JO JO CAME TODAY letters from France originally written in 2011

JO JO CAME TODAY

... letters from France, written in 2011

We have been promising ourselves that we should have Jo-Jo come round and empty our old septic tank. It is rather a fosse and somewhat different to the proper tank that many readers will have experience of in their back garden.

This relic was installed when our house was new and built for M. Fresneau ‘Pere’ in 1968, in those days in France, household plumbing was still a bit primitive.  Our toilet, not to be mistaken with a W.C. was a normal type porcelain affair, sat over a brick shute that emptied into this large concrete tank adjacent and under the house. Instead of the more normal ‘U’ bend you get in a W.C., this one had a plastic ‘lid’ at the bottom with handle attached, handle on the outside I might add. 

One simply flipped the lid and everything shot down the shute! 

 

Without a modern ‘U’ bend of course, there was always a bit of a pong in the ‘little room’. In fact ‘going to the loo’ was sometimes to be avoided until it was un- avoidable!

PLANS

Last year we managed to afford a new ‘gleaming’ septic tank, which was planted in the garden behind the house and connected to a long arrangement of filter pipes elsewhere in the garden.  This whole arrangement does not happen overnight in France.

Unlike the UK where until fairly recently one could borrow a JCB and suitably out of sight, simply bury a septic tank wherever you wished; here in France the procedure takes best part of a year. An inspector is booked to come and survey your property to see if it will sustain a septic tank and its filters. 

Once this hurdle is passed and the actual site plans have been received, you can look for your approved contractor to provide an estimate of cost.

The whole thing took us two years from start to finish. The new bathroom is finished too complete with “proper” WC; and now we have approval from the smart young lady who came to inspect the new drains and filter beds. We asked her for her ideas about converting this old ‘fosse’ into a collection tank for rain water. Of course the water will be used on the garden, “be sure to use plenty of bleach,” were her last words. We did not think bleach mixed with our rainwater, no matter how dilute, would help our garden plants to grow; so we decided to just give it a good wash out.

This is where Jo-Jo comes in, he is the farmer - father in law of our good neighbours André and Roland and he owns a useful gadget called a slurry spreader.

I was dozing in a chair in the conservatory having enjoyed a good lunch of crunchy cauliflower cheese and nice slice of fish. This was followed by a cut price tiramisu found at Super ‘U’ in Bourgeois this morning. ‘Use by today’ it said so we duly obliged and very nice too.

JO JO ARRIVES

The tractor turning into the drive at three thirty, duly had me on my feet post haste and we quickly had the machine in place and sucking at the tank contents quite happily. Jo-Jo is a tall well built chap, always very jovial and was stirring things up in the tank with his huge oversized suction gadget and I went off to find the hose and coupled it up to our well - water irrigation pump. 

The ‘fosse’ was only about half full and after a few minutes we had worked out that when full it would hold three thousand five hundred litres of water.  As the residue smelly liquid reached the bottom we directed a good jet of clear water onto the walls and floor to dilute what was left.

The tanker was still sucking happily and we had our heads down into the ‘fosse’ cleaning this and that quite unaware of the mayhem taking place behind us. If you can picture those comic strip characters with soap suds in a fountain or too much soap in a washing machine, well this was many many times worse!

This slurry tanker holds about two thousand five hundred litres when full and we had not bothered to watch it as the ‘fosse’ was only half full; there would be plenty of room! But in fact it was overflowing, all over the courtyard in front of the house.

As Jo-Jo turned round, prompted by some sixth sense, he leapt up and used some strong words finishing with a French version of ‘it’s never done this before’! It was all the result of the pump sucking a mixture of effluent and air with the ‘fosse’ being almost empty.

The result was something like a giant grey sausage on wheels totally surrounded by creamy grey/brown froth as it poured and cascaded out of the large round inspection hatch similar to a submarine conning tower. It could have been just like a huge whipped up blancmange or angel delight, but this one was over eight feet high and about 20 feet long. ‘It’s just the froth’ said Jo-Jo confidently!

WHAT A PONG....

But that froth had a pong too, not that we two noticed it much at that time as we had had our heads down inside the ‘fosse’ for several minutes and were ‘immune’!

“I’ll move the tractor out into the roadway,” he said; “you find some brushes to get rid of this stuff”. (All in “colloquial” French.)

