Peak of perfection.

In accordance with "The Plan" the team met up at the Judges house in the Cave at 0630 hours, and set off in two cars heading for the Yorkshire Dales to tackle the Three Peaks. This was the second of our increasingly inaccurately named Annual Christmas Beer and Boots weekends, given that it was neither Christmas nor was it the weekend.

Some minor fiddling was needed on mikes car, a loose exhaust shield was rattling. Eerily, my own exhaust shield had fallen off on the previous years outing - maybe the Dales repel exhaust Shields somehow?
Short order was made of the motorway leg of the journey, then a cut through the pre-rush hour metropolis that is Harrogate saw us onto the A59 and in search of breakfast of the bacon and sausage sandwich variety.
We had on the previous event stopped at a roadside lay by cafe which has spectacular views of the Dales near Skipton, and the experience was only somewhat marred by the slightly eccentric proprietor showing off various Air Ambulance related regalia in the misguided but very enthusiastic belief that we were in some way remotely interested. On that occasion we had dropped coins in his tin and beat a hasty retreat. Well it is a very worthy cause.
During the summer I had passed the cafe several times and found it closed, so finding it open we assumed it was perhaps under new ownership. Foolishly we stopped and entered.

The same owner was still in place, and lost no time in telling us that his premises were now regularly visited, indeed guarded, by armed police due to the suspected presence of surface to air missiles in the area. I suspect that local air traffic was at far greater risk than his former HGV converted Cafe, but his earnest account earned him the nickname of SAM from now on. His wife/partner/hostage or whoever she is serving the grub will henceforth be known as Ella. This of course will allow us to refer tot he location henceforth as Sam 'N' Ella's which is just as well, given the quality of the grub and it's startling effects on the human digestive system (see later in this post)
Arriving at our overnight base at Halton Gill the accommodation looked impressive - from outside. unfortunately due to a hiccup we couldn't get in, the caretaker was supposed to meet us or leave it unlocked for our arrival but did neither. No phone signal meant we couldn't even ring the owner to get the key code for the back door. So it was down to Horton, where we could get a signal and sort it out from there, then booted and suited straight up Pen-Y-Ghent. In the summer I tackled the ascent the long way up short way down. This time it was the reverse, a long steepish drag up then that last climb up the sheer slope for lunch at the top followed by the long trek down the slope to Horton again.
Ready for liquid refreshment we headed to the Golden Lion scene of our 2008 visit but found it disappointingly closed. The name of the pub at the other end of Horton escapes me, but did a very nice pint of something warm and wet. A humorous interlude provided by an unwitting local and proliferated by PK venting his spleen on the absurdity of the comment sent Selby into uncontrollable giggles, each succinct barb coming with such perfect comedic timing that Dave very nearly asphyxiated, unable to regain breathing control.
The cause of such merriment? "Afternoon lads. It's a nice day. It's not raining."

Damn. And we'd been walking all day and not noticed. A good job there are such incisive locals to tell us these things. Such a pointless and idle comment drew all sorts of speculation as to the old mans identity. Was he a revered soothsayer? Did folk from the village seek him out for his pearls of meteorological wisdom? Did he perhaps double up as a local newscaster and traffic reporter? Such accounts as "The roads are quiet, there's no cars coming," or "No one in the village died today" must be worth their weight in gold in such a compact community. Folk must come from miles around to ask thing like, "Is it raining, only I've come out without my brolly seeing as how it was dry."

