More than 30,000 tourists walked past my kitchen window in 2019. Downton Abbey was filmed in Bampton and the library did duty as the Cottage Hospital. Our cottage – perhaps ten yards over the narrow lane from the library – featured too, although only in passing.
I should have realised that attempting to use a train to travel anywhere more complicated than London was a mistake.
We booked tickets to go to Cornwall this weekend. All peachy – only a small second mortgage required. Now we discover (because we checked – not because anyone thought to tell us) that the train times have changed.
Even better – there aren’t any trains for much of the journey. Instead, there are buses. And there are few things that strike more fear into the heart than the words ‘rail replacement bus’.
Not only that, but there are actually no trains at all at the station we need to get back to on Sunday. Continue reading
As well as the day job and a bit of scribbling about watches, I work with the splendid Speakers for Schools organisation. In February ’17, John Marston, the headteacher at St. Birinus school in Didcot invited me to speak to some of his students. I talked to them about how important it is to fail intelligently. In October John asked me back to present the prizes and school colours – and give a speech – at the school awards evening.
The irony was far from lost on me. I was a sod at school. Not an endearing, cheeky chappie type sod but a nasty, difficult little sod. My teachers would have been very glad Continue reading
Oh, look – MMC’s posting pictures of watches again. Yes, it’s a rather nice GW-5000, the one with the proper screwdown back and metal inner case (G-Shock nerds only need apply). But it’s the time on the screen that’s significant, not the watch.
On 10 December last year, just before 10am, I was away with the fairies as surgeon Mr Tristan Barton, quite literally, screwed my leg back together after I’d bust it in three places. I’d rather stupidly fallen down some concrete steps near the Continue reading
At this time of year, for me, as the temperature goes down and the decorations go up, there’s always a ‘Carols for Choirs’ shaped gap.
As a six year old boy treble and then as a young counter tenor and bass, the weeks from September onwards meant only one thing – Christmas.
The run up to Christmas Day was linked together with a paperchain of rehearsals, concerts, services and carols. Learning new music, and adding more pencil marks to the annually-distributed copies of Carols for Choirs as we polished well-sung, familiar arrangements.
Before the bright and church-rammed Christmas morning service, there was the far more magical Midnight mass. As trebles in a market town parish church that fancied itself a cathedral, with choral standards to match, each of us hoped we would be Continue reading
Electric cars need to be plugged in every now and then. But what do you do if you haven’t got a driveway?
As the countryside around Bampton fills with huge new housing estates and commuters, even the lanes that lead to major routes are rammed in rush hour. Traffic on the A40 is moving so slowly that the County Council are rumoured to be considering parking meters. We could do with the railway back again (we even used to have a station – fancy!), but there’s little chance of resurrection.
And car pollution is back on the agenda. Specifically diesel pollution from private cars. Politicians seem to think this is different diesel than the stuff used in domestic heating, lorries, trains, buses (peace be upon them) and taxis. Continue reading
I’ve not worked as an advertising copywriter since June 2013. I’m rather relieved about this. A recent Twitter post about difficult clients reminded me why, so I dredged this out of my ‘drafts’ folder. It’s a piece I wrote in March 2008 to try and illustrate why the traditional client/agency relationship in advertising was (and still is) screwed.
Imagine the scene…
Opens on a smart, glass-walled City lawyer’s office. Two people sit facing each other over a meeting table. They are lawyer and client.
Lawyer: “Now, Mr Client. Here’s the contract for the transaction. We’ve spent the last week working on it and it’s pretty much perfect. You’ll get the company, the buildings and the staff. They get £3.5m over five years, that’s what we agreed.”
Client: “Thanks – that’s great Mr Lawyer. Where do I sign?”
Now. Imagine another scene…
Opens on a smart, glass-walled advertising agency’s office. Two people sit facing each other over a meeting table. They are copywriter and client.
Designer: “Now, Mr Client. Here’s the copy and design for this year’s press ad campaign. We’ve spent the last week on it, tested it with customers and it’s pretty much perfect. You’ll get…”
Client (interrupting): “I don’t like green.” Continue reading
241 years ago today, John Harrison, one of Britain’s finest clockmakers died. He left behind designs for a clock that makes the accuracy of that quartz watch on your wrist look pretty average.
