I CAN'T COOK!
Most of you will know that I am married to Pam, who at one time was a professional cookery demonstrator. She even taught cookery demonstration at the Birmingham College of Food for two years until I dragged her off to Ireland.
With her for a partner, it is not in my interest to admit any skill with the stove! However, I was once a laboratory research chemist, so I can weigh, measure, mix and heat and follow instructions! Occasionally, if necessary, I have been known to provide scrambled egg with smoked salmon, or cheese and bacon omelette should the need arise, and I have an excellent simple recipe for Hollandaise Sauce.
Many years ago, we were living in Coventry and had joined a small walking and social group, about 20 people. When the members discovered Pam's profession, they requested a demonstration. Pam, who thought nothing of addressing say a thousand strangers in say Birmingham Town Hall, did not like the idea of talking to 20 friends and would not do it, unless I would join in.
Some of our older readers might remember the famous cookery demonstrator Fanny Craddock, and her husband Johnnie. She was known for her spectacular presentations and her constant denigration of Johnnie. What she was not known for was her strong [even foul] language, dreadful manners [off stage] and outrageous demands. On one occasion she was presenting in Birmingham Town Hall for the Gas Board and Pam was involved. Fanny demanded that the whole of the stage be newly re-carpeted to match her dress. When the demonstration was over the evening dress that she was wearing was immaculate, but the carpet had been ruined!
Pam agreed to do the demonstration if I took part as Johnny the stooge! She started with the theme of fresh Scandinavian food, savoury dishes and fish etc. Eventually she said, "Now for the desert, I will demonstrate pancakes!" That was my cue to stand up with a balloon brandy glass in my hand [with just a drop of cider in the bottom of it] and say, "For this audience, pancakes are not good enough! It has to be Crepes Suzette." The reply, "If that is what you think, you can do the demonstration yourself!"
It was, of course, all well-rehearsed. I made some very acceptable crepes, and flambéed them in a mixture of brandy and Cointreau. Just for good measure, I whipped up some egg-white and made a pavlova.
A few days later a neighbour came in to chat with Pam about the demonstration and was told, "Don't talk to me about Crepe Suzettes. For 5 evenings he stood in the kitchen talking to the cupboards as he practiced his Crepes Suzette. I'm b . . . dy sick of Crepes Suzettes!" The neighbour said "I know. I feel just the same about fish fingers!"
OTHER TALES - 4
The last Tale ended in the summer 1981. Subsequent to that, we felt that we should come back to the UK and in that December, I resigned from my job in Letterkenny. Courtaulds were beginning to contract and they had no suitable jobs to offer me in the UK.
Some of you will have read 'How we found Berrynarbor' and bought 30 Pitt Hill, [now Duckypool Cottage]. We had kept it while we were in Ireland and so it was our base when we returned to the UK. We were again very lucky to find that Middle Lee Farm was on the market, and were able to buy it. It was no longer a working farm [just as well, because I don't know a bee from a bull's foot!], but it had been converted, some 10 years earlier, into farmhouse accommodation with four self-catering apartments. Pam had trained originally in Home Economics, and I had become adequate at DIY. We had both been successful managers of one sort or another, so we reckoned that we could manage the business. So it turned out, and in the ten years we were there we converted two more self-catering properties. Pam joined the West Country Tourist Board as an Inspector, and I joined what was then The Small Firms' Service as a business advisor. That later became Business Link.
About 48 years later I was coming up for my 89th birthday and Pam asked me what I wanted for a treat. I said, "I want to fly a Boeing 747", simulator of course! She said, "That was to be your 90th treat", but I did not want to wait just in case I did not make it!
We found a flight simulator near Brighton Airfield and booked a session. I was asked where I wanted to fly to: I said "Nowhere, I am only interested in taking off and landing." After explaining the controls, the instructor switched on, and there we were, apparently sitting at the start of the main runway at Gatwick. He said, "Take off and climb at about 10 degrees until we are at about 2000 feet." Which I did. He then said, "Take a slow wide turn to the south, then on to the north." Which again I did, and there we were flying up the Thames over London. Then he said, "You see that little grey square on the top left of the screen, that is Heathrow. Descend, line up the aircraft and land on the main runway." I did and I am glad to say that he remembered to lower the under-carriage for me! We were only half way up the runway, so we took off again and did two more circuits and landings before my hour of instruction was up. I am now confident that I could fly a 747 anywhere provided that it is calm and there is no other traffic to bother about!
