A Car for all Seasons and Adventures

In 1952 I was working in the theatre, painting scenery at the Royal Opera House, designing children’s television at Alexandra Palace in black and white, touring shows and the scenery for an ice show that paid handsomely, as well as designing and painting scenery for weekly reperatory at various provincial theatres. 

It was all extremely hard work and pourly paid, except for that ice show in London were I painted flats and backdrops on the ice, wearing my RAF flying boots from wartime to keep my feet warm.

The theatre was my life and I lived in two council rooms by the 

steam-engined railway tracks at Victoria Station. It was the time of pea soup fogs and where heating was by burning coal, the smoke from which even thickened the fogs. 

This was an unhealthy time in which to live, especially for me who had suffered two bouts of lung TB and needed to visit a hospital or doctor each week or two with an artificial pneumothorax. This needed a needle shoved into the side of my chest between two ribs to allow atmospheric air pressure to fill a created cavity between my right lung and rib cage.

Despite all this I wanted to travel around Europe to get ideas for my theatre work and do as had been done in the 18th century’s Grand Tours. In my case I had to also seek out the occasional visit where I could have my lung/air dealt with.

For this I needed transport, a vehicle in which I could sleep and eat, drink, cook and travel. 

I managed to buy an old Ford 8 flat-back builder’s van that had seen better days. But it had the required mechanical basics, an eight horsepower engine, four wheels and a strong chassis. 

I had spare time, mainly from that ice show, a list of my requirements and a  certain ability to put them into effect. 

Structurally I would have to open up the back of the cab and incorporate the driving part with the flat back to make space for stretching out at night. Then there would have to be a cover to keep out noxious elements and have modest proof against theft. This was done by bending and fixing three-ply wood with rivets. The back would be of canvas and a hinged section.   So far so good. It was taking shape - if rather an odd one. The combined driving and passenger bench seat was of covered foam rubber with the front of it raised so that one’s body sank into it and knees were raised. It was extremely comfortable - ideal for a long journey, sometimes certainly to be over rough country roads/tracks.

There would for sure be mosquitoes to fend off. So a net was made to fit.

The weather abroad would be hot, so extra ventilation was necessary. This took the form of two nautical air scoops attached to the cab roof so that air could be scooped in to cool both driver and passanger. If passing through a storm these scoops could be reversed and, if necessary, stopped off with large corks.

A horn would be of vital importance, so I found one that worked, if I recall correctly, through the carburetta venturi, It was unusually loud and had been manifactured to be  part of an international sized truck.

With war surplus still around and available I acquired an aircraft altimetre to add to the van’s basic dials. This not only would tell me the height of mountains traversed but also work as a barometre to forecast weather conditions. A simple unswung compass completed my instrument panel.

Four new Michelin tyres were added.

Not having experienced the surface of continental roads after wartime neglect, I was prepared for enormous potholes, so that these tyres would probably hit the wheel arches at the rear and give off squeals and the smell of hot rubber. 

After a couple of brushed coats of British racing green paint I was off to be lifted aboard the “Dinard” by crane at Folkestone harbour en route for Boulogne and adventure.