ARCTIC CIRCLE TO TURKEY BY TE 12/50 ALVIS
Part 1 - Genesis and Exodus
by PAUL REDFERN
A hot wind sends sand gritting into eyes and mouth and skin. The blue sky aches over the harsh hills that jag the horizon, and the asphalt platform shimmers under the eyes of an Azerbaijhani Stalin. A long whistle mourns the days that were, and the giant Soviet loco rolls out of the red hills into Djulfa Junction. I have haunted the northern end of the station platform for four days now, waiting where the asphalt ends and the single track begins to run across the bare parched earth to the gap in the hills where the whistles live. I wonder at the reality of being here - and I wonder how long I shall stay.
IT STARTED WITH A MERRY JEST in an English tavern that was tossed lightly in the air and came to rest three nights later, when I woke and thought "Why not take the Alvis to Moscow" It was an idea for a summer holiday, but it was taken seriously by no one. Then I talked to Lord Montagu and I talked to the AA I talked to Alvis and Dunlop and Koni and Valspar. I talked to publishers, agents, newsmen, and travellers. I talked myself into a journey from the Arctic Circle to Turkey in a vintage Alvis. I talked myself out of my wife and son and salary for three months.
The Montagu Motor Museum wanted to sponsor the journey, the A.A. agreed to liaise the operation, and many manufacturers were very helpful while others were downright rude. Planning and organising a journey of this sort takes a fair amount of time and energy, and as serious work didn't start until June, with the middle of August as the latest reasonable date of departure, there wasn't much time for the finer details or even for a 9 to 5 job! The car had to be thoroughly overhauled, and this entailed passing her from one shop to another, making sure the wings were put back before she was sent for painting, or the engine was in when the carburettors were due to be tuned. And added to this were the problems of travel agents, visas, passes, permits, and schedules.
I was fortunate enough to inveigle into the crew an old friend of mine, Fred Basnett. as cameraman and navigator: and under his guidance the route was extended far from the original. We ended with a plan to drive up Norway and down Finland through Russia to Georgia, across into Turkey. and back through Europe, collecting Albania on the way. It was with some difficulty that we agreed not to run through Jordan and Syria to Egypt, pop across North Africa. and slip up the Atlantic coasts of Spain and France. Touring in the Soviet Union is much less complicated now. The guide/interpreter who used to ride in the car through the journey is no longer necessary, and sometimes it was as difficult to get a guide in Moscow as it is to get a porter at Paddington. Intourist insist on a detailed itinerary which must be booked and paid for before a visa is issued, but it is almost a formality and certainly not as rigid is it appears. We decided to camp and our route was practically chosen for us by the availability of camp sites.
They are between a hundred and three hundred miles apart, and we merely booked at each one on the north-south route through the Soviet Union. We fixed a date for entry that gave us a little more than a fortnight to go through Scandinavia, and we planned to finish our Soviet tour by crossing into Turkey on October 1. As the border between Russia and Turkey is closed, we were not very hopeful about getting permission to cross it, but we had higher hopes of our alternative to cross into Iran by train farther south. Intourist said both plans were impossible, the second one "due to the non-availability of vacant platforms": but they offered a cruise on the Black Sea from Sochi to Istanbul. We settled for this and reckoned we'd be glad of those four or five days to relax in.
Preparations for the Journey
The car is a TE 12/50 Alvis Tourer that I've driven for four years. She was given the registration number CH 5956 in 1926, and has had twelve owners. One of them, Mrs. Alderson of Co. Durham, drove the car from 1931 to 1946. Throughout the war years she carried hay and pigs and scrap iron among other items vital to the war effort. The car was in standard form then, but in the intervening years the 1½-litre engine has been fitted with a big port head and twin S.U.s fed by S.U. petrol pumps from two five-gallon tanks alongside the prop-shaft. When I bought the car it had the close ratio gearbox, but as the box was beginning to show signs of wear, I replaced it with a standard ratio box that is probably more suitable for this kind of trip. The body is all original, and was Valspar-painted a handsome green before the trip.
Certain modifications were obviously necessary to make sure the car would last the journey. The suspension was clearly going to suffer most and needed the closest attention. After much soul-searching, I decided to fit non-vintage but highly effective Koni shock absorbers, and critics will be upset to hear that I think I would have been in trouble without them. I had been told that flying stones were a particular hazard in the sort of country we were tackling, so a stout wire sump guard was fitted to stop stones cracking the sump, as well as to protect it from such boulders, bricks and peasants as might be found in the road. The oil pump happens to be the lowest essential part on the car—an Achilles-heel to be well protected.
Another problem was security - how can you lock an open car? How can you stop avaricious peasants and light-fingered children lifting essential gear? After some deliberation, the rear seats were removed and a framework was built to support a wooden top that could be locked in place and was hidden by the tonneau cover. This would not prevent a determined effort with a crowbar, but it would put off the casual klepto.