Just after my 90th birthday, I realised that although I had spent some hours in control of a light aircraft, I had never done a take-off or landing. These are the tricky bits where an error can be very serious! I went up to Dunkerswell Airfield, this side of Honiton, where there is a flying school. I confessed my age, told them what flying experience I had had, and asked If I could be in control of a take-off and landing. Rather to my surprise, an instructor said that he would take us - Pam bravely came too! We three got into a Cessna and he took-off, then gave me control. At his request, I climbed, descended, turned on to a bearing etc. When he was satisfied that I could control the aircraft he said,
"The airfield is a couple of miles to the east, descend, line up and land at the near end of the runway". We did, and although his hands were never very far from the controls, it was all my doing! As we were slowing on the runway, he said, "Open the throttle, take off, go round and land again." We did this twice more, then the fun was over. Back in the office, he paid me a compliment, "You did well. My mother is 90 and she could not do that!"
I went home satisfied! I now have a Microsoft Flight Simulator on my desk that I play with from time to time. It is much more difficult than the real thing!
Heathrow from the simulator
IRISH [AND OTHER] TALES - 3
There are a number of tales related to Pam's bakery in Rathmullan. Late one afternoon a man from along the coast came in and asked for a meat pie. "I'm sorry" said Pam, "We have sold out, but if you will walk on the beach for about three quarters of an hour, I'll cook you a quiche".
That was fine. We later learned that when he got home and told his wife that there was no pie, but he had brought a "kwtich or something"; she said, "That's all very well, but do I put tatties or custard with it?"
Pam made a very popular sweet called a vacherin. This was two rings of meringue filled with chocolate and almond flavoured whipped cream. There was a 'society lady' in Letterkenny, some 15 miles away. Every month she would hold a bridge party, and her husband had to drive 30 miles to collect a vacherin for her guests, and a further 30 miles next day to return the platter that it was served on. She never revealed the source of the sweet, until, we heard, she was asked for the recipe. Her son of eleven, not wishing to let his mother down, made something up. Unfortunately, it was not quite believable!
We were there during the height of the troubles, but in spite of the fact that the factory was part of an English company, and that 5 of the 7 top management were English or Northern Irish, we only once had trouble.
You might remember that there was a top IRA man called Bobby Sands. He was imprisoned and starved himself to death in protest. He was well respected in the Republic because he had never killed anyone. On the day of his funeral, the IRA ordered that every shop and every business in the republic would close. Our factory ran 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. If it stopped, all the work in progress would fail, and it would cost thousands of pounds and literally days to clean it up and re-start it. All the shift workers on for that day promised that they would come in. On the day, they came in early, but 15 or so minutes before the shift change was due, a big black car with four 'heavies' in it and a black flag on the front, pulled up at the gate. The entire incoming shift, for their own safety, drove by and the staff had to shut the factory down.
That day, one of the local shopkeepers said to Pam, "Did you know that the IRA have told us all to close?" "Nobody has told me" Pam said, and she stayed open. At about 3 o'clock, a car with a black flag and four heavies in it drew up. All four of them crowded into the shop, which was very small, and trying not to feel nervous Pam said, "Can I help you gentlemen?" "Ach" said one, "You're English! Can we have four of them wee buns?" They bought them and left. Pam was very relieved!
When I was a youth, I was fascinated by flying. I always wanted to pilot an aircraft, but to be a professional pilot wasn't in my line as I was part of a family of scientists. Also, to be an amateur pilot was both expensive and time consuming.
For most of my life, I had neither the time nor the money to follow my interest. However, in my thirties, I did join a gliding club at Coventry Airport that was just a couple of miles from my house. I had only just joined when the airport wanted to become more commercial and threw out the club. That went to a small airfield some 30 miles to the east, a good hour away.
When I went, I would get there approaching 10 o'clock on a Saturday morning. You could not book a flight until you got there, so I was in a queue. At about mid-day, I would get towed up to 2000 feet and dropped off. There was no up-current, so I knew that after a couple of circuits, I would be down on the ground in seven and a half minutes. I could not book another flight until I was down, so that flight would be at about four o'clock. For two hours motoring and a day hanging around to get 15 minutes in the air, it was hardly worth it! I did join a week's instruction at the airfield, staying in some very basic accommodation, but I only got 7 flights, and never went solo, so I gave up!