Back at Halton Gill and it was showers all round then a relaxing sauna and a beer or two before another shower and change in to evening wear for dinner at the pub. The pub was just over two miles down the road, so we drove down, but did the sensible thing and left the car there to collect in the morning having had several pints and a Mucky Duck pie. (No That's not a culinary comment, that is exactly what it was called and very nice it was too)
The clouldless sky gave unprecedented views of the milky way and several shooting stars as we slip slided on the black ice covered tarmac back to the bunkhouse. Then the night slipped away with a few more beers and several games of pool. Most enjoyable. Except it was about then that PK's bowels began to let loose a series of violent and foul expulsions, rating 7.2 on the Richter scale and with the sulphuric fury of Beelzebub's bathwater. This was to go on all through the night, relegating cows into second place as the worlds leading CO2 producers.
Settling down to bed PK bagged what he supposed to be the best top bunk in the house, only to find that when the lights went out he was swathed in the bright green luminence of the emergency light, hardly conducive to restful sleep. All other options being taken he retired to the lower bunk.
Friday morning saw three of the four in the group being rudely awakened by some bastard clanging a saucepan with a spoon in the style of the old cowboy films. I was not one of the three so I guess that makes me the bastard. Dave came awake so quickly that he nearly put his head through the ceiling, but Mike was strangely unaffected, remaining as motionless as he had all night, the only one never to have moved in any way, the rest of us creaked and groaned all night on the squeaky but surprisingly comfortable metal sprung bunks. Perhaps it's his miltary background and he doesn't move so as not to give his position away.
The saucepan was put to good use in preparing a full English before we packed up and moved on to West View, another bunkhouse the other side of the Peaks near Ingleton ready for day two of the challenge. Although lacking in the Sauna and pool table areas this was a much smaller and more homely venue and had a TV with Freeview. Bonus!
Parking at the Ribblehead viaduct we set off up Whernside, a tricky ascent given the black ice on some of the slabs and steps coupled with melted mud elsewhere, making the walk as slippery as a cabinet minister.

Left: Martin in "Buzz Lightyear" pose at the Ribblehead Viaduct.

Conversation lead of course to what did the Romans ever do for us? This being despite this being a viaduct, not an aquaduct and built in the 1870's by the Victorians, not by the Romans at all. I'm sure Monty and his Pythons could have gained somethign scriptworthy from our paradoy and the digressive converstion that ensued.
Pen-Y-Ghent has of course been discussed in detail on the blog before. It is, as is well documented, an evil brooding bastard. It is however, honest and up front about it. Whernside on the other hand is a devious, sneaky bastard. It sits there looking all inncoent hiding more than it's fair share of uphilliness and just pretending to be pretty. Don't be fooled by it. I'd rather have done Pen-Y-Ghent again than Whernside. It has a long long climb, and with the wintery conditions it was as slippery as a cabinet minister covered in somethign slippery, standing on a slippery thing, covered in something slippery. Regardless, we eventualy made the top without mishap, if of course you exclude PK's extremely entertaining dance moves to avoid falling over. Such effort went into his many arm and leg movements that falling over would have involved less risk of injury in the long run, but he did maintain an upright position, even if he lacked some poise and dignity at that precise moment.

PK poses by a wall with a waterfall in the back ground. Just behind that wall was a river. And what's going through Kitsons' mind? Probably something like "There good fishing to be had in there!"

Despite the cool temperatures the sun was shining brightly promting Dave of Selby to strip off his lower legs and reveal his whiter bits to the sunlight. He was still in shorts when we stopped at the top to break for lunch. The rest of us were also down to one layer, but the breif lunchstop saw my body temperature plummet, and even with all five layers restored it took a while to get back the warmth I'd lost.

Coming down the hill my old "war wound" started playing up, with the left knee sending spiky bolts of pain at every step. Selby grumbles on the inclines, I was cursing on the descent, up until Mike loaning me his walking pole which releived the leg nicely and once back on the (almost) level I was fine again.

Walks end was the Station Inn at Ribblehead, a fine old Dales pub, with a healthy sense of humour if the sign outside was anything to go by.

After a much deserved pint Mike had to depart back to Hull, unable to get the early shift off work the next day, but the remainder of the team adjourned to West View, the bunkhouse just outside of Ingleton and only a 1/2 mile stroll from the Marton Arms.