I suggested that perhaps it would be best to rinse some of the spectacular ’foam’ from the slurry tank before he ventured onto the highway. That done he moved out of the way. It was a good job we both had ‘wellies’ on, even though it was just ‘foam’ it was not the kind of stuff one would like wrapped around ones ankles and socks! It did in fact brush away quite easily, it will take a day or two or even three for the smell to go though.

Jo-Jo was back in a few minutes, I didn’t ask him where he had left the slurry, one doesn’t ask these awkward type of questions in the countryside; and we finished rinsing the inside of the ‘fosse’. ‘Impeccable’ was the result, which could not be said for the courtyard.

Now, Ruth appeared on the scene having slept through all the trauma! Just as well she had not seen that ‘mountain’ of slurry foam spreading across the courtyard a little earlier. The day finished with a “petit coup” or to those not initiated a glass of wine all round.

ends

TO INVERNESS AND BACK AGAIN

  

TO INVERNESS AND BACK

From Ivy House Tales 1970 to 1984 this story from about 1974

We had just finished painting our “green-goddess”; a fairly ancient, long nose 7.5 ton Ford lorry with new second-hand flat bodywork. The lorry came from Glenton’s “Wonderloaf” bakery in Grimsby by way of Herbert Epton the local heavy haulage contractor in our village of New Bolingbroke. Herbert had the contact at Glentons who told him when any surplus bakery vehicles were coming up for sale, they were fairly high mileage but only lightly used having been delivering bread all their lives. They had also been well maintained.

All the Lorries came with big van bodies and had to be altered if need be.

The “green-goddess” was the first of several vehicles we bought from Herbert and formed the basis of our initial ECYB “lorry fleet”. 

BACKGROUND INFORMATION

Carting commercial tyres from tyre retailers to the Tyre Manufacturers Adjudication centres had become the basis of our independent business since I had left the employ of Firestone. Moving boats, ECYB’s initial business had been proved to be altogether too hazardous and fickle to make a serious living. Firestone local boss Fred Popham and I had discussed the whole matter at some length after I had admitted to ‘escaping’ for the odd day or two to deliver boats to various distant parts of the UK.

(see “Filling up with a Magyar 9” in Book Two)

My knowledge of the tyre trade through working for Firestone had introduced me to the problem encountered by all the tyre retailers in the UK in getting commercial tyres with supposed problems, back to the official centres set up and paid for by the UK Tyre manufacturers working together. There they were examined by engineers from the individual manufacturers on a rota basis and where necessary raised credits for any manufacturing imperfections. Collecting these tyres from retailers and their subsequent delivery had become the basis of our business.

The first vehicle we purchased was an elderly Volkswagen transporter "split windscreen" pick up which we fitted with a tow bar. Next we purchased a small lorry from a poultry farm at Swineshead; a short wheelbase BMC FG (three penny bit cab) light truck of five tons or so gross capacity with a flat open body. It was fitted with the same three litre six cylinder petrol engine as the MG’C’ and really flew along. Not the ideal transport for our needs but it was available and cheap. We added a 16 foot single axle trailer to this vehicle to give it the capacity for twice weekly trips delivering ‘complaint’ tyres to Burton on Trent our local Tyre Manufacturers Conference depot. We soon outgrew this little lorry and hence the search for something larger.

The first ‘Wonderloaf’ Ford, of about 1962 vintage was fitted with the same four cylinder diesel engine as was original equipment in the famous ‘Fordson Major’ tractor series of the late 1950’s; a long stroke, slow revving engine, with bags of pulling power, but not much top speed. The lorry had a normal type cab and long bonnet. We did not have pots of money available for smart paint jobs hence ‘the green goddess’ was lightest green and white. Paint we had in stock!

The complaint tyre collections had begun within Lincolnshire and initially only took a couple of days each week. Other clients were needed to help pay the bills and we had already begun to deliver goods for J.H. Rundle's Engineering works based in the village. Their own lorry was engaged on deliveries of really heavy items and we soon became fairly regularly engaged in their smaller deliveries initially using our Volkswagen Transporter pick up. (See Bus and the auger).

MAKING UP A LOAD

This trip to Inverness was more unusual. John Rundle had happened to mention that they had a complete set of three Cambridge (gang) rolls for delivery to the Blacksmith at Inverness in Scotland but the amount they could afford to pay for their transport would not cover the cost of a lorry on its own. With some applied thought I asked if they had any other items to go in that direction and it so happened that their iron foundry were finishing an order of lead sash window weights for a period housing project in Dundee.