All our equipment went into the rear compartment, except the Trobike and the tent. The tent was splendidly pneumatic and could be blown up in two minutes with one of those old-fashioned Schrader pumps you screw into a plug-hole and run off the engine. The Trobike is made by the Trojan people and is a tiny motorbike driven by a 2 hp. lawnmower engine through an automatic clutch. It weighs 60 lb., will do 30 m.p.h. at 180 m.p.g. It was taken as a tender rather than a lifeboat, and does .not indicate a lack of faith in our vintage car. It was more likely to be useful for running about strange cities with narrow streets and unknown parking laws, and for nipping about camp sites.
When it came to choosing spares I felt it was more important to have a comprehensive set of tools and plenty of raw materials rather than half a ton of spares. I carried two con-rods, a spare dynamo and magneto, a piston, and a half-shaft. At the last minute I left behind a front and a rear main spring leaf, brake shoes and drum. The rest of my spares consisted of all the little bits and pieces I've learnt to carry in the Alvis, a set of bulbs for everything, ample quantities of wire, nuts, bolts, Hermetite, Bostick, and a few cans of Mister Holt's more useful products. Other equipment included 100 ft. of nylon rope, a nylon winch, a Duco handy tow-rope, an axe and a shovel (it's not that I don't trust my driving, but we all make mistakes sometimes). We carried three cameras— Yashicamat, Pentax and Zeiss, a Grundig TKI tape recorder, and an Olivetti portable typewriter. Delaney Gallay had fitted their safety belts, and overhauled the radiator. The five new 525x2l in. covers came out of stock from Dunlop—they must be the only company still making that size.
The engine was re-sleeved to standard, with new valves, guides and pistons. Even new plugs—Champion D16s. It had been run in nearly a thousand miles, when, four days before sailing date, the Noise appeared. It was a noise that beggars description: a noise that was neither a clank nor a clonk, not really a clunk, but not a clink either. It was a Worrying sort of noise. So the sump came off, and the rods came out. Alas, too late we noticed a little end-float in the crankshaft that was causing the pistons to pick up. My Mechanical Adviser, Roy Adnams, could only advise on the "put it together, and hope" lines. Which we did. And that's why two con-rods head my spares list.
The Departure
And so, unbelievably, we were as ready as we ever would be by noon on August 22. Lord Montagu shook hands with us a dozen times for a dozen cameras; we went briskly round the block several times until the television boys were satisfied; and after the last pint we were likely to taste for many moons, we finally set off on the first stage, the crawl to Tilbury. Our last impression of English roads was definitely bad.
At Tilbury I drove the car on to the flimsy-looking slings they use, and watched anxiously as the precious car was loaded on board. Then we retired to the cabin for farewell drinks with the large and noisy group of friends who had driven down with us. It is best if I do not dwell on the North Sea crossing. It was rough; we were sick. This was particularly unfortunate because there were some very nice examples of Nordic beauty on board. We docked at Gothenburg at 8 o'clock on August 24, and after strolling about the town for some time to stabilise our nervous systems, pointed the Alvis north and made for the Arctic Circle. We didn't feel very far abroad yet; there were parking meters, driving is on the left, and there are traffic jams.
The drive from Gothenburg to Oslo is little different from that on any mainish road in England. The surface is tarmac with two or three lanes, occasional road works, and bottlenecks in villages. We made better time than we thought we were doing and came to the Swedish-Norwegian frontier before we expected to. Dusk was falling, there was nobody about, and only a cross of arrows to indicate that here right-hand drive started. The next hour was a little confusing as the headlights had not yet been adjusted for driving on the right. We got lost while searching for a nearby Youth Hostel, and eventually a friendly native on a scooter guided us to the door. Youth Hostels in Scandinavia are very useful. Motorists are welcome, age doesn't seem to have any bearing at all, and there are seldom any chores to do. All that's needed is the international Y.H.A. card which costs 15s.
The next morning our first foreign press conference was held—attended by a very young, very keen man with a Polaroid camera. He took a few shots and immediately handed round the prints with the air of a magician who didn't really think the rabbit was going to come out. We soon discovered that for translation our story had to be simple, even at the expense of truth, and when we were asked what we were doing. and why, the one word, journalist, was understood wherever we went, and it seemed to cover the situation to everybody's satisfaction.
The afternoon drive into Oslo was along narrow, but metalled roads. The weekend was spent in Oslo, and on Sunday morning August 27 we left at 9.30 a.m. to start some proper motoring. It was five days since we had left London, and we'd driven a mere 250 miles. But now we were on the Arctic Highway which would take us to the Finnish frontier way above the Arctic Circle.
Vintage machinery
At a helpful Esso garage on the first part of the Arctic Highway, I found a 1928 Citroen being repaired. The car was in excellent condition, and the mechanic had successfully made some adjustment to the ignition system. The engine was ticking over sweetly as I talked to him. It turned out that the car had been owned since 1932 by a retired bus driver—is now 90 years old! And he still drives his car. While I was examining the Citroen, a model A Ford—vintage 1929—drew up for petrol. Its apparently original coachwork was in very reasonable condition, considering that the car was obviously in daily use by a market gardener. These two were the only vintage cars we managed to photograph in Norway, although we did pass a few elderly limousines being driven sedately along the gravel roads. But nearly all the cars on Norwegian roads are post-war, and small—V.W.s, Dauphines and Fiats by the score. Large cars are not popular, but Mercedes and Volvo lead the field.
