Dalkeith Delights

This is the tale of our trip to join our friends in the Forth Valley Vintage Club for their Annual Road Run and Rally at Dalkeith Country Park.

If you were there, read on for some pleasant memories. If you werent there, read on and be disappointed that you missed it.

I won't bore you with the details of all the preparation that went into our visit to Dalkeith, but lets just say that our convoy was well laden down with Disco Equipment, The Club Tent, Display Boards and loads of other stuff. My poor old van was also lugging the weight (as well as pulling the club trailer) of two nice new solid battery trays to replace the collection of mud & rust that had been separating electricity from tarmac.

Just about on time we set off for an easy cruise to our destination. We even knew where we were going as Andy (The Archbishop) and I had previously been over to the venue for a site visit.  This navigational knowledge would come in very handy for Andy, as he was to follow on later, due to work commitments. His later departure would also rescue us from a dilemma, but you'll have to discover how a bit further on in this riveting read.

The usual CB banter kept us amused on or trip as we barged our way through the Wacky Races of the Edinburgh City By-Pass. The highlight of the cruise was when Tiny's van decided to cut out in the middle of the very busy Sherifhall Roundabout. To add to the fun, the Dub decided to develop the dreaded 'Hot Starter Syndrome' at this embarrassing point. With speed that would put an F1 pit crew to shame, a cure was rapidly effected in the shape of a good shove and a solid thump with a suitable sized spanner. Perhaps this was our first practice at bringing Edinburgh traffic to a halt.

A few minutes later we rolled into the rally field. Dalkeith Country Park is a very pleasant setting for any event. It has an excellent childrens play area, woodland walks, and yet is close to the town centre. The bluebells were already starting to display their vivid colours and in a few weeks time must look magnificent. We had been allocated a huge display and camping area close to the marquee and in a very prominent position so that no visitors could miss our monster line up.

Within a few minutes of our arrival willing hands were fighting the strong wind and erecting the club tent. At times we wondered weather a few club members would end up paragliding all the way to North Berwick. Fortunately we have plenty of bulky bodies amongst our crew and solid muscle (Excess Fat) was put to good use while the canvas was secured with a pile of plastic and steel pegs.

My awning was to receive the same treatment but, after a search of the trailer and van, we concluded that the poles were still in Fife.

Thank goodness for mobile phones. By the skin of our teeth we contacted Andy and Joyce only minutes before they were due to leave for Dalkeith. A quick search of John's garage unearthed the bag of poles hiding behind Mr. F's van restoration kit. (A huge sheet of steel).

A short while later Andy's Blue Bay found its way to the field (No he didn't get lost) and I at last had some extra shelter.

The evening was clear but cold. In the tent the atmosphere warmed up, helped by a good collection of bodies and the gas heater. My awning also provided a cosy staging post for those on their way to and from the tent. My new gas barbeque  (£24.95 from Homebase) providing the gentle heat and tasty morsels of food.

With all the work done and the mad panic of preparations for the weekend out of the way, it was good to relax, nibble from the barbecue, share a bottle of wine (and John's mug of whisky) and chat until heavy eyelids summoned weary campers into welcoming sleeping bags.

Saturday was going to be another busy day, but the bacon butties had to come first. More and more familiar Vee Dubs, and a few new ones, added themselves to our considerable line up. Soon we had roughly thirty-five Kingdom vehicles on site as well as our friends from the Edinburgh Bus Club.

The whole field was buzzing with anticipation as we prepared to ready ourselves for the afternoon's street parade.

At last the call came to muster for the grand departure.

There is one golden rule to remember when moving a VW bus off its camping pitch. Tidy up before you go. Oh dear. What a sorry end to Pam's Granny's table. Crushed to oblivion under the wheels of a bright orange Bay. With due ceremony Pam removed the flattened furniture from its repose in the grass and, showing no embarrassment, placed the remains in a safer place. Later that weekend a suitable wake was performed in memory of this now defunct drinks supporter.

