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Introduction

For those of you who have not previously had the misfortune to meet me my name is Dominic Beesley. About nine months ago I sat staring blankly and painfully at my computer screen in the office, trying to decide whether to read my emails, check through my favourite websites or actually even maybe even to do somthing constructive; the pain being due to a rather unpleasant hangover. This was combined with the temerity of one of my colleagues to speak to me before I had a) had my morning coffee, b) had my morning cigarette and c) had my early lunch time pint of very fine India Pale Ale (as served by Mr J Hartley the local publican whose unerring hand on the pump and whose rule of the cellar of the local hostelry, the Shoulder of Mutton, is renowned in the vicinity). This interruption would normally top about eight on the richter scale, 9 on a bad day. But on this occasion the words they spoke, a tale as usual of woe and disaster, did not have the normal effect. I exclaimed, of course. But I realised that the profanity rang hollow, the blood ran tepid; to use the local vernacular I could not be arsed.

Once I realised that my heart wasn't in it, or indeed my arse. I decided to act and to act with decisiveness, to grasp the nettle and there and then put an end to all this nonsense. I was going to, I decided buy an old bus and go travelling in it.

I quickly wrote an email to our very nice HR director informing her, in slightly more formal language, that nice though the monthly paycheck was and grateful though I was for the health insurance, the old arse was no longer up to it and I'd like to throw in the towel.

The date was settled for a few months hance (the middle of March) and I bid a fond farewell to my friends at the office in London after placing a bid on the bus aboard which I currently reside.

A few days later I was the happy owner of a 1974 R-Series Ford Coach, with Plaxton Panorama Elite III body, converted into a motorhome. This, not the best of coaches, even for its era, with a rather diminutive 6 litre tractor engine and synchromesh stirring stick and little in the way of insulation from the noise of the engine. However it is still far superior to any caravan and all but the most expensive of RVs do little to outshine in terms of comfort and space.

The weeks after I left work were spent mainly lying on my back under the bus, trying to get it ready for it's MOT. The bus was without batteries and so I rose and slept with the rising (well perhaps a little after) and setting of the sun. During this time the bus was stationed at Kenniford farm near Exeter. My thanks go to Alan and the lads for supplying sausages and tows out of the mud and to Don for preparing the bus for its MOT, which it passed on it's second run through after some fairly minor adjustments and repairs; silly things like the brakes not working and the fact that the exhaust was more hole than pipe.

Before long the vehicle was road legal and ready for its first run on the public roads. I gathered my courage and took it out for a tour of the Devon countryside.... and instantly smashed the wing mirror on a tree, and one side of the trim blew away. But these things are sent to test the mettle and not deflected I drove back to the farm and returned the next day to the Metropolis for the company of my flat mate, Sinead, whose company is far prefferable to that available in the evening on Kenniford farm; it consisting fairly uniformly of pigs at various stages of their fattening career.

Soon the bus was ready to undertake it's first major voyage, I returned to Exeter and prepared to strike camp and head north to Hebden Bridge, some 400 miles or so North. Stacey, my ever faithful, joined me and was to follow in the trusty Mazda, mainly to keep me roughly abreast of my speed - the speedometer did not at this stage function. However this proved to be little handicap on the motorway as after only a short distance most of the gaskets connecting the turbo blew and a top speed of 50 miles per hour on the flat was to be considered good.

The journey progressed with little incident, quite a few stops to top up clutch fluid, water etc and to rest the weary bones. My clutch leg was rather tired (mainly due to the fact that I did not realise that the seat could be adjusted). After about nine hours we reached Manchester where, after Stacey having feigned taking a wrong turning and deciding to call it a day and proceed with all reasonable speed to take a shower and get the nose firmly in the trough at the local hostelry, I decided it might be prudent to check the oil level, much to my surprise and chargrin there was none present. Eight litres of oil was required to bring the levels back to acceptable (at huge cost). This problem has now been somewhat relieved by the use of a patent smoke allieviating remedy purchased on the advice of the gentlemen at the "vehicle component recycling center" (note, not scrap yard!). A large supply of oil is carried around with us (about 20 Gallons) in case of emergency, engine oil for those of you who are interested costs euro50 per gallon in Belgium (thats about 30quid in real money).

For the next few weeks the bus was taken to be ministered to by the man considered the local expert in these matters: Mr Steven Ramsden. Over the next few weeks he carried out various repairs to the clutch slave cylinder, the exhaust, the turbo, the gaskets, the head etc, etc. Due to him being a busy man, I volunteered to assist in whatever way possible. I can only say that Mr Ramsden is a man of almost limitless patience and great resourcefulness. He even managed to see the funny side when I thought that the leaky injector pipes were to blame for the engine cutting out intermittently. Ignoring his advice that it might be due to the fact that there was very little diesel in the tank, we titghtened the injector pipes (whilst Stacey riveted the side of the bus back on that I had carefully removed with the aid of a small bridge). He then had to leave for an urgent appointment, I set off and as soon as I got to the steepest narrowest part of the lane from his house to the main road, I realised that after all and taking all things into due consideration, there might be some merit in the suggestion that I needed to review the situation vis-a-vis diesel. I have to tell you reversing a bus round a corner, with diminishing air brakes and no power steering and trying to avoid irate motorists is bad enough, but the filthy job of bleeding the fuel system is one best avoided if at all possible. I now check the fuel level (the fuel gauge is somewhat inoperative) at every possible opportunity.

We were now ready to set off, after a few days of cleaning and washing and a bit of last minute brake fixing (they still rattle like buggery and pull to the right, but it seems to stop so why worry?)....