I had another new client in Skegness who made children’s slot machine amusements and managed to add a consignment of their ‘money in the slot’ bar billiard tables destined for Perth. The three items made a reasonable load for the long distance run without having to bother finding a load for the return journey. They were also relatively high value and the billiard tables fragile. 

The lead sash weights went on first, laid flat on the back of the lorry. I travelled to Skegness to put the billiard tables on top and then returned to New Bolingbroke to load the Cambridge rolls on the front behind the cab. All in all I should think the load exceeded my maximum permitted four point five tons but the lorry looked happy once everything was sheeted down and ready for the off.

I remember distinctly that Saturday morning in Rundle’s yard roping and sheeting the last of the load.

John Rundle’s father (Jack snr.) was taking a great deal of interest in what I was doing. Readers of ‘Changes to the Town Hall’ will recollect that ‘Jack’ was one of the original Management committee of that historical building. Now well retired, he had been instrumental in the expansion of Rundle’s during the era of steam. He still retained an active interest in everything going on in the business and after watching me for several minutes he said, “I’ve never been to Scotland, will you take me with you?”

I was deeply honoured that this wonderful elderly gentleman who was almost 80, years old had sufficient confidence in me and this gaudily painted very second hand lorry to wish to come on the round trip of between six and seven hundred miles into some seriously wild countryside.

I think it was the thought of passing Culloden and Balmoral, Tomintoul and Blairgowrie; Edinburgh, Perth and Dundee that had excited his serious interest.

After a few moments I said we would have to speak to his son John (himself in his late 50’s). John was quite speechless, but after I had explained that due to promised delivery times and huge distances, I would have to sleep in the lorry while travelling over the top of the Cairngorm Mountains; there would be nowhere convenient to stop where a bed could be found for the night.

I do regret that no way could be found for the old gentleman to accompany me as he would have seen splendour like nothing he had ever seen before in his whole long life. But the journey was not without difficulty; due to the costings and mileage I could take no longer than two days for the journey so stops would not be frequent. Ministry Log Books were still the method of keeping journey records so timings were ‘flexible’.

NOT WITHOUT INCIDENT

Dundee was my first stop with the billiard tables and then I was back in Perth before the end of that first day to deliver the original ‘Georgian’ pattern lead sash weights at the prescribed building site where some of the huge classic Perth residential buildings were being faithfully restored. A brief stop here to choose my best route to find myself in Inverness by 8am the next morning.

I really did stop for the night on top of the Cairngorm Mountains; it was very cold I remember and while wrapped in my sleeping bag stretched across the bench seat of the lorry cab, gave due thought to old Jack Rundle and what he would have made of the journey.

At daybreak I began the last lap north allowing sufficient time for the blacksmith at Inverness to open his shop; but fate was to take a hand and not long after I started, one of the diesel injector pipes on the engine broke clean in half just above the injector itself.

There was nothing I could do; the engine ran on three cylinders and the remaining now unconnected pipe pumped measured amounts of diesel everywhere except into the engine. These older engines were very simple in design and not sufficient allowance had been made for excessive vibration and different engine speeds between the tractor where the engine was first used and the lorry. From time to time I was to learn, these pipes just broke off fairly regularly. Each of the four pipes was totally different in length and shape; they were quite strong in themselves but needed more bracing where their longer lengths passed over the top of the engine. The lorry being an early 1960’s model and very basic; it had no sound deadening material in the engine bay or anything else to prevent the very strong smell from the diesel fuel that was being sprayed liberally over the entire engine.

From the first public telephone box I could find, ( no mobile phones around yet ) I phoned ahead and explained my problem. Bit by bit I pressed on and managed to arrive at the Blacksmiths shop only half an hour or so later than expected. Forewarned, he surveyed the damage and quickly stripped the pipe so that he could braze the two broken ends together. I was even more pleased that old ‘Jack’ was not with me on the journey as he would have no doubt found that last leg to Inverness worrying to say the least.

REGRET

The trip back home was uneventful, the repair held and a new pipe quickly fixed in place.