Chances are, your quartz will be be reasonably sharp. Probably just +/- 15 seconds a month. Not shabby, given the low price of a mainstream quartz. If you have a modern mechanical watch, +/- 15 seconds a day would be normal. Still impressive, particularly with a balance wheel inside that has to revolve nearly 700,000 times each day.
But how about John Harrison’s pendulum clock built from a set of 241 year old plans? How long would it take to gain or lose a second? Just to make the question more interesting, imagine it was designed by a man who’d started life as a rural carpenter who made his first clock out of wood. Then imagine he’d decided not to lubricate the mechanism either.
How accurate would a clock like that be over 100 days?
This is Clock B, made by clockmaker Martin Burgess from John Harrison’s pendulum clock theory. Harrison was the eighteenth century English clockmaker who should have won the Admiralty’s Longitude Prize and pretty much invented the accurate marine timekeeper. In January this year Clock B finally vindicated its designer’s 1774 claim that he could design a pendulum timepiece that was accurate to within a second over 100 days.
Harrison was living proof that you need more than talent to get on in life. He endured knockback after knockback throughout his 63 year career. The British Admiralty picked fault with each of his chronometers. Rivals criticised his work and publicly undermined him. And his final assertions that his pendulum clock with his own grasshopper escapement could be accurate to a second in a hundred days were met with derision.
Little wonder that his snappily titled final work, “A description concerning such mechanism as will afford a nice, or True mensuration of time”, was so bitter. Later clockmakers referred to it as “…the ramblings of superannuated dotage.”
Two things in Harrison’s background seem to have combined to make him a remarkable and innovative clockmaker. First, he was – in effect – a natural materials scientist. He’s often portrayed as ‘just’ a rural carpenter, but that understates his affinity for, and experience with, the materials he used.
Rory McEvoy, Curator of Horology at Greenwich and a Harrison expert, explains, “Take the way he used metals in H3, his third marine chronometer. The brass gear wheels in the movement are wide and very lightly made, yet they’re perfectly true. If you or I tried to produce wheels like that, with the inherent tensions within an untreated sheet of brass, we’d end up with something shaped like a crisp.”
Not only this, but Harrison instinctively understood the need to reduce – and even remove – lubricants from clock mechanisms. As McEvoy explains, “Oil was the Achilles heel of any clock or watch. Harrison did away with lubrication altogether in his pendulum clocks and large timekeepers.” Modern watchmakers are still trying to find ways to do this.
Second, he was self-taught. That meant that he was able to think outside contemporary clockmaking practice. As McEvoy explains it, “Harrison came at things from a different angle, almost from first principles. He wasn’t indoctrinated with current watchmaking ideas.”
It was this fresh thinking that led to the plans for Clock A, an ultra-accurate pendulum clock, being realised by clockmaker Martin Burgess.
Clock A was commissioned from Burgess in 1975 by the Gurney family, a Norwich banking family. Completed in 1987 (proving you can’t rush good clockmaking) they gave the clock as a gift to the city of Norwich where it ticked happily in a local shopping centre, the Castle Mall, until it was removed in 2015. Burgess had also started another Harrison pendulum clock, Clock B, but not finished it. The parts for the clock gathered dust on a shelf in Burgess’ workshop until 1993.
In 1993, he delivered a paper at a Harvard horology symposium where he talked about the ‘scandalous neglect’ of Harrison’s work in pendulum clock innovation – and, crucially, mentioned Clock B. Art historian and clock collector Donald Saff read the paper, tracked him down and persuaded him to sell him the unassembled and unfinished Clock B. Saff then commissioned English clockmaker Charles Frodsham to complete the project.
Once the clock was completed in 2014, it attracted the sort of attention from horologists that premier league footballers would be familiar with. They began studying the clock in March 2014 and how it worked…
It quickly became clear that Clock B was something very special indeed. McEvoy continues, “We looked at the behaviour of Clock B very deeply, and we found that any fluctuations in its timekeeping were cyclical. In other words, they weren’t a problem because they were wholly predictable.” So although the clock’s timekeeping varied by a few fractions of a second, in effect, it evened itself out.
Finally, to determine whether Harrison’s words were indeed “…the symptoms of insanity” as The London Review of English and Foreign Literature suggested, Clock B was sealed in a perspex case in January 2014 and trialled for 100 days.
