About buying a worn-out Land Rover, becoming a mechanic, and a trip to Tamanrasset that never happened. Instead, it turned into a boozy trip to Pamplona and the San Fermín festival.
We all have dark spots in our past. Today I drive a Land Cruiser, but in my distant youth I owned a Land Rover Series IIA, 109-inch Safari. Like so many others, I was drawn to its unmistakably rugged exterior, which no doubt appealed to my sense of adventure and my need to prove my masculinity. I had just finished my education and had little money, so the car I bought in 1981 was a deregistered 1971 model that had supposedly been on a trip to the Sahara. It cost EUR 1500, and little did I know what trials and tribulations awaited me.
Literature evidently has a way of shaping people. I had read Axel Jensen’s *Icarus*, a book about a young man travelling to Algeria, and got it into my head that I wanted to drive through the Sahara to Tamanrasset. So I needed a Land Rover, the kind of car associated with that sort of journey at the time.
Mechanics School
Buying the car was to lay the foundation for my knowledge as a car mechanic. That’s the nice thing about Land Rovers: you have to learn to work on them yourself. That said, I have to admit that the car was very easy to work on. All you needed was four or five spanners and a socket set—imperial sizes, of course.
To replace the drive shafts, you did not even need to jack up the car. You simply loosened a few nuts and pulled the shafts out. This was very convenient, as the shafts broke quite often. Two or three times, the rear drive shafts snapped clean in two without me ever putting them under any particularly heavy strain.
They didn’t cost much money, and if you were lucky, the remains of the shaft hadn’t jammed and could simply be pushed out from the other side. Even though they probably made money from selling new shafts, someone in Solihull must eventually have realised that this wasn’t sustainable, because the next model, the Series III, came with a new rear axle bearing the historic name Salisbury. They were supposedly very durable.
Over the course of my first years as a Land Rover owner, I was to become a fairly capable mechanic. Everything electrical was eventually replaced, and the brakes were overhauled an unknown number of times. Lucas is a well-known English manufacturer of electrical equipment for cars. Well-known, but not highly regarded. Also known as the Prince of Darkness.
The LR had a very thirsty 2.25-litre petrol engine. I was a member of the LR club and received a small yellow magazine in the post from time to time. Among other things, I could read about converting the car to diesel. Great idea, I thought—I have to do that. That is how you think when you are young and not burdened with too much experience that might stand in the way of unreasonable decisions. On the other hand, you do learn from them.
The Diesel Dream
The LR diesel dream was called the Perkins 4.236, an indestructible four-cylinder engine widely used in vans and boats. But in Norway they were hard to come by, especially if you didn’t have much money. In England, on the other hand, you could apparently just pop into the nearest scrapyard and pick up a couple, at least according to the LR club.
So that year, the holiday went to England in the Land Rover. I brought a mate along, and we pottered around for a couple of weeks before we were due to take the ferry back from Newcastle to Bergen. So it was time to find an engine. At the first scrapyard we stopped at, we got lucky. Yes, he had a Perkins lying around, from a Commer van. The scrapyard owner was a burly bloke. He led us over to a pile of engines and, with a proper heave, hauled out a Perkins. They are not particularly light. It looked reasonably intact, apart from the missing rocker cover and the fact that a forklift had driven a fork through the sump. The scrapyard owner assured us that the engine had run like a dream before it was yanked out. Sixty pounds. Okay, I said, and we got the engine heaved into the back. The scrapyard owner also pointed us in the direction of a Land Rover dealer, where I was able to buy a conversion kit to fit the engine into the vehicle.
I knew absolutely nothing about diesel engines, but at the time I was working at a school in Oslo that had an engine mechanics program. They were interested in having the students overhaul the engine. I just had to hold the parts. Soon the engine was ready; it was actually not very worn. Then a few weeks of work went into getting it installed in the car.
At that time, diesel was very cheap compared with petrol because the tax was not included in the price per litre; instead, you paid for the kilometres you drove. All diesel cars had a sealed odometer that stamped a card, which you sent in from time to time, and then you received a payment slip for the tax in the post. That was why it did not matter so much if the car used a lot of diesel. Besides, you did not have to pay the kilometre tax for driving abroad. I found an odometer at a scrapyard, installed it and had it sealed, and then I was ready to drive cheaply.