Unfortunately, ‘old Jack’ Rundle died a few months later, he never did get to Scotland; but perhaps it was best he did not make his first trip to Scotland in a very smelly, second hand lorry with only three cylinders working during its crossing of some of the highest mountains in the land!

ENDS

KS copyright 2013

BE VERY CAREFUL WHEN OPENING THOSE BOTTLES OF SPARKLING WINE

 WATCH OUT FOR THOSE WINE CORKS

This week Ruth has been to see her Ophthalmic Surgeon to have the final check before her first cataract operation later in the month.

Friends from our old twin town near Fresnay sur Sarthe have invited us to take part in a Champagne wine tasting day, which so happens is just two days after the operation. Ruth asked the surgeon if he thought it would be ok for her to attend the event considering the short time scale.

He said he thought it might be ok but she would have to take great care of the bottle corks in case one flew out and hit her in the eye!!

We know they are dangerous and can fly a considerable distance, but in fact he had a patient this last Christmas who had just had a cataract operation and this did happen to him and caused severe damage to the eye !

The moral of this story is always take great care when opening a bottle of sparkling wine; make sure the cork is pointing away from you and anyone else. 

To be really safe use a specially made sparkling wine cork extractor. 

It is not unknown for the cork to fly out just as the restraining wire is removed. 

RKS  18/04/2016 

PHILCO THE FRIDGE GOT IT WRONG YESTERDAY!

PHILCO THE FRIDGE MADE A MISTAKE

I can not image how so simple a mistake should happen...........it is all to do with that door opening question. When I was so good at mental arithmetic at junior school too,I even won a prize for it!

However the figure given out by Philco yesterday...is so inaccurate......perhaps the real figure is so unbelievable it blew his mind!

The formula has been checked three times now and is as follows...........

20 door openings each day (average) times 365 equals 7300 door openings each year.

7300 times 51 years equals 372,300....that's better but hard to digest and the door has never ever been rehung or hinges repaired!

ARE THERE ANY FRIDGES OUT THERE WHO CAN BEAT MY RECORD?

ARE THERE ANY FRIDGES OUT THERE WHO CAN BEAT MY RECORD?

Ask around...please pass the word.....Philco Sanders is “laying down the gauntlet”.

The answer to our question from last month when Philco Sanders asked how many times his door has been opened...... is 44,500 times......so far and counting....as they say!!

Philco Sanders is now proposing that he is the oldest domestic refrigerator in constant everyday use...on Sunday 10 April 2016.....at 51 years and two months without stopping...except for his regular monthly defrost!

How about it refrigerators of the World, is there anyone out there with a longer record of constant non stop working...and still working?

That's important ….the fridge must still be working!

As the story develops Philco Sanders will be producing photos of how he looks now!

MY QUESTION IS.............HOW MANY TIMES HAS MY DOOR BEEN OPENED?

MY QUESTION IS.............HOW MANY TIMES HAS MY DOOR BEEN OPENED?

I was first purchased from Curry's Store in Boston, England in March 1965. My owners were a young couple planning to get married in the month of May, but the boy had problems at his family home and decided to leave and start to live on his own in February of that year.

Through his work at the local newspaper, the boy had managed to find the couple a flat, (apartment for those of you not used to the English “lingo”) so somewhere for him to live was not a problem. The young couple decided to buy their future furniture straight away so the boy could live in the flat for the few months prior to the wedding......that is how I got there!

I have only moved a few times when the couple changed their home in England from time to time. But in 2008 I made an extra long journey and now live in the French countryside not far from Saumur, the historic centre of sparkling wine production in the valley of the river Loire.

I am still here in 2016......I had my big anniversary last year! My family still use me as their everyday main kitchen refrigerator......there was a usurper in my kitchen here in France when I first arrived but he was some modern 21st Century character and I soon wore him out after three years or so!

I still live with the same couple but they are not so young now.....just like me. When I came here to France all they had to do for me was change my electrical plug and switch me on. My inside light has not been working for the last 20 years or so but nobody seems to mind. The bottle tray at the bottom of the inside of my door has been cracked and split for several years and is now effectively bound up with that wonderful “gaffer” sticky tape!

Mind you I do get cleaned out and defrosted very regularly.

I have been thinking just lately how many times my door has been opened since I was a shiny brand - new fridge back in 1965. There must be some kind of formula for this kind of question.

Over the years, some clever “university graduate” must have used some ancient theorem from the ancient Greeks or similar very knowledgeable ancients?