To ensure there was no horological tinkering, the National Physical Laboratory and Worshipful Company of Clockmakers oversaw the trials. At the start, Harrison’s B clock was running a quarter second behind GMT. After 100 days of running, it was a mere 5/8ths of a second behind.
Guinness World Records have confirmed Clock B as the “most accurate mechanical clock with a pendulum swinging in free air.” But that bald description understates the achievements of both Harrison and Burgess. This is a clock that is so accurate, its curator was able to measure the impact of barometric pressure on its going. “As the barometer moved up, so the clock slowed down with air density,” explains Rory McEvoy. ‘When we adjusted the clock to take barometric pressure into account, it was 96% accurate. On most clocks, you wouldn’t even notice the error, let alone be able to correct it. We don’t see this sort of accuracy until at least 150 years after Harrison’s death.”
You’d think that with pin-sharp accuracy like this, Clock B would be a horological prima donna, throwing timekeeping tantrums if it was stopped or started. But not so, says McEvoy, “Once it’s adjusted, Clock B is remarkably stable. You can stop and start it without any problems.”
So why did Harrison do it? Why did he persist until almost the day he died in developing, defending and promoting pendulum clocks? He had a vision that, one day, every port would have a public pendulum clock, accurate to within fractions of a second, for mariners to set their marine chronometers by. This would mean they were able to calculate their position at sea to within a few nautical miles, thus missing shoals, sandbanks and rocks. Harrison realised that accurate timekeeping wasn’t just a theory, it was a lifesaving practice.
So, today, the 24th of March, raise a glass to Mr Harrison’s 241st anniversary. A remarkable man very much ahead of his time. This year, take a trip to Greenwich and take a look at Harrison’s other remarkable marine chronometers – it’s well worth the visit.
There weren’t many better places to enjoy clear, blue sky and things with engines than Brooklands last Saturday. It must have been a study for the English country idyll in 1906 when Hugh Locke King (the chap who owned most of Weybridge) decided to build the world’s first motor racing track on his fields and woods.
All the best ideas need a bottle or two.
Like most good ideas, it was hatched over several bottles, a good supper and some good pals. And, despite a conspicuous lack of key performance indicators, service level agreements and “official” suppliers of branded anything, it became the crucible that produced British motorsport and British aviation.
Take Selwyn Francis Edge, a businessman, car importer and noted motoring enthusiast. Even before the track was open, he decided that he would set a record for driving at 60mph over 24 hours. That was an impressive ambition in the days when cars broke more than they ran and injured their drivers about as often.
Mr Edge and the Napier.
Mr Edge planned to use his seven-and-a-quarter litre Napier with a heady 60bhp, on tyres barely wider than a motorcycle’s, and establish the record over the night of 28 – 29 June. He would start at 6 o’clock in the evening, so he’d still be alert when darkness fell.
The feat meant hustling a car that only its good friends would have described as ‘overpowered’ and ‘skittish’ around a banked concrete oval of 2.75 miles for 24 hours. With acetylene headlights needing – shall we say – a little help, it meant lighting the edge of the nighttime track with lanterns and flares. And it meant sitting on a seat that was really a green buttoned-leather club chair. With brakes that looked better than they stopped – and they weren’t pretty. Oh, and it rained all night. One leading doctor told Edge he’d either die of exhaustion or be driven mad through boredom.
To give a little context, just thirteen years earlier the first motor race had been run from Paris to Rouen. The winner’s average speed? 10.7mph. Although that would now get you a speeding ticket in parts of Islington, back in 1894 it was hailed as a huge achievement.
Mr Edge’s record?
Edge smashed the Paris-Rouen speed and covered 1,581 miles and 1,310 yards of Brooklands track at an average speed of 66mph, near as dammit. That’s an average 66mph. If you think that doesn’t sound very fast, check the average speed display on your modern car – bet it doesn’t say much more than 48mph.
To get a sense of what it must have been like, try steering a wheelchair down the Stelvio pass – blindfolded – while people drench you with fire hoses.
That’s the sort of place Brooklands is. It reeks of history. Still. They made Wellington bombers here (2,500 of them), Sopwiths and Hurricanes too. The Royal Flying Corps’ 1, 8, 9 and 10 Squadrons had their homes on the in-field. Hugh Dowding (he of “Dowding Spread” machine gun harmonisation fame) learned to fly at Brooklands. You can still smell the 100 octane and cordite.