At the front of the queue was Mike Povey's magnificent Model T Ford, then a line of classic cars followed by a car park full of colourful Vee Dubs. Behind us came the commercials, a lorry loaded with vintage tractors and a few motorcycles. Our Police escort was ready and waiting in the form of a hi-performance Volvo Estate and a motorcycle outrider.

We were the kings of the road. The minute we left the park the effect on passers by was a sight to behold. Old men stopped and stared, adults smiled, children waved and dogs ran for cover.

As we approached the Sheriffhall Roundabout our escort shot ahead to block the road so that we would have unhindered passage. What a scene. A police car with lights flashing parked diagonally across the Edinburgh City By-Pass. Policemen in bright fluorescent jackets stopping all traffic from coming onto our bit of road and a motorcycle looking after our convoy like an attentive mother hen. For a few moments we were the Royal Family on our way to Hollyrood Palace.

Once clear of the City By-Pass we played follow the leader through the busy traffic and headed for the City Centre. On a few occasions the convoy became fragmented but with help from the CBs and a few stops to regroup we all made it into the centre of Edinburgh.

We know how difficult it is to keep a convoy together on some of our 'Chip Runs' on the relatively quiet roads of Fife. To get this mass of metal into a busy city was indeed an achievement. Eventually, with a bit of shunting we lined up in Waterloo Place while some were already at London Road. We weren't sure as to which group was actually in the right place but the marshals seemed to have everything in hand so we just switched of engines, giggled at the reaction of the public, and waited for instructions. A nearby pavement bar & café benefited from a good bit of trade from hungry and thirsty Dubbers while we waited for the off.

A good bit of hilarity was caused by a group of Oriental Tourists who approached Allan Barry as he sat in his Camper. "You Taxi?" they asked in broken English. "You take six?  How much you charge?"

I can think of a few in the line who would have said "A tenner each mate. Jump in." But 'Honest Allan' politely declined their offer of a lucrative business transaction and directed them to a nearby taxi rank.

To add to the almost carnival atmosphere, Lovat had unloaded his classic delivery bike (You know the ones. A small front wheel with wicker basket above) and was pedaling up and down the row of vehicles. John F had taken over the pilot's seat of Lovat's camper to free off our enthusiastic peddler for his more physical pursuits.

Just before 3 o'clock, and after a few worrying showers of rain, our escort arrived in the form of four police motorcyclists. Once again local traffic was halted as our convoy 'U' turned and headed back in an easterly direction. Lovat decided to stay on his delivery bike and, at full speed, pedaled off after the classic cars with our string of VWs in hot pursuit.

Now a delivery bike is designed with rather low gearing, so Lovat's wee legs were pumping like engine pistons to keep the convoy in sight, and to avoid being run over by my closely following bus. A few hundred yards further on one of our friendly escorts had taken up station to direct us left into Easter Road. You could see his crash helmet shaking with laughter as Lovat did an excellent Karl Foggerty (Ex World Superbike Champion) impression, on his ancient steed, as he swung, knee almost touching the tarmac, round the tight bend.

You could almost see smoke coming from the over-stressed wheel bearings as the machine, more used to sedately delivering the Co-op's goods hurtled down hill with a pack of thirty plus VWs close on it's tail. A final chicane into London Road gave a good test to vintage rubber in the form of brittle tyres and aged brake blocks. Fortunately they made things to last in the old days and Lovat came to a safe halt behind the section of convoy, which was already in place and awaiting our arrival. A rather red faced and puffed out Lovat decided that the prospect of keeping with the convoy up Leith walk, by pure pedal power, would be too much hard work, if not impossible, so the two wheeled contraption was stowed safely back in his bright orange Camper.

There were a few minutes to wait until our procession would proceed to Princes Street, so drivers and passengers took a few minutes to stretch their legs and admire the view. To make the picture complete an aged hippy, complete with shoulder length hair and John Lennon sun-specs was noticed languishing on the kerbside.

Ere, ang on a minute, I recognize that hippy's Flower Power/VW shirt. I also recognize that face under all that hair.

The 60's throwback turned out to be our very own Sam Watson who was now well dressed to take part in the convoy as pilot of his T25 Wedge.

