the slightly flashy neighbouring Lugano. The tiny village of Rezzonico, home to the previous two generations of the Langella family, is a haphazard pile of old houses crowding the water's edge as if drawing sustenance from it and growing there. Focal point of the community is the diminutive and ancient Capella de Sant' Antonio, patron saint of, er, things that have gone missing, apparently.
I press for explanation over dinner, a homely affair of local produce, gargantuan portions and several courses, the complete consumption of any one of which is taken to indicate unsatedness and generates a refill. If something goes missing, say the car key, then Nonna (grandma) says a quick prayer to St Antony and, like as not, it will turn up.
And if it doesn't? Doesn't this shake one's faith in the great martyr somewhat? 'Oh, no,' comes the translation. 'In that case it was actually lost.' By this point we were on course four, the freshly picked cherries. Bloated, I discreetly slipped handfuls back into the central bowl when no one was looking, and was thought to have acquitted myself admirably, portion-wise. Time to move on to the cake then. Surely not. Out came a huge slab locally baked in honour of ... guess who? No, not me – St Antony. Anything not consumed there and then would be coming with us in the car. That