Incredibly, everything worked like a dream. Except that while the petrol engine’s maximum revs were 4,200, the Perkins’ maximum revs were 2,800. So the car’s top speed was now 70 km/h. But it had good torque, though…
Sahara – the dream
I had got a friend interested in my Tamanrasset plans. He had read the same books. Now that the car was reasonably roadworthy—at least if we brought enough spare parts and tools—there was actually some realism to the plans. We were going to drive through Spain, take a ferry to Algeria, and then continue south through the Sahara. The problem was that neither of us had any idea what awaited us when we arrived in North Africa. I found some literature at the library, but it was pretty thin stuff.
After a while, reality sank in. It was perhaps a little risky to just set off like that. Driving an LR and bringing plenty of water might not be enough.
Literature came to our rescue again. We had both read Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises” about Pamplona and the San Fermín festival. And this was Spain, halfway to Algeria. Of course, it was a perfect substitute for Tamanrasset! The festival was approaching, and within a few days we were on our way.
We took the ferry to Hirtshals and bumped our way south. Well, perhaps not literally bumped, but the comfort in an LR with rigid axles and leaf springs front and rear is not exactly high. And that is accompanied by noise from the wind, the road, and the rumble of a diesel engine being pushed to maximum revs in an attempt to maintain 70 km/h. On the motorways in Germany, I was seriously afraid we would be thrown off the Autobahn because we were going too slowly. At one point, we had a helicopter hovering over us for quite a while. Fortunately, I had installed a powerful stereo system that tried to drown out the noise.
Our first destination was Calais. The reason was that there is a cure for low speed: an overdrive. An overdrive acts like an extra fifth gear for the car. The plan was to drive to Calais, park the car there, then I would take the ferry across to Dover and buy an overdrive for the car. I could have bought it in Norway, but it was at least twice as expensive and had a long delivery time. One good thing about LR was that parts were cheap, and as far as I remember, the overdrive cost less than EUR 100 in England.
Towards England
We managed to get to Calais without being stopped at a speed check, and I took the first ferry with a sleeping bag under my arm. My friend stayed behind and had to find something to do to pass the time. Before leaving, I had done some research on LR parts by looking through English LR magazines and had found a shop some way west of Dover, along the coast. According to my map, there was a local train in that direction, at least part of the way. Then a bus onwards. As it turned out, that was a very stupid decision. I had spent the night in Dover under a bush in the park and caught the first train in the morning. It was not many miles, but everything moved extremely slowly, and I did not arrive until well into the afternoon.
Fortunately, they had an overdrive in stock. Checking things like that was much more cumbersome before the days of the Internet. On the way back, I took the train into London instead, then changed to another one for Dover. It took a fraction of the time.
Lady Ann
On the train from London, I noticed a woman in her early forties behaving rather strangely. She apparently had no language skills and seemed somewhat intellectually disabled. She did not have to pay for a ticket. Somewhere before Dover, we had to change trains, and the conductor asked whether anyone could escort the silent woman to the next train. Apparently, not many people were going that way. No one volunteered, so I took on the job.
I wrote that she “apparently” had no language skills because there was something about her behaviour that did not add up. I got her onto the new train, and we sat down together. I started talking to her as if she were perfectly fine, and after a little while she admitted that she had been putting on an act. She had run away from her husband and was heading for the Continent. I think the real reason she had run away was the general boredom of an English middle-class home—a classic midlife crisis. And once she got the chance, she had let loose with a bit of acting. In any case, she spoke proper English, had money, and was well dressed. We quickly became good friends, and it was decided that she would come along to Pamplona.
Back in Calais, we found the car, but not my friend. It had become night; we had caught the last ferry. The car was parked in the harbour area. There was no fitted interior in the back, just a foam mattress we slept on in sleeping bags. But there was also an extra seat in the back. It had originally been intended for a third friend of ours, but he had changed his mind and decided not to come along. It was an old bus seat that I had bolted down. Comfortable, and it would probably suit the English lady well.