During the last summer of our time in Ireland, a man with a Cessna opened an air-strip on the West coast of Donegal, near Bunbeg, about 35 miles from Rathmullan, and started to give flying lessons. Two or three times on a Sunday morning we drove there across a 'bog road' (very uneven surface and anything but straight or level) to get a lesson. Pam came too to get a lesson, but because the weather was so poor, by the time I had had my flight, it had closed in, and she never got her turn at the controls!
I think it was on the second lesson he said, "Go down to about 500 feet and fly along the coast line. We had a trawler sink, and we still haven't found all the bodies!" I did, but we saw nothing. I don't know if they ever found the others!
He was very hospitable, and after we were rained off, he would say "Come in for a jar." He lived in a converted railway station. The rails were gone, but the platform was still there. The ticket hall was now his kitchen, the general waiting room his lounge, the lady's waiting room now a bedroom and the gents' room the bathroom. On the platform there was a time-table for the local bus that was still timed to meet the trains that had last run in 1935! We would have a jar, always whisky, followed by a snack lunch and chat until late afternoon.
He gave me one of my best Irish stories. "I was driving home on a dark frosty evening," he said, "And I came round a bend to find a Guarda checkpoint demanding my licence. I skidded to a stop with some difficulty. Formalities over I said, "Sergeant, do you not think it a bit risky to have your checkpoint so close to the bend?" The sergeant looked back and he said "Ah, but it is a very straight bend!" And I looked back -- and he was right!"
[To be continued]
AN IRISH TALE - PART 2
Again, please remember that this is written about happenings some 50 years ago, and Ireland is a very different place now!
The factory, Lirelle Ireland Ltd., had been designed and construction started in the Republic of Ireland as part of the ambition of our then Courtaulds' Chairman to reduce the problems of the border and increase co-operation between North and South. The factory was promised relief of property tax on a sliding scale for10 years. Unfortunately, just after the project had been committed and work started, the price of oil doubled. The factory had been designed with two lines and about 750 staff, but it was decided to build only one line, with 350.
The project was never big enough to make a profit, and investment was limited.
Every day at 10.30 a.m., the six senior managers and the general manager [the Boss!] would meet in his office for a coffee. We would discuss recent happenings, difficulties, and what needed to be done for the immediate future. Socially, the boss was very pleasant, but in the office he became a 'four letter man' who would express his displeasure and requirements in no uncertain terms. I was unfortunate in that none of my areas of responsibility directly affected production, and I had only two workers of my own, so that if I needed work done, I was always at the end of the queue! However, there were one or two experiences that stand out during my time there.
There was at that time a customs border between Londonderry in the North, and Letterkenny in the Republic. We had not been there more than a couple of weeks when a colleague of mine had to go into Londonderry, and invited Pam to go with him so that he could show her where to go to shop, and where it was not too safe to go! They had a useful trip, but on the way back they were stopped at the Irish customs who demanded identity documents.
Pam had nothing other than her driving licence with an English address. Were they husband and wife? "No." "Who is your husband, where does he work?" I was phoned at work to be told that my wife was in a car with another man, and that I must make sure that my wife did not try to cross the border again without proper identification! After that, Pam always took the other route. There were two routes, the main road where the commercial vehicles went and were always stopped and a slightly longer,
quieter one that we usually used. The Republican post was on the up-side of a slope and the customs officers there were not nearly so fussy. Often, if it was raining, they would not come out for a single Irish registered car. As Pam approached the post, she would always switch her wipers on, and she was rarely stopped!
Most of the factory's raw materials came from the UK through Northern Ireland. One of my responsibilities was transport, and I was phoned by the Irish customs chief at the Irish Letterkenny border to be told that the English customs staff had gone on strike, and unless they had signed the lorry's paperwork, the Irish would not let them through.
"You realise that within 10 days the factory will be out of raw materials and will have to close?" I said.
"Yes, but that is government policy!" he said.
"Who is your boss?" I asked.
"I reckon it would be the Minister of Trade in Dublin Castle"
I phoned Dublin Castle, and to my astonishment was put straight through to the minister. He said that in the interest of cross border cooperation, the Irish customs could not be asked to "black" on their English colleagues. I reminded him that for generations, the Irish had been blaming the English for subjugating them, starving them, and forcing emigration.
"Will you let an English union for their own selfish purposes, put 350 good Irish men out of work, because that is what will happen?" I asked.
