Last Sunday (13th July) was all about petrol; the motion it enables and the emotion it creates. Motorbikes and Vauxhalls (Opels/Bedfords) were the themes for a pleasurable morning of wandering around, chatting and taking photographs.

I went to two separate events, one en-route to the other. The first a motorcycle meet at Jacks Hill Café on the A5 near Towcester. The hard standing all around the café was packed with motorcycles of numerous denominations; the classic British brands (Triumphs, Nortons, Tritons, BSAs etc.) were well represented in front of the building and everything else from everywhere else could be seen around the back.

All the time I was there, more bikes thundered in and the sense of drama and occasion was as palpable as the smell of oil, petrol and leather.

One oddity on show was a wonderful bright orange 1973 Bond Bug, which you’ll appreciate isn’t a motorcycle at all. But when you see the picture below, you’ll appreciate that it might as well be for its practicality – no doors and no protection from the elements. To be frank, the Bug is probably a whole lot less safe than a bike because it’s got three wheels, making it unstable; the body is plastic, making it weak in an accident; and it’s small/low making it hard to see (aside from the garish colour) for other drivers.  Aside from looking cool, it’s a ridiculous mode of transport.

I stayed at Jacks Hill for a while and then made my way up the A43 towards Northampton and more precisely Billing Aquadrome. The location was the site for the annual Vauxhall Bedford Owners Association (VBOA) rally. Regular readers will know that the all Vauxhall car club rally is something of an annual pilgrimage for me (previous reviews available 1, 2) – in fact Sunday marked my 19th year of event attendance.

The rally occupied a number of the fields on the site and various car club displays were supported by a Vauxhall sponsored presence, a display ring for cars to drive in and out of and a well-stocked autojumble.

I walked for what felt like miles around the site taking pictures and dreaming about owning another classic motor. The Zafira just didn’t cut it in the company of her elders and betters. She was parked elsewhere, out of sight and out of mind.

Pictures from both events are attached for your pleasure (click on an image to enlarge it).      

This post ends with this observation - many of the vehicles on show at both events were lovingly cared for by their owners and whilst all will understand the pleasure they take from them – for me what was interesting was how much pleasure other people’s efforts can give me.  Much as I would like to, I don’t need to own one in order to feel some genuine joy in looking at them.  One might think of paintings, sculptures and art galleries in this kind of regard – my view cars and motorbikes can be just as inspiring. And from that thought, the title for this post!

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Yesterday afternoon I was delighted and more than a little proud to hear that my 11 year old son had scored fives across the board in his SATS.  As I drove home from work, I was looking forward to the celebratory meal out that Mrs Baldwin and I felt was appropriate to mark the occasion. His choice of food/venue! 

Last night as I pulled on to my drive, still suited and booted from my day in the office, I was greeted with what I initially thought was a dead pigeon on the street side of my front hedge.  

Nice!

The bird was on its back with its wings spread-eagled and its legs in the air but as I walked up to it, a wing flapped forlornly and an eye opened to look at me.

“Oh hell” I thought!

My seven year old daughter and her mates from down the street were playing and immediately came over to see what I was doing. Because the bird was still alive they expressed firm beliefs that it could be nursed back to health when the reality was that this pigeon was done for (the bleeding hole in its breast, the clear sign).

That left me with an obvious dilemma, the bird needed to be put out of its misery, that being the only humane thing to do, but I could hardly deal with it with the kids watching.  I shooed away my daughter and her pals and then went to find something to use.

Just moments later, when I came back with a spade, I had to chase away one of my cats (that may have been the original culprit behind the bird’s demise) and then three different kids from the Close. The scene was becoming comical, in a decidedly black way. These kids wanted to see me kill the pigeon.

To avoid giving the children nightmares, I shovelled up the bird and took it into my back garden to deal with.

When getting ready to despatch it, I turned around to find my daughter bouncing up and down by the back door wanting to watch.  Within minutes she had gone from determined to save the bird to being actively interested in its death – the schizophrenia of youth abundantly clear.

At this point I reflected that the only person depressed by the situation was me – although I don’t suppose the pigeon was that happy either.  

Whilst it was never going to fly again, at least my mood was uplifted later thanks to my lad’s academic success and our trip to the pub for dinner. He even had the emotional intelligence to point out to my daughter that she shouldn’t get excited about watching something die.  

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