I've got a few mixed feelings about this one, but here we go anyway.
I'd never been on the Brighton Breeze (which for those what don't know, is basically a London to Brighton run for those with VWs, preferably of an aircooled persuasion and even more preferably of a bus style flavour, though all are welcome). I'd never had a working aircooled VW of my own before. I'd seen it roll into town a couple of times, usually when I'd been at work... which is even more depressing than missing it altogether... and wistfully thought what a great spectacle it makes. Thing is, it sells out really quickly due to the destination at Madeira Drive being quite small, especially when most of what you're trying to park up is bus-sized. So I made it a mission right at the beginning of the show season to book up tickets (and roped in a couple of Beetleista mates) as that would ensure I had the Beetle running. I hate wasted something I've pre-paid for
well, of course when it came round to it, the Beetle was in a thousand pieces, but in my defense, it wasn't totally my fault. I mean, yes, I was the one who took it apart but I should have had time to put it back together again in time to make it's new-look debut on the Breeze. What I wasn't banking on was Mrs L7 going in for what should have been fairly routine surgery and then getting sepsis and pneumonia and spending weeks in hospital. Coupled with heinous shift work and two small kids, this obviously cut down rather significantly on my ability to spend hours in the garage gluing the car back together. It looked like we weren't going to make it after all, and to be fair I was vacillating over whether it'd be considered poor form to go gadding off into the sunrise with the kids while Mrs L7 was on a drip in hospital. I mean, I'm not totally sociopathic
As it turned out, at the eleventh hour Mrs L7 rallied enough to be let out ofprison hospital and her mother came down from her mountain on the high Staffs moors to lend a hand. And they both insisted me and the kids deserved a break and the day out would be the perfect remedy to the stress of the last two weeks. It had been hard work... obviously nothing like what Mrs L7 had to put up with... but basically if I wasn't at work or "doing" kids, I was trying optimistically to get the Beetle finished in some vain hope we'd still make it. Maybe it was my way of coping, diverting focus. Anyway, it didn't leave a lot of time for, like, food. Or sleep.
So, we had a day pass. But there just wasn't time to get the Beetle done. Fortunately, we had Beryl. Who? I hear you ask. Good question. Meet Beryl;
Beryl and friend by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
That's her on the left. She's the last of the aircooled T25s, which I largely bought by accident earlier in the year and haven't yet got round to writing a thread about. Not my precious Beetle, but an aircooled VW nonetheless, and hopefully a two-litre type 4 engine ought to make the cruise a little bit less frenetic than the 1200 Beetle type 1. And the kids would have more space. Winning! We packed up provisions, and made for a five am alarm call in order to make the Epsom meeting point. Whatsapped my associates full of excitement to let them know we were back in the game. MFP style
That was where things started to go wrong, really. Or... more wrong. "Meet you there" was basically the short reply... both the others lived a lot nearer Epsom than us, I suppose. But the organisers (the incomparable Split Screen Van Club) had put in no uncertain terms on the promo stuff that on arrival, you'd be marshalled in the order you turn up. So if we didn't turn up together, we wouldn't be leaving together. No-one seemed too interested in this information, which was a bit of a disappointment to the kids as they'd been looking forward to a mini-VW convoy. Oh well, off we set through a very foggy pre-dawn and then things went more wrong.
Sorry, I know this is a lot of words. There'll be plenty of pictures later, those with a short attention span feel free to scroll down. In the meanwhile, those stalwarts of the story have a bonus picture of why the Beetle wasn't an option;
floor cleaning by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Still here? Cool. So, more wrong then. We stopped at a services for soss an hegg McMuffins, only to find it was currently a building site, refitting it to put in those touchscreen order things so all the staff can be laid off in favour of machines. Oh well, need petrol anyway. Fill tank. Beryl won't start. Really won't start, just churning over and over. No tools. Pitch black, building site, middle of nowhere. Flooded? Maybe. But it doesn't help, how can I de-flood it in the dark with no tools or anything?
Two very helpful Polish builders from the site offer to help and try manfully to bumpstart a ton and a half of bus. Nope. All that achieves is we end up at the bottom of the hill without even the lights of the petrol station to help. Oh well, we didn't make it after all *sigh* Despair sets in... it's been a trying few days and the look of stoic disappointment on the kid's faces is tough to take. Swallow pride and lump in throat. Phone the RAC.
"We'll have a patrol to you by ten a.m, sir."
A patrol? Not recovery, but a man in a van. It's 06:15. I'm in a dead van, in a building site, in the dark, no heat, two small children. That's four #%$£@ing hours.
"Yes sir. Sorry sir. We don't have anyone nearby."
We're within fifteen miles of Horsham, Crawley, Worthing and Brighton... the largest population density in the South of England outside London. WT actual F!?
"Don't swear at him, Dad" pipes up the Boy from the back of the bus. Despair is burned away by RAGE
So, instead, I swore at the van. A lot. And I got out, had a fag, and kicked her. A lot.
And whaddya know? She fired right up
Back in the game, again 
I don't think the gas pedal left the mat all the way from there to Epsom, and we made it with quarter of an hour to spare, right at the back of the marshaling area. And what a sight!
Arriving by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
All sorts of cool-as iron was rolling up through the foggy chilly dawn, not that you could tell the sun was coming up. The mist bleached everything out and made it somehow more magical and amazing.
Splitties in the mist by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
What seemed like hundreds of achingly cool and original VWs were lined up in phalanxes and ranks, waiting the signal to cry havoc and let slip in the sepulchral gloom. You got the distinct feeling you were part of something very special indeed
Near time by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
The organsiation of the SSVC is astonishing; within a slim minute, we were checked in, given our rally pack, and marshalled up in line. The pack contains everything you'll need all in a groovy one-off commemorative logo bag; stickers and magnets and a rally plaque for the front of the van... even two pre-cut bits of string to tie it on with. And our commemorative T-shirts, of course, which the li'l un immediately modelled
T-shirt model by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
We barely had time to scoot along between the ranks of dubs and find our erstwhile wingmen, right near the front of the pack. I tried to organise meeting up once we were out of the gates, but this proved hard work. We could maybe meet at Pease Pottage services halfway there? "Never heard of it" was the unpromising response. "We'll just go slowly so you can catch up."
This didn't sound like a very promising tactic to me since we were separated by 70% of the entrants, but there wasn't time to argue. We scarcely had time to tie the rally plaque to the front of Beryl (and fortunately, a rear-engined aircooled bus has a frontal grille to tie stuff to... dunno why
but handy). All around the excitement was tangible, people craning to get a view forwards and hoping for the signal to go
Watching and Waiting by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
"Five minutes to go!" came the cry of the marshals from up in front. Drivers are starting their engines, passengers packing away the last of their camping things, jumping in. The field echoes to the sound of sliding doors slamming and the fweem (google it) of hundreds of aircoolers coughing into life.
Start your engines by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
I gave the camera to the Boy in the passenger seat, trepidatious now in case Beryl decides to disgrace herself again and not start. Should I have left her running when we pulled up? This would be a disaster now, to come so close and fail at the last minute. Too late now. She starts.
Phew. The boy celebrates by taking a photo of our duck
The D A by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
He took a lot of photos of the duck, some on purpose, some accidental. But up ahead a constant stream of vehicles is leaving the field, heading for hopefully better weather by the coast. We see Beryl's spiritual older sister leave
And they're off by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
and soon enough it's our turn, out of the gates and onto the damp, dripping highway for the South. We're bang in the middle of an epic convoy of vans, buses, campers and cars of every flavour and colour. It's great as we whizz along between the hedges and the Boy entertains himself taking surprisingly arty pics, often in the mirror
Mirror moves by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Then we arrive at the queue to get through the lights onto the Chessington road. It's a four-way and only cycles ten or so vehicles each way before changing. Any hope of catching up to our ertswhile mates is pretty much gone. Looks like we're on our own. Except we're not
Queuing by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Finally we get through the traffic lights from Hell and we're out onto the M25, round to the M23 and the road towards home.... well, Brighton but it often seems with work I spend more time there than at home ten miles down the coast anyway. Still cursed with the blind optimism and pig-headed stubbornness that got us here at all despite all the obstacles fate strewed in our path, I set as fast a pace as Beryl will allow* in an attempt to catch up our convoy.The Boy takes many photos. A lot of them aren't that good. Some of them are amazingly funky!
* Hint; it's not fast
Beetle vignette by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
We catch a few other puddles and clumps of VWs on our headlong charge. Poor ol' Beryl has probably never held such sustained speed for so long... although it must be said that on an aircooled T25 "speed" means "sometimes attaining the national speed limit, given a long enough hill. More usually about 60". It still felt cool, a real sense of being in something great and funky pervaded and the "normals" in their Euro-compliant econoboxes waved and smiled as each knot of VWs went past their dismal worldview
Brighton bound by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Passing Pease Pottage was a bit poignant. There was no point in pulling in. For reasons I'm still at a loss to explain, we'd been well and truly ditched. Down the following (and now straightened) Handcross Hill we caught a glimpse of a pale Beetle going up the other side and managed to get Beryl up to what I suspect is terminal velocity for an old bus... certainly she shook about a bit in disgust at being made to behave in such an unladylike fashion, a gentle shimmy through what we'll optimistically call the "steering" as if to remind us she's an old lady of 37 now and doesn't like to press on.
Bays on the way by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Needless to say, when we finally caught the Beetle up it wasn't the one we'd thought and we were pretty much into Brighton.
Beetles en route by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
THe SSVC request on the route packs that vans and cars take different routes into the City, one via the Deans, the other via Hove (actually... local joke) in order to avoid causing havoc to the centre of town. We trundled down from the Dyke road onto the Prom and arrived alone past the skeletal remains of the West Pier
Arrival two by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
The marshaling in Brighton by the SSVC was just as excellent as it had been in epsom and they made short work of getting us all filed down onto Madeira Drive and parked up. And there, in the queue five vehicles ahead were our "mates" who'd left us behind. We'd almost caught them. Good ol' Beryl. It was academic by then really, but after her shaky start it was almost as if the old bus had tried to prove some point of principle.
And so, several hours after it should have happened, we sat down and had breakfast.
breakfast of champions by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Had all the stress and disappointment been worth it?
United colours by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Well, yeah, I should say so! How often do you have a view like that out of the window as you're having breakfast?
And now I've got to throw another coat of paint on Beryl's replacement door so when I get back we'll have a look around and see what else managed to make it down to the seaside
I'd never been on the Brighton Breeze (which for those what don't know, is basically a London to Brighton run for those with VWs, preferably of an aircooled persuasion and even more preferably of a bus style flavour, though all are welcome). I'd never had a working aircooled VW of my own before. I'd seen it roll into town a couple of times, usually when I'd been at work... which is even more depressing than missing it altogether... and wistfully thought what a great spectacle it makes. Thing is, it sells out really quickly due to the destination at Madeira Drive being quite small, especially when most of what you're trying to park up is bus-sized. So I made it a mission right at the beginning of the show season to book up tickets (and roped in a couple of Beetleista mates) as that would ensure I had the Beetle running. I hate wasted something I've pre-paid for
well, of course when it came round to it, the Beetle was in a thousand pieces, but in my defense, it wasn't totally my fault. I mean, yes, I was the one who took it apart but I should have had time to put it back together again in time to make it's new-look debut on the Breeze. What I wasn't banking on was Mrs L7 going in for what should have been fairly routine surgery and then getting sepsis and pneumonia and spending weeks in hospital. Coupled with heinous shift work and two small kids, this obviously cut down rather significantly on my ability to spend hours in the garage gluing the car back together. It looked like we weren't going to make it after all, and to be fair I was vacillating over whether it'd be considered poor form to go gadding off into the sunrise with the kids while Mrs L7 was on a drip in hospital. I mean, I'm not totally sociopathic
As it turned out, at the eleventh hour Mrs L7 rallied enough to be let out of
So, we had a day pass. But there just wasn't time to get the Beetle done. Fortunately, we had Beryl. Who? I hear you ask. Good question. Meet Beryl;
Beryl and friend by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
That's her on the left. She's the last of the aircooled T25s, which I largely bought by accident earlier in the year and haven't yet got round to writing a thread about. Not my precious Beetle, but an aircooled VW nonetheless, and hopefully a two-litre type 4 engine ought to make the cruise a little bit less frenetic than the 1200 Beetle type 1. And the kids would have more space. Winning! We packed up provisions, and made for a five am alarm call in order to make the Epsom meeting point. Whatsapped my associates full of excitement to let them know we were back in the game. MFP style
That was where things started to go wrong, really. Or... more wrong. "Meet you there" was basically the short reply... both the others lived a lot nearer Epsom than us, I suppose. But the organisers (the incomparable Split Screen Van Club) had put in no uncertain terms on the promo stuff that on arrival, you'd be marshalled in the order you turn up. So if we didn't turn up together, we wouldn't be leaving together. No-one seemed too interested in this information, which was a bit of a disappointment to the kids as they'd been looking forward to a mini-VW convoy. Oh well, off we set through a very foggy pre-dawn and then things went more wrong.
Sorry, I know this is a lot of words. There'll be plenty of pictures later, those with a short attention span feel free to scroll down. In the meanwhile, those stalwarts of the story have a bonus picture of why the Beetle wasn't an option;
floor cleaning by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Still here? Cool. So, more wrong then. We stopped at a services for soss an hegg McMuffins, only to find it was currently a building site, refitting it to put in those touchscreen order things so all the staff can be laid off in favour of machines. Oh well, need petrol anyway. Fill tank. Beryl won't start. Really won't start, just churning over and over. No tools. Pitch black, building site, middle of nowhere. Flooded? Maybe. But it doesn't help, how can I de-flood it in the dark with no tools or anything?
Two very helpful Polish builders from the site offer to help and try manfully to bumpstart a ton and a half of bus. Nope. All that achieves is we end up at the bottom of the hill without even the lights of the petrol station to help. Oh well, we didn't make it after all *sigh* Despair sets in... it's been a trying few days and the look of stoic disappointment on the kid's faces is tough to take. Swallow pride and lump in throat. Phone the RAC.
"We'll have a patrol to you by ten a.m, sir."
A patrol? Not recovery, but a man in a van. It's 06:15. I'm in a dead van, in a building site, in the dark, no heat, two small children. That's four #%$£@ing hours.
"Yes sir. Sorry sir. We don't have anyone nearby."
We're within fifteen miles of Horsham, Crawley, Worthing and Brighton... the largest population density in the South of England outside London. WT actual F!?
"Don't swear at him, Dad" pipes up the Boy from the back of the bus. Despair is burned away by RAGE
So, instead, I swore at the van. A lot. And I got out, had a fag, and kicked her. A lot.
And whaddya know? She fired right up
Back in the game, again 
I don't think the gas pedal left the mat all the way from there to Epsom, and we made it with quarter of an hour to spare, right at the back of the marshaling area. And what a sight!Arriving by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
All sorts of cool-as iron was rolling up through the foggy chilly dawn, not that you could tell the sun was coming up. The mist bleached everything out and made it somehow more magical and amazing.
Splitties in the mist by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
What seemed like hundreds of achingly cool and original VWs were lined up in phalanxes and ranks, waiting the signal to cry havoc and let slip in the sepulchral gloom. You got the distinct feeling you were part of something very special indeed
Near time by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
The organsiation of the SSVC is astonishing; within a slim minute, we were checked in, given our rally pack, and marshalled up in line. The pack contains everything you'll need all in a groovy one-off commemorative logo bag; stickers and magnets and a rally plaque for the front of the van... even two pre-cut bits of string to tie it on with. And our commemorative T-shirts, of course, which the li'l un immediately modelled
T-shirt model by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
We barely had time to scoot along between the ranks of dubs and find our erstwhile wingmen, right near the front of the pack. I tried to organise meeting up once we were out of the gates, but this proved hard work. We could maybe meet at Pease Pottage services halfway there? "Never heard of it" was the unpromising response. "We'll just go slowly so you can catch up."