"I had not quite seen it in that light" he said. "I'll get back to you".
Within half an hour my phone went. It was the minister.
"The Irish Government has changed its policy." he said: "You will get your goods."
So, all was well! [I sometimes wish that we could change English government policy so easily!]
In 1978 there was a strike in Ireland that started with the telephone engineers and quickly spread throughout the whole Irish postal system. It lasted about three months and we were having to send a car, twice a day, with letters and parcels to a Courtaulds factory in Londonderry to get them into the English post, and to pick up our own post. Shortly after the strike ended, one of our security guards told me that he had chased 7 men from the grounds of a company house, who said that they were telephone engineers. I was furious. I phoned our local postmaster saying "Your country's communications are in chaos and here are 7 of your [adjectival] telephone engineers playing football at 10 in the morning."
"If they are telephone engineers," he said, "They don't report to me. Speak to the chief engineer in Sligo." Some 80 miles away! I did, and I did not mince my words. He heard me out, and then said, "I have spoken to the minister this morning and he has specifically prohibited me from taking any disciplinarian action that might only make a difficult situation worse. I have only one word of advice to give to you sir, and it is go and get a gun and shoot the b----- rs. Good morning to you!"
It is about that time that I thought of coming back to the UK!
I finally resigned at the end of 1981. About a year after that Lirelle Ireland Ltd. was bought up by an American company who moved the production to a more modern factory in South Carolina, and finally cleared the Letterkenny site. I might have got a job in America, but I doubt it!
The factory when in full production in the late 1970's
The factory 2012. All that remains is the gatehouse.
30 Pitt Hill was our English base, so we came back to Berrynarbor. We were very lucky that Middle Lee Farm, really a group of self-catering properties, was on the market and we were able to buy it.
Pam and I ran it for 9 years - but that is another story!
AN IRISH TALE
Please remember that this is written about happenings some
50 years ago, and Ireland is a very different place now!
Some of you may have read about how Pam and I found Berrynarbor. This is about how we nearly lost it again.
Only a couple of months after we had bought 30 Pitt Hill [now Duckypool Cottage], Courtaulds, for whom I worked, promoted me saying, "You will go to Ireland won't you!" They were building a new factory to make polyester yarn, called Lirelle, in a brand-new factory at a town called Letterkenny in County Donegal. I was to be one of six senior managers, reporting to a General Manager. Five of the other six were polymer production, spinning, engineering, personnel, accountancy, and I was site-services, that is Lord-high everything else - housing, transport, safety, security, communications, canteen, property etc., etc. - a Poo-Ba of a job that took a lot of getting used to.
Letterkenny was 25 miles or so west of Londonderry, in the Republic of Ireland, and at the height of the IRA troubles. We went to look, flying to Belfast and hiring a car to drive over the Glenshane Pass to Londonderry, then across the border to Letterkenny. This was on a dark, wet evening and six armed masked men jumped out of a hedge and stopped us to demand identity documents. Fortunately, they were a British Army patrol and we went on our way! In spite of this, I accepted the job, and we kept 30 Pitt Hill to rent as a holiday cottage.
When we came to buy a house in Ireland, we found a delightful cottage, Rose Cottage, on the edge of a village called Rathmullan on the shores of Loch Swilly, within yards of a beach that would rival Woolacombe!
When we were negotiating the purchase, I asked, "What are the rates?" The only reply was, "T'is best you don't ask". We eventually found that the cottage had belonged to a local hotel that had put its rates onto their bill. When they sold the cottage to the present occupiers, they had simply crossed the item off their own bill, and the council had not thought to put it on another, so the cottage had not paid rates for about 3 years! When it was eventually sorted out, and we got a bill for a year, I was cross as we had only been there for 8 months. Pam said, "Look at it." It was for £36. The cottage had been last rated in 1922 at £2 and not updated. The rates were now £18 in the pound. Modern Letterkenny houses were paying hundreds, so I kept quiet!
This was the late '70s. In Ireland then, there were only two telephone directories, one for Dublin and the other for the whole of the rest of the republic. Our phone was Rathmullan 74. It didn't have a dial, just a handle to turn. I would occasionally pick up the phone on my desk in the factory. I would wait for about a minute for one of twenty ladies in the Letterkenny exchange to say, "Number please" and I would say, "Rathmullan 74 please". A minute or so later another voice would say, "Rathmullan" and I would say "74 please". She would then say, "Oh no, Dr Parke. Your wife has just gone out with Mrs. McCarthy, I'll put you through to 68."
Our house was at the end of the drive of one of the best hotels in Ireland. They also had a number of self-catering cottages, as did another hotel a few hundred yards away in the same village. Looking for an occupation, Pam put a notice saying 'Open' at our front door, and started selling home bakery to the visitors. News travels fast in a village, and before we knew it, she had queues at the door. Eventually, the strain on our old cottage electrical system became so great that it collapsed, and we had to get emergency help from the factory electrician.
Pam then found a holiday home for sale in the village. It was two up and two down. The front bedroom had a double bed and a cot, the back one a two-layer double bunk bed, so the house, which was only about 10 feet wide, slept up to 7! We understand that granny had the inside lower bed at the back! After stripping the house and building a lean-to extension at the back, Pam was able to buy second-hand ovens, a huge mixer, etc., and she had her home bakery, The Buttery.
She trained a number of local girls to work in the shop and was very flattered when one of the older girls married, moved to another village at the far side of the county and opened her own Buttery on the lines that Pam had taught.
There was a habit in the village for having a wake after a funeral. It could be a dry wake, or a wet wake, but there would always be lots of food served. One day a lady came to the shop and said to Pam, "Aunty is sinking fast, she will not last to the end of the month. Would you ever make me a big cake for the wake?" Six months later the same lady came in and said, "Aunty recovered so we ate the wake cake, but she is very poorly again. Would you make me another wake cake please?" Aunty recovered again, she must have been a tough old bird! The next request was "Would you make us a lot of wee buns for the wake please?" We understand that they were properly used this time!
In our second year there, Pam celebrated her 40th birthday, and I could not think of a suitable present. She had always wanted a dog, so I bought her a golden Labrador puppy. Because of its origin, it had to be called Seamus - not a clever thing to do. If you shout "Seamus", anywhere in Ireland, every other Irishman will turn and say, "Yes"!
We were both busy and had neither the time nor the skill to train Seamus properly, so he was always a handful. One Saturday morning Pam was in her shop and I wanted exercise, so I took the dog on to the beach. Usually, if there were three couples there, it was busy, but today was the annual Apprentice Boys' March in Londonderry. Anyone who could escape had come to our beach, so there were dozens of families there. Seamus ran amuck, scattering sand, stealing towels and sandwiches. I yelled at the top of my voice, "Seamus, sit!". Unfortunately, I got the sibilants wrong and for once in his life, the dog did what he was told. It took me a long time to live that one down!
When Pam and I had been in Ireland for two years, we became treated as Irish residents. That meant that our UK driving licences were no longer valid in the republic. We had to take driving tests. I went first, and to get a broader licence, I borrowed the company minibus. All went well until we were on a quiet road. "Pull in and stop." The examiner said. "You see that side road behind you to your left. please back the bus into it, keeping as close to the kerb as you can." I looked, and the road was unfinished and into a new estate. The tarmac dribbled into the dirt, there was no kerb. "Ah well," he said, "Just keep as close as to where you might imagine it would be!" I did and I passed.
When Pam went, she had to do a theory test and was shown a road sign, a white disk with a red rim and a bent arrow pointing to the right with a red bar across it. "If you saw that, Mrs. Parke, which way would you not turn?" It took Pam a while to decide that it wasn't a trick question! After that she drove safely and carefully through Letterkenny on market day, negotiating hand carts, animals and pedestrians with great confidence. She then drove with relief and enthusiasm back to the office, where the car park was up a steep ramp to the second floor. At the end of the ramp all four wheels of the car left the ground! She and the tester looked at each other and he said, "I wish my other clients drove as well as you did, but if you come back, do go more slowly up the ramp!" She passed!
[To be continued!]
The current advertising for the successful musical, Book of Mormon, reminded me of a trip I made, back in the early seventies.
I was working for Courtaulds as the technical manager of an experimental pilot plant developing carbon fibre. We were stretching the fibre under inert gas at a temperature of over 2500c. The only thing that doesn't melt at that temperature, let alone vaporise, is graphite, so it was all a bit difficult, and very technical!
Courtaulds then had a technical exchange agreement with the American Hercules Powder Company who made explosives. At that time, the peak of the space race, they were making rocket engines and were also interested in carbon fibre. Their factory was about 12 miles outside Salt Lake City, and I was sent there to exchange knowledge on the developments.