The Neanderthal
My mate liked to drink, and I noticed lights in a brick building some distance away. Sure enough, it was a waterfront dive bar. There sat my mate, drunk as a skunk, with a few other guys who were more or less plastered.
I noticed that the English lady was a little frightened when she met my friend. Not only was he very drunk, but he also looked a bit unusual. By nature, he had rather coarse features; we used to joke that he was the last Neanderthal. Normally he had long hair and a beard, but just before we left, he got it into his head to shave his head. That wasn’t very common in the 1980s, except in skinhead circles. So, to a well-to-do English lady out on the town, he probably looked like a drunken skinhead who had just emerged from the jungles of Borneo.
Of course, I knew he was as gentle as a lamb, even if he could be a little boisterous when he drank. But that was only verbal. I managed to calm down Lady Ann, as we chose to call her once my friend had sobered up again. The Stones were big at the time. In the end, all three of us went to bed in the back of the Land Rover. It was cramped. Sleeping two back there was fine, although my friend had an annoying habit of flailing his arms about at night if he had drunk too much. In any case, I lay in the middle to protect Lady Ann from a slap delivered in his sleep.
The next day, we headed south. We stayed off the motorways, and before long I spotted what I was looking for: a green meadow where I could stop and fit the overdrive. I had to crawl underneath the car to do it, and grass is preferable to asphalt for that. The installation itself was a piece of cake: off came the gearbox power take-off cover, and on went the overdrive. Then I cut a hole in the floor for a lever to engage and disengage it. It probably took no more than a couple of hours. Halfway through the job, I suddenly noticed that Lady Ann had positioned herself on the other side of the road, hitchhiking back towards Calais. I spoke to her, and yes, she was heading home again. Shortly afterwards, she got a lift with a lorry. Whether it was the encounter with my friend, the Neanderthal skinhead, or missing her husband and the comforts of home, nobody knows.
As we continued, we got up to over 80 km/h, so we were really making good time. We got a little lost on the small roads in Normandy, but around midnight we managed to drive into Pamplona on the opening day of the festival. We found parking right in the city centre and threw ourselves into it.
San Fermin
The San Fermin festival is best known for its bull runs. Early in the morning, young men dressed in white outfits, often with a red scarf around their necks, gather in cordoned-off streets. They hold a rolled-up newspaper in their hands. They will use it to protect themselves from the bulls that will soon charge through the streets. A nervous atmosphere prevails. It is not uncommon for someone to be killed—trampled to death or pierced through the body by a horn. One has to do something to feel alive, I suppose. Or perhaps there is a lack of opportunities to demonstrate masculinity in today’s world?
Those who have been there also know that the festival is a massive drinking binge, where locals and hordes of visitors drink themselves senseless for a week. We had barely managed to get out of the car before we were drenched in red wine. This is part of the opening ceremony. Everyone sprays each other with red wine for a couple of hours, and then it is full-on partying for an entire week.
The festivities usually started right after the morning runs. We met quite a few other Norwegians, and secured a regular table in a small square where we gathered every day for a Campari breakfast. Then it was one thing after another until we dragged ourselves back to the car late at night to sleep it off. Having central parking and accommodation was handy. In any case, it would have been impossible to find a hotel.
I never managed to get back on my feet before the bull runs were over, and that was probably for the best. After a few days, my friend disappeared, and I felt I was nearing my limit, so I took the car, drove out of the city centre and parked in a small wooded area some distance from town. I had plenty of mineral water with me and stuck to that until my nerves and body had returned to normal.
Back in Pamplona, I took it a bit easier with the partying and actually ran into my friend again later that evening. He had sobered up too, but otherwise he was a sorry sight. Half his jacket was gone, as were his shoes. The police in Pamplona must be said to be very tolerant when it comes to drinking and partying. And during the time I was there, I never saw any fighting or unruly behaviour. Still, they must have had some idea of what was acceptable and what was not. My friend had apparently ended up in the latter category, though he could not account for the details. It was probably his appearance combined with being utterly drunk that tipped the scales. The police made the rounds late at night, picked up those who had clearly had enough, drove them a few kilometres out of town and dropped them off there. And then they took their shoes, according to my friend. I am not sure about that—he could just as easily have lost them before he was hauled in—but in any case, he had walked back to town barefoot, and that is enough to sober anyone up. Since we both had a lucid moment, we decided to leave the next day, even though there were still two days left of the festival.