This didn't sound like a very promising tactic to me since we were separated by 70% of the entrants, but there wasn't time to argue. We scarcely had time to tie the rally plaque to the front of Beryl (and fortunately, a rear-engined aircooled bus has a frontal grille to tie stuff to... dunno why
but handy). All around the excitement was tangible, people craning to get a view forwards and hoping for the signal to goWatching and Waiting by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
"Five minutes to go!" came the cry of the marshals from up in front. Drivers are starting their engines, passengers packing away the last of their camping things, jumping in. The field echoes to the sound of sliding doors slamming and the fweem (google it) of hundreds of aircoolers coughing into life.
Start your engines by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
I gave the camera to the Boy in the passenger seat, trepidatious now in case Beryl decides to disgrace herself again and not start. Should I have left her running when we pulled up? This would be a disaster now, to come so close and fail at the last minute. Too late now. She starts.
Phew. The boy celebrates by taking a photo of our duck
The D A by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
He took a lot of photos of the duck, some on purpose, some accidental. But up ahead a constant stream of vehicles is leaving the field, heading for hopefully better weather by the coast. We see Beryl's spiritual older sister leave
And they're off by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
and soon enough it's our turn, out of the gates and onto the damp, dripping highway for the South. We're bang in the middle of an epic convoy of vans, buses, campers and cars of every flavour and colour. It's great as we whizz along between the hedges and the Boy entertains himself taking surprisingly arty pics, often in the mirror
Mirror moves by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Then we arrive at the queue to get through the lights onto the Chessington road. It's a four-way and only cycles ten or so vehicles each way before changing. Any hope of catching up to our ertswhile mates is pretty much gone. Looks like we're on our own. Except we're not
Queuing by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Finally we get through the traffic lights from Hell and we're out onto the M25, round to the M23 and the road towards home.... well, Brighton but it often seems with work I spend more time there than at home ten miles down the coast anyway. Still cursed with the blind optimism and pig-headed stubbornness that got us here at all despite all the obstacles fate strewed in our path, I set as fast a pace as Beryl will allow* in an attempt to catch up our convoy.The Boy takes many photos. A lot of them aren't that good. Some of them are amazingly funky!
* Hint; it's not fast
Beetle vignette by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
We catch a few other puddles and clumps of VWs on our headlong charge. Poor ol' Beryl has probably never held such sustained speed for so long... although it must be said that on an aircooled T25 "speed" means "sometimes attaining the national speed limit, given a long enough hill. More usually about 60". It still felt cool, a real sense of being in something great and funky pervaded and the "normals" in their Euro-compliant econoboxes waved and smiled as each knot of VWs went past their dismal worldview
Brighton bound by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Passing Pease Pottage was a bit poignant. There was no point in pulling in. For reasons I'm still at a loss to explain, we'd been well and truly ditched. Down the following (and now straightened) Handcross Hill we caught a glimpse of a pale Beetle going up the other side and managed to get Beryl up to what I suspect is terminal velocity for an old bus... certainly she shook about a bit in disgust at being made to behave in such an unladylike fashion, a gentle shimmy through what we'll optimistically call the "steering" as if to remind us she's an old lady of 37 now and doesn't like to press on.
Bays on the way by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Needless to say, when we finally caught the Beetle up it wasn't the one we'd thought and we were pretty much into Brighton.
Beetles en route by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
THe SSVC request on the route packs that vans and cars take different routes into the City, one via the Deans, the other via Hove (actually... local joke) in order to avoid causing havoc to the centre of town. We trundled down from the Dyke road onto the Prom and arrived alone past the skeletal remains of the West Pier
Arrival two by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
The marshaling in Brighton by the SSVC was just as excellent as it had been in epsom and they made short work of getting us all filed down onto Madeira Drive and parked up. And there, in the queue five vehicles ahead were our "mates" who'd left us behind. We'd almost caught them. Good ol' Beryl. It was academic by then really, but after her shaky start it was almost as if the old bus had tried to prove some point of principle.
And so, several hours after it should have happened, we sat down and had breakfast.
breakfast of champions by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Had all the stress and disappointment been worth it?
United colours by Nick Liassides, on Flickr
Well, yeah, I should say so! How often do you have a view like that out of the window as you're having breakfast?
And now I've got to throw another coat of paint on Beryl's replacement door so when I get back we'll have a look around and see what else managed to make it down to the seaside
