From the Rolls-Royce experimental archive: a quarter of a million communications from Rolls-Royce, 1906 to 1960's. Documents from the Sir Henry Royce Memorial Foundation (SHRMF).
Illustrated magazine article titled 'Bumpers!' which is a fictional story about a car journey through the countryside.
| Identifier | ExFiles\Box 90a\1\ Scan044 | |
| Date | 7th September 1934 | |
| 432 The Autocar September 7th, 1934. BUMPERS! And Improvements in Fairyland Effected With Their Aid By E.{Mr Elliott - Chief Engineer} CAREY-RIGGALL "NOTHING seems altered," said Doreen, as the "Mustard Pot" bobbed and lurched over the road that leads to our part of the coast. Watching the panorama of level fields divided by reed-fringed waterways, with here and there a grey church steeple in a grove of poplars and aspens, I could detect little change. Grass still waved upon the thatched roof of a deserted cottage; the same road-mender, with steeply cambered legs, lifted a forefinger to his battered hat; a slow-flapping heron rose from the willow clump as we had learned to expect. It was the "Mustard Pot's" birthday, and at Doreen's suggestion I had presented the little car with a set of glittering bumpers. Beyond the willow clump our lane rose in a short, steep gradient to join the Sky Line road, which is really a cart track following the ridge of a turfy embankment the Romans built to keep back the sea. Beneath us cultivated land stretched westwards like squares of many-coloured carpets to a horizon of distant hills. The sea has retreated since the Roman looked across the misty fens and longed for the fierce sunlight of his native land; a quarter of a mile to the east a curved range of sand dunes marks the present frontier in man's war with the deep. Shed Built of Ships' Timbers As the "Mustard Pot" hummed along the Sky Line road we sighted the thatched shed and ivy-covered tower of a ruined church which stands upon the reclaimed marshes between the old sea bank and the present dunes. The sides of the shed are encrusted with barnacles, for it is built of ships' timbers, and under the fringe of overhanging thatch the words "Argos, Liverpool," are decipherable in faded letters. To reach the shore we have to turn eastward along a narrow track which passes, after descending the slope of the old sea bank, between the barnacled shed and the ruined church, and thereafter, confined between reedy dykes, leads on until it is lost in grass near a white cottage at the foot of the dunes. Doreen calls this Lily Lane, because the dykes are full of yellow water-lilies with thick, flaccid stems and a scent like brandy. The way to the sea is through a narrow cleft in the dunes where fine drifted sand records the footprints of birds and the hieroglyphics in which the sharp-pointed sword grass writes the messages of the wind. I was looking towards the white cottage and idly wondering if there would be honey for tea, when, with an exclamation of mingled disgust and astonishment, Doreen brought the "Mustard Pot" to an abrupt stop. At the junction of the ridgeway and Lily Lane stood a notice-board inscribed, "Private road. Trespassers will be prosecuted." The thing almost assassinated us with its ugliness, and was the more noticeable because, unlike older objects, it did not slant before the prevalent winds. "Someone is bluffing," I said. "This has been a road to the sea for twenty years." Doreen studied the board with an expression I have seen her adopt when some unfortunate larva has been discovered in the salad. "Everything Spoilt" "I know," she said, with a gesture that embraced the quaint leaning shed, the distant, ivy-clad tower throwing its shadow across the level marsh, and the little lane that meandered seaward, "but—it spoils everything." We made it a custom to pause at this very point and let our eyes dwell upon Lily Lane so that we might recall it when far away. Dog Motley, who had seized the opportunity to scramble out, demonstrated his opinion of the wooden lie in his own particular fashion. "I always intended to do a water colour from the Sky Line road," said Doreen regretfully, as the "Mustard Pot" hummed resolutely toward the white cottage and the opening in the dunes. I did not suggest that the notice board could be eliminated from a painted scene. I knew that, under the insult of its presence, Doreen could never capture the elusive charm of those trenched waters with their wealth of floating blossoms, the curve of the distant dunes, and the cloud shadows between. When the sea road lost itself in grass we left the "Mustard Pot" near a fairy ring of grey toadstools. Motley was first through the cutting, and having a hopeless ambition to add a seagull to his trophies became immensely energetic. We had intended to bathe, but the project was vetoed by unspoken decision, and Doreen did not even remove G 28 | ||