We had considered tackling Ingleborough to complete the three peaks in one visit, but with the iminent loss of daylight, coupled with the cold and slippery conditions and my dodgy knee threatening to give in we admitted to oursleves it would be folish to take the risk. Besides, the lure of steak and beer was too strong. And of course, if we complteted the Three, what excuse could we use for coming back next year?

The Marton Arms has a wide range of Scotch - about 96 different brands and blends, but I resisted the temptation, and instead settled on the bitter, of which there were six or seven different choices, (I'm staring to sound like Pub Spy now aren't I?) Dave joined me in sampling a pint of each, but PK stuck with his nancy boy chemical conconction of southern lager, reluctant as ever to drink anything with bits floating in it. Steak was excellant, if perhaps a little too rare - a good vet could have had mine up and running bbout the field again, but very tasty never the less. With eye candy courtesy of a table full of fillies celebrating a Christmas Party just over our left shoulders what could be better?

After a few beers, the conversation, naturally, turned to such philosophical debate as Life, the universe, and ....well everything really, covering topics as diverse as sex, drugs, rock and roll, religion, relationships, law and order, UFO's, aliens, the X Files versus Star Trek, Life on Mars (of course) sleep paralysis, ghosts and hauntings, Monty Python, and well, the lsit goes on really. Only Mikes absence declined for the debate, as I'm sure he woudl have made some valuable contributions. The great thing was of course, that the absence of any women meant this was nothing more than conversation. Has a woman got involved it would doubtless have become an arguement. That I think speaks volumes. I'm not gettign all gay about this understand, it's just that it occurs to me that blokes can get along just fine, even if the have opposing views, providing there are no women present. I'd even go so far as to say that without Eva Braun the second world war might never have happened. Or it would have been a simple pool challenge, a darts match or an arm wrestling contest, the winner magnaminously buying the loser a pint, and nobody slaughtering hardly any jews at all. That's pure conjecture of course, but since we were talking about parallel universes theres a good chance that actually happened.

The night at West View went quietly with much less expulsion of excess wind, and only a sloped roof close to the top bunk caused any source of merriment as I sat up to quickly and stunned myself. The accommodation proved homely and comfortable, and much much warmer than the Golden Lion, so much so that I ended up sleeping outside my sleeping bag.

After a healthy breakfast of bacon and mushrooms in pepper sauce for Dabe and I, and a fried egg and bacon cholesterol special for PK it was time to head east and back to the grindstone for another year.

Having succesfully failed to conquer the Three Peaks we now have the excuse to go and try again, but next time it could be the real thing - all three in one long slog - in the summer - in daylight.

But the winter challenge should hopefully take place next year.

Feeling Peaky

Tommorow sees the rather complicatedly named Operations Branch D Division Roads Policing Section combined Incident Resolution Team Walking and Beer Drinking Club (OBDDRPSCIRTWBDC) making a return visit to conquer the Three Yorkshire Peaks. We probably need to work on a snappier acronym.

I would suggest PRATS. (Policng Roads and Tactical Support) Certainly we must be a bunch of prats to think about going up that evil brooding bastard (Pen-Y-Ghent) in December, particularly after the aborted assault on Whernside in a blizzard last year. But try we will.

The itinery goes something like this;

Thursday; wake at stupid o'clock in the morning and head to the Cave to pick up the rest of the crew. This year we have the old stalwarts of Paul "Nelson" Kitson, (PK) and Dave "Greendale" Selby, but will be joined by Mike Barratt aka The Judge. (Note this is not the Mike Barratt of 1980's Shakin' Stevens Pop fame, although he does play guitar. He also abseils and eats squirrels and rats and could track a Vegan Snow Lizzard through an Arcturan Mega Blizzard, so he;'s a welcome addition to the crew.

