I had a grand trip home
despite the mist and the rain for the first half of the trip. It started when I
was standing there at the edge of the pavement in Craignure minding my own
business. A black pickup truck cut the corner, whizzed past, just missing my
bunnet and polishing the tips of my boots, then stopped on its nose. Shocked? I
was all set for an altercation when James MaGillivray poked his head out of the
window - laughing.
He was a foot passenger on the same
ferry and we spent a good hour
chin-wagging, the past, the present and the future - it was the wee ferry, the
Coruisk, so we had to wait outside Oban to let the big ferry out!
And therein lies our biggest fears, the
future. Not just for the Mull Rally but for the sport of rallying. Those in
authority and expensive suits and fancy wigs seem to have it in for us.
We also remembered the good times.
Y'know it's umpteen years and a few more (he couldn't remember the exact year
either!) since he got himself the nickname 'Jock the Bull' (the word 'Bull' has
to rhyme with 'Mull' for authenticity) when he and his Dad sold a bull for a
world record price at the Perth Bull sales. Coincidentally, James' subsequent
rally car selection took a leap up the Price Lists after that.
I remember an absolutely charming,
gangly young bloke on Mull in the late 1980s who was taking an interest in this
rallying lark. He finished 5th overall in 1990 in a 1300 Escort. He was 4th the
following year with a 1600 Escort, 2nd in 1993 and 3rd in '94. In 1996 he was
8th in the Corsa and 9th in 2000, before going back to the Mk2. He only won the
Tour of Mull once and that was in 2005 at the wheel of the Subaru Impreza.
Funny thing, he's had at least 7 co-drivers over that time. So what does that
say about his driving? Whatever, he's still an absolutely charming, but not
quite so-young, man!
On eventual arrival in Oban, I gave him
a lift into town, shook hands, and we parted, no doubt each thinking - will we
ever meet up for the rally again? Here's hoping.
By that time most of the traffic from
the ferry had gone by, but I latched on to the end of a small group at the head
of which was a seriously mucky SWB Land Rover Defender with big wheels and an
equally mucky old-shape Discovery. I had seen them get on the ferry, but these
boys certainly knew the road home.
We were never over 60 all the way down to
Lochearnhead, and rarely did I see any brake lights ahead, wet roads or dry,
fast corners or slow. It was a treat sitting back watching that short wheelbase
job on its chunky tyres. Nonetheless, a quick trip. Nice one boys.
Coming into Strathyre we picked up the
tail end of a longer convoy at the head of which was a wee blue Fiesta driven
by one of those Sunday 'joy-riders' who goes out looking for a twisty road just
to see how many cars he/she can back up behind them. By this time it was a
lovely night, cruising in the gloaming with light rain keeping the intermittent
wiper in use, but what clear fresh air. Scotland at its best. Great slashes of
late season almost phosphorescent sunlight, illuminating and highlighting the autumn streaked contours with
dark, brooding rocky masses still cloaked in mist and cloud around them. Here
and there a glimpse of blue sky through the grey turbulence above. Breathtaking.
Simply breathtaking.
The Fiesta was still there through
Callander as we approached Doune and since I knew there were roadworks traffic
lights at the bridge I turned off through Doune village and over the back road
past the Stirling Memorial (to Colonel Sir David Stirling, OBE, DSO, who founded
the SAS) to pick up the Dunblane/Bridge of Allan roundabout on the A9 and
headed south and homewards.
And you know what, up until that point I
hadn't been too fussed about the Marco Polo. As I said to some of those on the
island who asked, I liked it but wouldn't have one. That trip home converted
me. Sitting there for a couple of hours in sheer bliss following the guys in
front. Enough power to keep up and road handling to match despite the weight of
the two bedrooms, kitchen and lounge behind me. Even on the tighter bends, only
the rattle of cups and cutlery in the background indicated that the 190PS 2.2
litre 'big black beastie' was experiencing some g-forces. A proper old-school 'grand'
machine.
If Mercedes-Benz can fix the price, then
I'll have one.