My name is Philco by the way, I understand that I was made when my family was a subsidiary of the Ford Motor Company but in more recent years my family have probably changed their owners several more times. I do not really know where I came from originally before I arrived in that electrical retail shop in England.....so there we come to another question?

I understand that world wide communications have changed drastically since I was first constructed perhaps in 1964, so maybe somebody out there can provide me with a few answers please?

Thank you in anticipation......

an ancient fridge.

MEMORABLE VAN AND TRAILER TRIP ( Tales from France)

 

MEMORABLE VAN AND TRAILER TRIP --- SEPT 2008

This is the follow up story to “Digby Locked us out”!

Background

My episode with a snapped Achilles tendon in February accelerated my retirement with the horses; it also held up any travel to France.

The 14 weeks with plaster and inflatable boots; all the time using elbow crutches

had been thoroughly frustrating!!

Then even when free of encumbrances, no driving, no cycling etc etc. for even more time!

Consequently, I could not get any of my usual lorry driving work during the pea harvest season in June / July. The leg was not fit enough for every day driving.

Eventually, the first trip to France with (03) Citroen relay van and trailer was in June with Sister Jane driving as I had not yet been cleared by the hospital.

Second trip with van and trailer was at the beginning of September.

This was actually the fourth large trailer journey to our new French home.

The first two had been with the horse centre 3.5 ton twin axle low loader pulled by Ruth’s elderly VW Passat estate car.

Journey one with the new (second hand) furniture, cooker etc all carefully wrapped in canvas sheeting had been four years earlier and coincided with finally purchasing the house.

The second had been a few months later with a load of useful wood and metal, other bits and pieces, plus horse manure, underneath the Ferguson tractor which I had persuade Ruth would be invaluable in its new home lifting and moving things too heavy for me on my own.

That Ferguson trip had nearly ended our marriage.

The total load was quite heavy and would not make it up that steep ramp onto the boat at Portsmouth. Half way up, the car decided it had had enough and I had to push Ruth out of the car and hold the whole load on the foot brake while she ran off to find the deck officer and his whole deck crew of able bodied men to push the car and trailer the rest of the way.

Ruth would not let me forget this incident; especially when on arriving at our new home, Roger who had sold us the house took more interest in the tractor than he did in her. The fact that he had spent his working life repairing tractors made no difference.

All these incidents meant that our “trailer journeys” had earned some notoriety!

Every time we left, Terena and Geoff asked if “I had not got room for just something else. Was I sure I had not left some small space unused somewhere?”

So this was trailer journey four and the second with the Citroen Relay, its doggy and perhaps “dodgy” passengers and twin axle “Blue Line” all galvanised, long, 3.5 ton heavy duty trailer I had purchased second-hand, on eBay, in February, to complete our move to France.

Calamity

We were almost half way to Portsmouth and began negotiating the ring road around Northampton. At one particular spot this involves a difficult steep hill - approach to traffic lights on a large round - about system involving six roads and a flyover.

We tried to crawl up the hill to the lights and hope they would change before we had to stop. I really did not fancy a hill start with the van fully loaded and trailer behind resembling “Noah’s ark” in a panic!

It was not to be and we ended up behind a very slow car and caravan.

They were even slower on the hill start than me; frustration took a hand and I decided to change gear to pass while I had more “urge” than the caravan.

There was an unpleasant shriek and judder from our gearbox, what we found out later to be caused by several fingers from the clutch cover plate breaking off and jamming themselves between the flywheel and clutch driven plate.

We were about 100 miles from our old home in Lincolnshire and 120 miles from the ferry at Portsmouth.

The smell of burning clutch and this high pitched squeal told me something had gone severely awry.

What to do next?

Ruth was beginning to realise that things were not all as they should be. My mind was topsy turvey with what to do next. Seconds ticked by and we were still going forward, now on a straight, flat piece of road.

The clutch was still working. We came to some more traffic lights, changed down a gear, round another island and we were going downhill.

This gave me chance to test the working movements.

Clutch pedal was ok and had free movement so I tried a couple of quick jabs.

Within a matter of moments it seemed, the smell was clearing and the constant squeal was stopped.

At the same time as trying to assess the clutch situation and make split second decisions, I was trying to reassuring Ruth that all was not lost.