Incident in Barcelona
There was no reason to head straight home, so we set course for Barcelona. Barcelona is a big city where the newer districts are characterised by large, identical square blocks with wide streets. We drove as close to the city centre as we could get while still being able to park for free. Sleeping in the car in central Pamplona had worked out fine, so there was no reason not to continue doing so. After the partying in Pamplona, it was time for a bit of culture, so we took in some of Gaudí’s fantastic buildings, including the Sagrada Família cathedral. Incredible what that man accomplished before he was run over by a tram. Then it was out on the town again—more precisely, Barri Gòtic, the old town.
The old town has a rich selection of restaurants and bars, and we tried several of them. Later in the evening, we were sitting there with a drink when we were approached by a couple of attractive ladies. They had some good suggestions to make, and my friend perked up and showed a strong interest. I was quite a bit more sober and said, “You really shouldn’t go along with those two.” But my friend could be rather difficult to rein in when he was in the right mood, and he disappeared with the ladies without heeding my objections.
I drained my glass and went outside to take in the local life. It wasn’t long before my friend came tearing around the corner, wild-eyed. What happened, I asked, though I had my suspicions.
My friend had gone up to the fourth floor with the lady at one of the small hotels around the corner. It quickly became clear that the person he had gone with was not a lady at all—quite the opposite. This affected my friend deeply; he was easily offended when it came to his masculinity. The incident immediately awakened the football hooligan in him. He felt intimidated and frightened, and bellowed, “I am a professional soldier! Let me out of here!” Since he also looked the part with his close-cropped hair, no one tried to stop him, and he stormed off until he ran into me around the corner.
I got him into a bar and ordered a couple of beers to calm him down. Didn’t you see they were transvestites? I asked. I tried to stop you. He hadn’t noticed. After a few beers and a debrief, we didn’t talk any more about it.
Later, we took a taxi back to the car. That was easier said than done. We had noted the name of the street where the car was parked, but unfortunately all we remembered was “Carrer.” It means street, and every street in the uniform grid that made up the newer part of Barcelona was called Carrer-something-or-other. We had a vague idea of which part of town we had parked in, and then we just had to drive up one street and down another until we found the car. It took quite a while. Cost-wise, we might as well have checked into a hotel.
New friends
After a couple of days in Barcelona, it was time for a bit of beach holiday, and we headed north towards Lloret de Mar. We had heard of this town in a tourist context and assumed it had a beach.
As we turn off the main road and into the cluster of hotels, we spot a small, unassuming building with the sign Hostal Mi Padre. Ready for a little luxury, we slam on the brakes and go inside. They had very reasonably priced rooms, so we go for it. The building may have been modest and the room perhaps not among the most luxurious, but goodness, the food was fantastic. The owner, a friendly man in his early thirties, dreamed of working his way up and had invested heavily in the kitchen. I still remember his signature dish: steak on a plank. In Spain, ordering meat dishes often leaves you with a dry shoe sole, but here we got a thick, heavenly tender steak.
The next day, we suddenly discovered that there were three other Norwegians staying at the hotel. They had seen us arrive the night before, but hadn’t dared speak to us because we looked so scary, they said. Once they realized we were quite harmless, we became very good friends. They had driven down as well: a couple and a friend of the people who owned the car. Apparently, something had gone wrong between them, because when we were about to continue north, the couple suddenly wanted to ride with us. Fair enough, I thought—it would be fun to have some new company. So suddenly there were four of us. My friend didn’t have a driver’s license, so it was nice to have another driver in the car too.
The journey home went smoothly, except that we had to dismantle the front wheels and brakes twice because oil was leaking from the axle onto the brake linings. There were only two felt seals keeping it tight, and these were notorious for causing leaks. So when the brakes started performing poorly, all we could do was pull into an Autohof and start wrenching. Such was life with a Land Rover.
I didn’t have a camera, so the photos are from Pixabay:
San Fermín Pamplona – Navarre from Pixabay Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay
