Several times a year, in the late forties / early fifties, when I was a child, we would drive from our Oxfordshire farm to Anglesey to visit my grandfather (Taid in Welsh), a retired sea captain who told us gripping stories about his life at sea.
My mother always had to work hard to persuade Dad to take us as, being a farmer, he could never see a convenient time to go. Any time Mum suggested would swiftly countered with, "there's a cow about to calve them", or "I'm expecting the feed rep to call that week", and so it went. But Mum was no quitter. She would wear Dad's resistance down with more and more suggestions until he had to give in, and a date would be arranged.
When that day came Dad would fuel up the old four door Morris saloon, Mum would would put our well thumbed RAC atlas on the front seat, and my brother Mark, sister Sarah and I would pile on to the back seats and settle into the jumble of suitcases, cushions, I-Spy books, tartan rugs, old Farmers Weekly magazines, bottles of home made ginger beer, flasks of tea and Oxo tins filled with cucumber, cheese and tomato sandwiches. When all was ready, Dad usually had some last minute urgent discussion with the foreman about jobs that needed to be done while we were away, but finally came the moment when off we would go, our overloaded car chugging out of the yard in a cloud of gravel dust and chased by our yapping dogs, honking geese and my sister's over-excited pony.
Our custom was to stop for a picnic on Wenlock Edge, about halfway into our trip. The views over Shropshire are breath-taking, but back then we children were far more interested in our fresh cut sandwiches and ginger beer.
Dad always seemed pre-occupied on these occasions. He would sit and gaze at the road below, where it curved out of the Much Wenlock and dropped steeply into the valley below. We assumed he was weary from the driving, even though he knew every pre ring road short cut through Kidderminster and Bridgnorth in those days, so we left him in peace. Much later I realised that he must have been thinking about the return trip. Going down the hill was no problem, but the return trip was another matter.
A common feature on cars in the forties was a glass housing a thermometer on the radiator cap, a swinging needle warning the driver whenever the radiator was in danger of overheating. If it went into the red zone, the game was up and you had to stop.
On our way home, on leaving Wales, Wenlock Edge would loom ahead, closer and closer. Back then, to Dad, it must have looked like Mount Everest. As we passed the sign to Wig Wig and Homer, Dad would start to pile on the speed, ready for our attempt at the formidable face of Wenlock Edge. Th old Morris would be shuddering with effort as we passed the farmhouse near the base of the ascent, Dad's knuckles white as he leaned forwards and gripped the wheel. He wanted every ounce of momentum that the old car could muster, but it was never quite enough.
Up and up we would climb, willing the car forwards. No one dared barely breathe. We children would rock back and forth in our seats, as if willing a swing ever higher, but whatever we did the inevitable would happen ... just before the summit needle would go into the red.
Drawing into the side of the road, near the precipice, we were forced to stop. Irate drivers in more modern cars would, from the inevitable queue behind us, pass with ease and annoyed faces. Dad would deploy our red triangle, all the while avoiding eye contact with the other drivers. All we could do was sit there as steam billowed from the bonnet. Experience had taught us to carry a watering can in the boot, so Dad and I would wait until the last annoyed driver had passed and then set off down the hill to ask at the farmhouse for our watering can to be filled with cold water. Over time the farmer's wife had become a friend, and she always insisted we stay for a cup of tea and some fruit cake. And she wouldn't let us go until she'd not only filled our can, but also packed more cake for us to take back for Mark, Sarah and Mum.
Having trudged all the way back to the almost summit, we children were confined to the car while Mum and Dad carried out the next dangerous part of the operation, taking off the radiator cap. The Icelandic geyser effect might have subsided, but considerable danger of pressurised scalding steam still lurked beneath that cap. Out came a large beach towel which Dad would deploy in layers over the cap. Then, grasping it firmly through the towel, he would twist it off.
Steam would swish out of any loose fold of towel it could find, but if Dad had done it right, and he always did, no harm would be done. Now the waiting game really began. After an interminable quarter of an hour or so, Dad would carefully, and oh so slowly, pour cold water into the radiator. Eventually he would replace the cap, stow away the can and triangle, climb back into the driver's seat, watch the radiator needle sink slowly back into the green, and then lurch gingerly forward into Much Wenlock.
Mum would say, "Why don't we go to that lovely old tea-shop in the High Street?", meaning "Your father desperately needs a pick-me-up."
Dad never complained about these occasions, but every time he thought about it his heart must have sunk. Looking back I can only admire the stoic way he bore these times of trial, but oh how he must have hated Wenlock Edge.