She could see huge complications with missing the ferry. Especially with three dogs in the van, surrounded by masses of furniture and other bits and pieces.

The trailer was carrying sufficient wood to build extra flooring above the caravan stored in our big shed beside the house there in France. The storage was badly needed to contain the overflow of books and furniture.

Basically the difference between the four bedroom house in UK and our far smaller, two bedroom bungalow type “new” home in France.

More minutes passed and to my complete surprise we were still going. By the time we had passed under the M1, I had managed to persuade Ruth that although everything was not as it should be, we were still on course for Portsmouth.

In the moments after the smell died away I had decided to go on. There seemed no point in turning round for home, loosing the ferry booking and far worse encuring Ruth’s wrath; when we could just as well keep going in the direction we preferred. Particularly as we had now completed almost half the journey and the worst half at that.

Ahead of us was about 140 miles of dual carriageway with far fewer gear changes. We had a chance.

There was still a constant whining from the clutch but not loud. Nothing like we had encountered back at Northampton.

We made it to the half way coffee stop just before the M40.

Keeping Calm

By now Ruth had begun using the herbal remedy she mixed up to calm the dogs on this journey, on herself!

It worked though; her constant worry about not arriving at Portsmouth in time to catch the boat was now under control. In fact we were only about 15 minutes behind our normal journey time.

Leaving the M40 to join the A34 brought us up another incline to more traffic lights. This time luck was with us and we forged on. Not exactly smoothly, but in the right direction and with sufficient speed to keep us on schedule.

We made it to Portsmouth with a grinding, whining each time the clutch operated!

But it did work even if protesting.

On to the ferry and six hours rest and sleep. Boy, did I need that rest!

In France at last

Six hours later, we were off the ferry and negotiating the ring road around Caen.

More round-abouts, slip roads and flyovers, but very little traffic as it was by now 10pm.

We had to negotiate about 100 miles of winding country roads now, until the motorway began at Alencon. Lots of gear changes which could not be avoided.

The noises each time became more of a protest and confirmed to us that the motorway was our only option for the final 100 miles.

Ruth began asking awkward questions. “What happens if the clutch stops working? Can it break completely?” She was obviously very worried and needed my reassurance.

I worked hard concentrating on changing gear as gently as possible and at the same time explaining to her the workings of the clutch and what was happening or rather what I thought was happening beneath our feet.

We came to Argenton and to save a few miles worked our way through the town centre rather than the longer winding ring road.

By now the motorway could not come soon enough.

Everything was quite normal and performing well except for the clutch.

Even the weather was in our favour. It was a clear night, no fog and no rain. The sky was full of stars and the moon gleamed down from just ahead as if showing us the way.

I was confident from the way the van was running that even if the clutch stopped working we would still be able to keep going.

Actually changing gear would present problems, but we should manage to proceed in the direction we most desired.

Finally locked up

We eventually arrived at the motorway barrier at Alencon to collect our ticket. Just 100 miles to go.

With ticket safe in hand I pressed in the clutch pedal to select first gear and surprise, surprise, no clutch.

The whole thing had locked up solid.

It had lasted just long enough to get onto the straight clear road with no interruptions. We just had to get on it!

Fortunately the Citroen Relay van has a very low first gear. We first realised this when Jane took us up the hugely steep ramp at Portsmouth into the boat in June. The van had sailed up effortlessly, complete with trailer load of wood and my car.

Now we needed that particular characteristic to help us again. I lowered the engine revs a much as I could and forced the gear lever into first position.

It worked; with just a slight crunch and a jerk we were on our way again.

All I had to do was match engine speed with gearbox revolutions and the gears changed relatively smoothly.

In the “good old days”, before all gearboxes had synchromesh on all gears,

this method of driving was not unusual. With a non synchro gearbox, you had to depress the clutch twice for each change. Once for out of gear and once again for into the next. If you matched the engine speed with a quick blip of the throttle you could select your next gear without a clutch at all. With practice.

Now the fact that I was getting “grey and wrinkly” and been driving all kinds of vehicles for over 48 years was paying off!

We had to negotiate two motorway links on the journey, which meant changing down a gear each time. Luck was certainly with us, and so was that constant whine.

On removing the gear box later in the week we found that the whine was actually what was left of the clutch cover plate and its remaining fingers chewing away at the clutch actuator lever at the very back of the gearbox. The thing that moves backwards and forwards making the clutch engage and disengage.

