By jove it was nippy on Blatherthwaite Moor at 7am, but a glorious, glorious place to be! Once the old girl’s lifeblood had warmed through and I could give the motor some stick, we were fairly flying. My eyes streamed and my leather helmet threatened lift-off as the sinews of the ancient way unwound at a cracking rate. Stupendous. Still snow in the hollows at 1500 feet, and the standing stone near Crosterbaggers End pointed a portentous finger through the swirls of low cloud, but what a way to travel, what pure joy!

Reaching ‘Conrod Straight’ ⁽²⁾, the sun’s orange orb seemed to be sitting upon the horizon, drawing me onward, willing me to go faster. Some say I should know better at my age, but who could resist a flat-out blast in such heaven?

Down went the loud pedal to the floorboards. Four and a half supercharged litres took up the challenge with a deep roar of satisfaction. 70mph, 80, 90… The double-O came up a mile or so before we had to slow for the sharp lefthander heralding the descent. Overshoot here and you will shortly be meeting your maker in the valley far below. Steeling myself, I kept my foot firm down. At 110 she faltered briefly before unleashing a few more horses and accelerating again. At 115mph my headgear surrendered to the slipstream and disappeared ⁽³⁾, bumps pounding through the chassis, wheels hardly in contact with the ground. I could barely see nor breathe, and Beattie was shaking fit to bust. My nerve finally gave out just shy of 120 ⁽⁴⁾, leaving precious little space to haul anchors down to 60, which is pretty well the maximum one might entertain here without inspecting the scenery on the exit from the lefthander.

It was as well we had the world to ourselves this morning, for I found myself unable to hold her on the nearside carriageway. After a certain amount of unplanned arm exercise, we emerged part sideways, but still heading more or less in the right direction. A prang would have been inevitable if anything else had been around. Moments later, Ronald D’s Minor chuffed into view, straining up the bank from Skagsdale, no doubt en route to Darrowby market. He smiled as we passed, but best not dwell on what might have happened if he had been a hundred yards farther up the road.

Heart was in my mouth for hours, so had every excuse to imbibe a stiff one or four in the R&C ⁽⁵⁾ at lunch. Arrived home glowing!

⁽¹⁾ Beattie, my beloved Bentley, BTT 40, rescued from the scrapman’s clutches in ’49. Not bad value for a fiver!

⁽²⁾ Thanks to Romans dead and gone, the road here runs true as an arrow for two miles. Our local speedy set nicknamed it Conrod Straight back in the Thirties, when we tested here before weekend meetings down at Donnington [sic. Although WdF’s spelling here is apparently in error, he insists that in pre-war days ‘Donnington’ was correct, so we leave the ms unaltered, as requested. Ed.]. I’m referring to the original Park circuit, of course, not that featureless runway they use now.

⁽³⁾ Sometime around 1963, Dick Barucco had a spot of bother with his ’59 XK up on Conrod and was obliged to stop for some roadside wrenching, to use a dreadful Americanism. While pondering how to stem the flow of petrol from his front SU, he happened to catch sight of a rather battered object nearby in the ling. Yes, it was my old flying helmet, somewhat the worse for wear, but eminently fit for further service. One always took care to fasten the straps securely after that incident!

⁽⁴⁾ My old friend T.E. Lawrence always maintained that his Broughs would go 5mph faster for him than anyone else because they loved him. Fanciful fool though he could be, perhaps there was something in it?

⁽⁵⁾ The Rook & Cauliflower, then one of the most charming hostelries in the area, now yet another identikit ‘lager and chips’ establishment, I’m sorry to say.