I’d gone to see some of the cars in Historics’ June auction. There were some real beauties. And a couple I rather fancied. An Amazon 121 combi (that’s the shooting brake version of mine), a little Alfa 1300 Junior, a proper Rover P4 and a T1 Bentley (really a Shadow that reeks just a little less of cheap cigars and sheepskin). Also, to demonstrate what a taste-setter I am, a Rolls Carmargue – they’re soon going to be seriously hot property, mark my words. And a couple of BMW 635CSis.
The auction was fascinating. There were serious dealers with every other catalogue page clogged with Post-Its. There were dilettantes like me, with more hope than expectation. And there were chaps in scruffy jeans with 18ct gold Submariners who, I suspect, owned some of the more exotic kit on offer.
The auctioneers had a perfect line in cynical, slightly combative patter. To a buyer offering a £100 increase “Ah, a squeak. I see we now have a mouse-bidder” and, to another reluctantly plodding bidder, “I asked you for £50,000 twenty minutes ago and now you’ve just bid £50,000. You could have saved me the time, couldn’t you?” All splendidly good natured.
The first lot of the day – bits of a Bentley 3 1/2 that the uninitiated would use to make a garden shed – was expertly auctioneered up to just over £1,100. A white Bentley Continental R with under 50k on the clock sold for under £25k. Even if it was lard-white, that’s still insanely cheap for a soft top Bentley. A Noble Ferrari 330 P4 replica with a £30k reserve hit just over the target – which may have been bargain of the day. And a Delorean DMC-12 with barely delivery mileage and the factory papers still in the window clocked up a busting £57,120.
As a Z3M headed north of £17,000 I decided I’d stick with the Amazon. But my Carmargue didn’t sell, so there’s always August’s sale…
The Brooklands the council wanted rid of.
So I left the chaps with wads of fifties that could choke a racehorse and went to look at the other Brooklands – the banking and the airfield. There’s not much of it left now after decades of development and incursion from the surrounding area. But the finishing straight is still there, with the WWII air-raid shelter off to the right. And the Members’ Bridge and banking. A very special place.
On a summer Saturday I was expecting it to be packed. Instead, I had it to myself.
I walked in the sun up past the old Bofors gun towers and a soon-to-be restored AC Aceca and, simply by strolling through a gap between a couple of barriers, I was there on the pitted, concrete track. I soaked up more sunshine as I walked what’s left of its length. Without doubt, this is the most important and significant piece of motor racing heritage in the world.
This was where motorsport records started.
Men and women with more ability than sense hurled unstable, overpowered and underbraked machinery round with little regard to their own mortality. Courage like that seeps into the stone.
A couple of other solitary pilgrims were walking by now. One father was telling his increasingly wide-eyed son about Birkin and Barnato’s Bentley Blower No1. I walked on, thinking that it must have been a wonderful, if closed, world for those fortunate enough to be part of it.
What would they have thought?
I sat down on what would have passed for a crash barrier and thought about how important this few square metres of racetrack are to British motorsport and aviation. And then about the chain-shop retail park that now sits at its south western corner, thanks to the local council’s decision to trade motor racing history for cash in the 1980s. And the risk-assessed, compliance and procurement-controlled corporate offices within its ambit.
And I wondered what Edge, Barnato, Dame Ethel Locke King, 84mph Joan Richmond and 143.44mph John Cobb in his 24 Litre Napier-Railton would make of it.
Not very much, I suspect. But then they’d probably have taken the same view of an ex-comprehensive school lad from a rather different sort of estate hanging around their track.
Progress ain’t always a bad thing.
December 18th. Nick Whitelock sat at his desk by the window and looked out as the cold, winter rain tracked its way down the pane. “Sleet, more like.” he thought to himself. He was, as usual, the last one in the office. The rest of them would be in the Arms by now, backs to the log fire and pints in hand, an anticipatory celebration of the Christmas holidays.
He looked down as his phone buzzed.
“Nick Whitelock.” That was it. No greeting, no fuss. That was Nick.
“Nick – it’s Sarah from Field Cottage. Can’t talk long – but I’ve been let down and I’ve tried everyone else. Can you be village Santa for the switch-on tonight?”
Ashleigh was only a small village, two-and-a-half-thousand souls, but it had it’s own little supermarket, a proper butcher, a post office and, Continue reading