When we took it out there was very little of this left. There was no clutch thrust bearing at all; just a few ball bearings rattling around in the bell housing behind the gearbox.

The clutch driven plate itself, the thing that moves in and out to allow gear changes, was not in bad condition except for huge chunks ripped out of its facing by the fingers from the back plate.

Inside the clutch housing, the actuator lever moves forward and pushes a revolving bearing onto the back plate where a circle of sprung fingers then disengage the driven plate from the flywheel which is fastened to the back of the engine.

What had happened was three of those sprung fingers had snapped off and flown though between the driven plate and flywheel fortunately not damaging it.

The revolving bearing had jammed into the remaining fingers and gradually chewed itself to tiny pieces. This was the beginning of the whining.

At Alencon, this had disintegrated completely and stopped forward and backward movement of the actuator lever.

The last lap

Back on the motorway it was by now 2.45 am and we approached the pay kiosk at Vivy; just seven miles from our new home at Varennes sur Loire.

One last crunch and lurch and off again on the very last lap!

More slowly this time as we were back on country roads. Careful gear changes now so as not to spoil our luck.

We finally pulled into the courtyard outside our new home at 3.15 am.

All totally exhausted mentally and physically except the dogs who had behaved perfectly and now were overjoyed to be home.

A deadline

Replacing the clutch, was the first time I had worked on a front wheel drive!

What a pain. From the very beginning it was difficult.

Things that should have been loose were tight and things that should have been accessible were certainly not!

Neighbour Mike who runs a B and B with wife Tracey was marvellous.

Without his strength and encouragement I could not have completed the job.

I had a deadline. The van was booked onto a ferry back to the UK the very next week. I was going on my own this time to collect another load of “property” and bring Sister Jane and her husband David back with me for a short break.

I had found clutch replacement kits on UK eBay for about £120 but could just not run the risk of them not being perfectly, exactly what I needed and having to change them. There just was not the time.

I sourced the bits in Saumur but the price was just short of 300 Euros! This included five gallons of gear oil and 25% discount obtained for me by a retired Belgian mechanic friend at Montsoreau who has a sailing boat.

I also needed a tool to remove the bottom ball joint on the suspension. Something you do not need very often but had given some thought to buying from time to time in the UK. I wish I had; as what would have cost me about £15 in UK cost me 40 Euros in Saumur!

Big discount motor accessory shops do not exist here.

Re assembling the clutch was quite simple. Too simple I thought. Things seem so flimsy today compared with the 1960’s.

Perhaps it was the fact that the last clutch I had done was just last year and in the horse centre 7.5 ton Leyland lorry that needed a JCB digger to lift and help locate the gearbox.

Three days on my back

Back with the Citroen van, the worst part was trying to get the right hand drive shaft into the gearbox at same time as the clutch spline. It took me a whole day to do just that!

Unlike a simple vehicle with rear wheel drive; the transverse, front wheel drive engines have a differential (the system that allows both driven wheel to turn independently) fastened onto the gearbox, thereby doubling its weight.

The rear wheel drive has its differential in the back axle.

The day I was struggling to line up these two shafts on different sides of the gearbox, into different splines, all at the same time, I telephone David to explain how I was progressing, or not!

He explained that his good friend Tony in Lincoln worked on vans all day every

day. Perhaps it was worth giving him a call.

I caught Tony home for lunch.

He was quite surprised that I had not dropped the whole front axle from the vehicle as that is they way he does it to improve access.

He was even more surprised that I had got the gearbox out and in again without doing this.

Perhaps it was because I had been crawling around on by back in the sand of my “workshop” floor with the van just inches above my nose. The gearbox had been lowered and raised on a trolley jack running on plywood sheeting allowing just sufficient room to clear the bottom of the van.

There was no alternative he confirmed. If I did not want to remove the whole of the right hand suspension I would just have to continue jiggling and pushing until the two things came together.

Eventually they did. But lesson learned; next time I will take the thing completely to pieces. It will be quicker in the long run!

Relocating the gear change cables demanded extra concentration but eventually even this worked out.

I made the deadline and double journey, returning once more with a van load and full trailer behind. Trailer load number five.

I must add that there was a nervous moment approaching those traffic lights at the top of that hill on the ring road round Northampton!

Ends

Copyright KS 2009