Driving hard on the Arctic Highway
The first day on the Arctic Highway ended at a youth hostel after we had crossed the Dovre Plateau, an impressive drive through wild and desolate mountain country. The next day, Monday, we began to worry bout our time schedule. There were only 12 days left in which to do 1000 miles to the Russian frontier. That's less than 200 miles a day, but the AA recommend aiming for a maximum of 150 miles a day in Norway. So we decided to put in a little mileage, and covered 250 miles that day, despite continual showers that kept the road surface wet. The Alvis held the road remarkably well, and showed no tendency to break away at the back even when cornered hard on wet gravel. We were only able to spend a couple of hours in the old capital of Norway, Trondheim. With its fine old buildings in timber and stone, it escaped the wartime destruction that ruined so many Norwegian towns.
From Trondheim, the road winds along the beautiful Trondheim Fjord, and then climbs inland past Lake Snasa. The landscape is magnificently wild; and the road gets narrower. On the third day rain poured down continually. To add to our discomfort the brakes became very bad indeed—so bad that with full braking effort I could not produce a skid in the dirt. After a hundred miles of driving on the throttle alone I drove into a Shell garage in Mosjoën to make the necessary repair. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and intended to do it myself with no interference. They were very good.
Someone in the street spoke enough English to translate my request for equipment and my denial of any other help. Soon I had the front brakes stripped down, inserted the necessary packing piece between the brake shoe and the operating cam, and reassembled. By this time the English-speaking man had come back to translate for the local reporter who wanted to interview us and take pictures in the pouring rain. At last we got away—and discovered that my efforts had been virtually in vain. However we pressed on for another 75 miles to Mo-i-Rana, where we arrived as a mist came down from the mountains over a strange, still, dark lake guarded by trolls that turned into mysterious cranes on a pier.
Into Lapland
On the fourth day, we drove 270 miles through the complete range of Nordic scenery, from grotesque snow-capped peaks encircling bleak plateau through rich wood and farmland to the beautiful but disturbing fjord vistas. During the morning we crossed the Arctic Circle, marked by a rough-hewn chunk of granite, a line of white stones—and the inevitable Coca-Cola sign on a kiosk. It was hot enough for sweaters to be uncomfortable; it was another month and 3,000 miles before we were as warm again.
There are four ferries to cross between the Arctic Circle and our destination that night, the port of Narvik. The timetable showed that it should be possible to cross all four in one day. While waiting for the first ferry - an hour-long crossing—I discovered that the rear lamps slung from the luggage grid had been smashed, probably by flying stones. The temporary solution was simple. Switch on the red battery lamp on the Trobike, and we had emergency basic lighting. At the same time the starter motor began to whirr uselessly, refusing to engage. On the ferry I removed the motor and found that part of the Bendix drive had come adrift. I decided that, simple though it was, the repair could wait until we found a repair shop. We kept pace with a couple of V.W.s on the 70-mile run to the next ferry; during the 10-mile run to the third ferry I had to take the lead from the V.W.s in order to get there in the necessary 20 minutes. By this time it was dark and pouring with rain. The last run is 22 miles and there was an hour to catch the last ferry at 11 p.m., which was comparatively easy. When we drove into Narvik after one of the most satisfying day's motoring I've ever had, I was somewhat tired. Perhaps it is not surprising that a few scattered street lights confused me and I found myself driving along the railway which ran parallel with the road for a little way. By the time we'd sorted that out, and found the youth hostel closed, we were very grateful when the police in a V.W. guided us to a hotel and a very welcome bed.
In the morning a helpful B.P. garage provided a mechanic to help me fix the starter motor, refit the broken sump guard, and do a thorough service, as well as wash the car, at no charge. The mechanic had read of the famous Alvis victory at Brooklands in 1924, but he had no idea the marque was still in production. We set off in the sun for our last day along the Arctic Highway. Skibotn would be our northernmost point and we intended to camp there. The weather changed to rain as we completed 1,000 miles on the Arctic Highway: 1,000 miles of dirt roads, rain, the most magnificent scenery I'd seen. Soon we found ourselves on a wide well-made road that ran straight. Motoring happily along this most un-Norwegian road, we covered 20 miles until it began to get narrow and suddenly petered out in a grass track. Puzzled and cursing, we drove back to the twisty potholed Highway 50. 1 still don't know how the Norwegians managed to produce a road so good and so useless.
The pneumatic tent was put up for the first time that night at Skibotn. It was raining, of course, and as we left the door open for ventilation it blew a gale during the night. I woke up with my feet in a pool of water. It was very early that morning when we drove out of the mountains and across the border into Finland.
To be continued....see Part 2