Finally the waiting was over. The shout "Wagons Roll" was passed along the line as drivers and passengers dashed back to their vehicles. Engines fired, blue lights flashed and the huge convoy began to move.

On to Leith Walk we went. Police Motorcycles, with blue lights flashing held up other traffic on the roundabout as we practiced our 'Royal Wave'.

There must have been a million thoughts going through our minds, such as: "Hey this is great. I hope me clutch cable doesnt break. Please dont cut out on me now."

We need not have worried. Faultlessly Mike Povey's Model T regally led us on to Princes Street. The effect on the hoards of shoppers was indescribable. Jaws hit the floor, cameras clicked and the moving masses of humanity came to an instant and abrupt halt.

Our escorts zoomed up and down the never-ending line, making sure that we had a free right of way through all the red traffic lights. We waved, hooted and waved again at the mass of smiling faces on both sides of this busy thoroughfare. Just imagine to scene, Classic, Vintage and Veteran Cars, Motorcycles, Commercials and thirty-five Volkswagens stretching almost the entire length of Princes Street. It was indeed a real treat for the tourists.

As we approached the West End we were signaled to form a double column so now we took up the whole width of the road.

One by one we filtered left into Lothian Road, still turning the heads of Saturday afternoon shoppers. A local city driver in his BMW tried to squeeze into our procession from a side street. No sooner had he put his front wheels over the white line when he was sternly given a "Get back behind that line" gesture by one of our friendly escorts.

Further on, a small group of liberated student types were gaily playing a set of ethnic, Bongo type, drums in a bus shelter. As we passed, the drumming rose to a crescendo accompanied by a chorus of VW hooters.

Finally it was all over. Our Police Motorcyclists peeled away like escorting Spitfires leaving their squadron of Lancaster Bombers. We had to get, once again, back into the habit of obeying red traffic lights and road signs.

On the run back to the park nobody said a lot, even the CB was quiet. We were just content to savour the memories of this awesome afternoon.

Back at the Rally Field it was time to exchange a few expletives such as "Brilliant, Did you see that guy with the camera?" and "Thank goodness I didnt stall cos me starter is knackered."

Saturday night was to be Party Night. The roadies helped transport and set up the disco gear in readiness for the night's festivities. The F.V.V.C. had provided a huge generator to provide power for lights and the sound equipment. This was fired up and a sound check carried out to make sure everything was going to be all right on the night. "Perfect. Lets go eat."

By 7.30 all had been fed, rested and changed into party mode. Sam was looking magnificent in his 'Hippy Gear'. This was going to be a good night.

Soon the marquee was filling with party people and the youngsters showed the adults how to get things going with a fast and furious game of musical chairs. A few tubs of chocolates and sweets appeared, as if by magic to reward them for their efforts.  A selection of Disney songs soon had them doing excellent Baloo the Bear back-scratching actions to 'The Bear Necessities' and then marching up & down the floor to 'High Ho' from 'Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs'. Mind you, this was not only for those less than four feet in height as a lot of the bigger kids joined in as well.

The dance grass (floor) was busy all night and as people's inhibitions fell by the wayside we were treated to a continuous spectacle of wild gyrations and even wilder tabletop surfing to a mix of 60's Beach Boys' tracks.

The four and a half hours just flew by. All to soon it was midnight and time for the grand finale. They must have heard us in Fife with our rousing chorus of Loch Lomond (With a little help from Runrig) and a less than tuneful rendition of Flower Of Scotland (With a lot of help from The Corries).

Finally, after a huge round of applause all fell silent. The marquee emptied and all that was left as a reminder of this night was a now lifeless disco set and a large waste bin full of empty cans and bottles.

Those whose legs were still in some sort of working order made their way to the club tent for a late night cuppa and a bit of chat, while others flopped exhausted into their varied beds. One of our spies later told me that Harry (The hardworking F.V.V.C treasurer and Rally Field Organiser) simply kicked off his wellies before crashing out for the night, still in his bright blue overalls. And I promised that we would be discrete and not tell. Is nobody's dignity sacred?

There were certainly a few heavy heads and aching limbs on Sunday morning. John F was perhaps more fragile than most. Our illustrious secretary blames the handling of uncooked meat in preparation for Saturday night's barbecue. But do you suppose the glass of dark rum he was offered, on top of his whisky might have played just a small part?

There is no rest for the wicked when there is work to do and soon the Kingdom Krew had the Klub Stand set up while our resident 'Display Organiser' (Phil) arranged a long line of Dubs to impress the visiting public.

As the morning drew on the car park began to fill with visitors just as quickly as the sky filled with threatening looking black clouds. I was on breakfast duty while Liz and Cassie (The slightly better behaved Labrador Pup from Hell) spent time on the stand. I produced a, gas barbecue cooked, bacon roll for Liz, Cassie enjoyed the bacon trimmings and I savoured the remains of last nights spicy kebabs inserted into a bread roll. "Yummy. How come leftovers always taste better the next morning?" You should try it next time you have an Indian Carry Out.

 At about this time word went out that Sam had lost his van keys. A search party checked the marquee, Sam's pockets (I think Sam enjoyed that bit), inside his wig and even most of the Rally Field. All to no avail. It looked like the keys had warped into hyperspace or been beamed up by Starship Enterprise. Fortunately Sam's van was unlocked, but a bit of car hacking was needed to make sure he would be mobile at the end of the day. Recalling the days of misspent youth, the steering lock was disabled and the ignition hot wired so the engine could be started. Instead of a key to turn there were now just a couple of wires to touch together and the Van would fire into life.

Just as we were finishing playing with lengths of wire in Sam's van I noticed a few drops of rain on the windscreen. By the time I returned to my awning a light shower had sent the club stand and crew into the tent for cover. Then the heavens opened.

Heavy rain and strong winds battered the showground. At times I thought my awning would be ripped from the ground as wet canvas strained against pegs and poles. This sudden change in the weather was such a shame. The hard working folk from the F.V.V.C. did not deserve this. To make matters worse some owners of vehicles on display (No Vee Dubbers I must add as we are a hardy bunch) quickly packed up and made a swift exit. If they had looked at the distant horizon they would have noticed a break already forming in the angry clouds, indicating that the rain would not last.

Meanwhile the club tent was packed with damp steaming bodies enjoying a chat and cuppa while they waited for the rain to pass. In the rush to get the club stand under cover Sam and Joyce had become trapped between display boards and the outer wall of the tent. An unsympathetic crowd, rather than move the boards to give them their freedom, played 'Feed The Monkeys' and then passed in a pair of socks (I hope they were clean) so that Sam & Joyce could keep all entertained with an impromptu glove (Sock) puppet show. Is this a new talent in the club? Our very own Punch & Judy outfit.

At last the sky cleared and the sun warmed the damp air. Steam rose from tents and canvas awnings as the show came back to life. I spent a few very pleasant hours perusing the shows exhibits and stalls as well as stopping to chat to many familiar faces.

Finally it was all over. The away team once again sprung into action and all the club kit mysteriously disappeared into the trailer and an assortment of vans. Even when we were all packed up conversation continued. It seemed like no one was in a hurry to leave this friendly venue. Eventually we once again formed a convoy and waved fond farewells of thanks to our hosts.

This time we had no helpful police to guide us through the traffic and our procession soon became fragmented by road works and other hold ups. I had to stop for fuel at the Forth Bridge but I could still hear, via the CB, from Dubs both ahead and behind me. The run back to Kirkcaldy passed without incident, helped by a strong tail wind pushing us along the motorway. Tired and weary the Glen Isla Crew finally switched off engines in familiar surroundings. Just the perishables were unloaded. The bulk of the kit could wait until tomorrow.

What was needed to finish of the weekend was a final bottle of wine while we reminisced about a great trip.

Well, that's my account of the weekend. I think it is fairly accurate. Yesterday I asked big Ron for his memories to add to my scribble. I should have known better. In his rich Geordie tones he replied that he didnt remember much after Saturday night.

Finally a very big thank-you to every one at the Forth Valley Vintage Club for all their hard work and for making us so welcome.

Here's to the next time.