It will be a quickish blast up the motorway in whichever direction mad SatNav woman sends us. Until we are hungry and need a bacon buttie, when as usual we will start to ignore her and rely on the sun/stars/mos on the side of trees/intuition/directional sense and if all else faisl a road atlas. SatNav woman is the sexy sounding woman with no previous experience of driving in the UK. This is not surprising, as she lives in a small blue and grey box in my glove box most of the year, and only comes out for these expeditions. Some might say that a software update might improve her sense of direction , but I disagree - she was always like this. Faced with a city centre she will drive you round and round in circles visiting every shoe shop, before takling you back to the first one you saw, presumable to buy the first pair of shoes she tried on. This trait disappears completely if you change to the mans voice, but as he sounds like a constipated Dalek, I'd rather be driven to distraction than driven to boredom.

Anyhow, after a while we should arrive at the bunkhouse to park the car and tackle the toughest of the Peaks, Pen-Y-Ghent before dark. Then it will be a return to the bunkhouse to change before heading to the pub for dinner (that is tea of course for thsoe of us in Yorkshire) Dinner will doubtless be mostly liquid.

With regards to the bunkhouse, last year we let Greendale organise the accomodation - hence we ended up with no central heating and a dodgy cold water shower, and a pub where anything you ordered was out of stock, out of season or out of a tin. We did have an Ingrid though, a barmaid with huge ........ enthusiasm for her job, who sold us watered down beer until we couldn't stand ....

it any more and went to bed.

This year I have to say I have found a much better bunkhouse with a sauna and a free pool table. Sadly this is only available for the Thursday night. We have to move on the Friday to other equally pleasant accomodation but without those luxuries.

Friday mornign we=ill see the catering manager (that's me as well) cooking up a full English to steady us for the longer assault of Whernside and Ingleborough. The Judge is hopefully going to accompany us but then has to leave early to head back hoem for duty on Saturday morning - PK, Greendale and I will be staying another night to attempt to drink dry the local boozer before returning at a more leisurely pace on the Saturday.

So that's the plan. Now watch it all go wrong. Photo's and a full write up of our misadventures to follow soon.

This will be our second annual December walk outing, whcih now makes it officially a tradition. Planning will begin for next years event just as soon as we sober up.

Global warming - again.

I may have touched on this subject before as it is a subject relatively close to my heart - well it'sbollocks, and that's quite close to my heart.

Last time I wrote about it I think I sort of suggested that we nuke China, on the grounds that humans exhale CO2, and the increase in CO2 in the last century is roughly equivalent to the increase in the popoulation of China, therefore logically eradicating China eradicates global warming. I think I may also have relented slightly, suggesting that not all Chinamen are deserving of sucgh a fate, and that perhaps we could nuke Iraq instead.

Anyway, my point is that CO2 global warming is bollocks, the idea that cars and factories are choking the planet is ridiculous. It's natural weather patterns that are causing it, hence the last ice age and the gradual warming since. How else do you explain the glorious summer of 1939? The battle of Britain saw some of the warmest weather this century.

This week comes the announcement that Methane gas is a bigger cause of global warming than CO2. The majority of Methane of course is produced by cows. Suprisingly the Government has not introduced a cow tax, nor has it launched a media campaign to reduce the use of cows, nor have they got tough on cows or the causes of cows.

Last night on The One Show some wishy washy vegetarian suggested that global warming would be redued if we all stopped eating meat. In theory that sounds fine, less people eating cows, equals less cows, equals less Methane. But hang on, what do vegetarians eat, once they have worried all the lettuces and cabbages? That's right, they eat cheese and yoghurt. And they drink milk because they are too wimpy to consider beer as an alternative. Cheese, yoghurt and milk come from cows!

When you think about it cows are probably quite the most ecological animal on the planet. The give milk, which can make cream, or cheese, youghurt or whey, they can be made into steaks or burgers, and their skins are made into leather. And thier bones can probably be boiled down to make glue or something. Even their tails go into soup. The idea of recuding the number of something so useful is preposterous.

So, and here is my serious suggestion, if we are so concerned about the Methane these cows are producing, and the CO2 produced by cars, why can't we compromise? A car will run happily on Liquid Petroleum Gas, which is only a small step away from Metahane Gas. Surely science can up with a way of strapping a cow to every car to make it Methane neutral, CO2 Neutral and still able to provide burgers, steak, cheese, eggs, milk, cream, leather shoes, and superglue prior to it being scrapped for a new Mondeo under the Governments scrappage scheme?

Minty becomes Chinky

Not very politically correct, but my electric car project will henceforth be known as the Chinky. It was named Minty, as it emits no emissions and is therefore like a breath of fresh air as it drives past - hence the mint tag. However, my current daily driver, Mervin the Van is Vegetable oil converted and smells like a chippy. The electric car is a Fiat Cinquecento - a chinky right? And as a fish and chip shop and a Chinese takeaway (known round here as the Chinky) are somewhat related the Chinky tag as sort of taken over. So it's project Chinky from now on right?

Anyhow the guy who started the conversion Pablo Gringon, a Brazilian student over here in the UK at the time had done a basic job of a conversion that was sort of running but not road legal. Or tidy. Or very practical come to that.

I have got rid of some excess weight by removing some more of the parts that were needed for an internal combustion engine but are not required for the electric conversion. This included grinding a lot of excess bracketry and excess metal off the engine and gearbox mounts. When I came to reconnect the battery pack there was a BIG flash and a bang and the smell of brimstone. Fortunately there was not a grinding of teeth, and the gearbox and motor escaped unharmed. Obviously something had shorted, but patient checking, rechecking and checking again failed to show up anything amiss. I was puzzled, as I hadn't touched anything on the circuit, I had simply touched and removed mechanical stuff.


It turns out that the circuit breaker that Pablo had burnt out and bridged temporarily with a wire type fuse (well a bit of wire to be honest) had bridged to earth, causing a short circuit. I have temporarily repaired this temporary repair whilst I await a new circuit breaker from the USA. (Ebay $5 plus shipping) Far cheaper than I can buy one here.




Meanwhile the tidy up of the engine bay continues. There is a diode pack to protect the motor controller from surges, which must be isolated from the chassis to prevent it earthing. It needs to be fixed down somehow, but how when all the car is metal? Well this is a Heath Robinson sponsored project and low budget solutions have to be found so a Tupperware (other brands are available) sandwich box was acquired for about £2 and fixed tot he firewall with self tappers covered with those plastic caps that furniture makers use on cheap DIY furniture. This ensures they cannot come into contact with the diode pack. Simples! The diode pack itself has a large aluminium heat sink and has been screwed to the lid of said sandwich box, also protected from earthing by the same plastic caps. The lid then fastens securely to the box with the diode pack inside, isolated and waterproof. Brilliant! The whole lot sit nicely behind the 12volt accessory battery. Factory it is not, but other then it's obvious humble origins as a sandwich box it looks the part and functions perfectly. Black would suit it better though, maybe a lick of paint at some point?


Next job is to complete the "filler" point. There will be an industrial typ
e three pin socket installed in the fuel filler flap area. I have already recessed such a socket in place using ...... yes you guessed it a tupperware box (other brands are available)
This willl be fibre glassed into place from behind, but will allow a fly lead 20 metre cable to connect the car to the nearest 240 volt three pin outlet

for charging via the on board charger. Removing the remnant of the petrol tank filler neck and associated gubbings necessitated the temporary removal of the wheel arch liner and trim but was far from difficult. The part finished result can be seen above and shows that the filler flap still closes normally when not in use, keeping the car standard in appearance.

It is interesting to note as I work on the Chinky that for a 15 year old car it has very little body corrosion. That is because they were galvanised in the factory, another plus point in choosing this little car for the conversion. Light weight, rustproof and cheap to buy used.

Tomorrow I hope to get the on board charger installed under the bonnet. This is another low cost Heath Robinson Bodgit and Scarper solution. Watch this space.
































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