Most of you will know that Salt Lake City is the home of the Mormons. And this story is about them, rather than carbon fibre.
I was booked into a hotel in Salt Lake City and was driven every day back and forth to the plant. The driver was a retired steel worker and he would say things like, "Gee, I wish I had the vocabulary of you English folk!" It turned out that he was the Elder of the local Mormon Tabernacle, and he was at least as articulate as I was. He started to tell me about Mormonism, and it became clear, that if you were a devout believer, you had a numbered place awaiting you on the right hand of the deity. If you were so unfortunate as not to have met Mormonism, then there was an antechamber where you could become 'educated', and then claim your place. If, however, you knew about Mormonism and did not accept it, there was only one way for you and that was down! I said, "Joe, I am a total unbeliever, and I won't be convinced. If you tell me about Mormonism, aren't you committing me to Hell?" It didn't stop him and when I got home, he sent me The Book of The Mormon. It stayed at home on our bookshelf for a long time just to confuse our visitors!
The Mormons take things very seriously and they eschew all stimulants including tea, coffee and alcohol, but they are not bigoted. If, as I was, you were taken out for a meal and you would like wine with it, you must not ask a Mormon to serve you against his principles. However, you might see a table at the side of the room with bottles on it. You helped yourself, left the cash and that was acceptable.
Mormons are supposed to allocate 10% of their income to their church or other charity. Certainly, at that time I was made aware of Mormons in difficulty that their church was caring for. They were also expected to give one or two years of their lives to spreading their gospel before starting their careers. At that time, you would occasionally open your door to one or perhaps a pair of Mormon preachers. That does not seem to happen so much these days.
In Salt Lake City there is a big four-block square that contains the Mormon Tabernacle [you don't get in unless you are a card-carrying member], the Concert Hall where the wonderful Mormon Choir and Orchestra perform, and the Mormon Visitors' Centre where you can go to 'learn all about it', which I did.
The centre looked as if it had been finished and furnished by a major hotel chain, thick carpets, framed pictures, and luxurious furniture. Walking along a corridor I felt my elbows gripped by a handsome young man and a pretty girl. They said, "Have you seen our hall of mirrors? Gee, you should see our hall of mirrors!", then opened a door in the wall, pushed me through and shut it behind me. I was standing in a room about 6 foot-deep and 15 foot-wide. The front wall was curtains and the end walls were full length mirrors. I was wondering what would happen when a huge voice boomed out from up there said: - "Have you thought about all the SIN AND EVIL that there is in the world? Who do you think is RESPONSIBLE for all the SIN AND EVILTHAT THERE IS IN THE WORLD? LOOK INTO THE MIRROR!" The curtains opened and then, feeling about four-foot six high, one was wafted through into the Mormon 'promised land'. They did not convert me, but I gave them full marks for effort.
While I was at The Hercules Powder Co. I became friends with the chief Electrical Engineer of the plant, and he and his wife invited me to come for a week-end in their holiday house near Moab in Utah, about 150 miles south of Salt Lake City. We packed up his car, an enormous Buick, on the Friday afternoon with my bag, their luggage, and most important, a six-bottle box with various bottles of spirits and mixers, so that that we would have a comfortable weekend! We did.
I don't recall much of my visit, but they took me to Dead Horse Point. [see picture]. This was a promontory high above the Colorado River, a bit up-stream from the Grand Canyon. Legend has it that the natives in the area used to round up wild horses onto the point, where they could corral them. They could then select those they could break and tame, then drive the rest over cliff into the river 100 feet below; hence the name!
On the Sunday it snowed and we had to drive over a pass back to Salt Lake City. Fortunately, a snow plough had come over the pass, but only one way, towards us, so we were driving on the wrong side of the road. There was no other traffic until a car approached us and we then had to drive off into the snow. Our car stalled and no amount of churning with the starter would make the motor start. My friend, the engineer, said he knew nothing about cars. He had bought this one a couple of years back. If the petrol consumption got over about 8 miles to the [American] gallon, he took it to be serviced, but he had never opened the hood [bonnet!] himself. We were miles from anywhere and there was no other traffic. There were, of course, no mobile phones in those days.
"Bill," I said, "We have got to do something, and at least we should have a look". He pulled the catch, and I opened the bonnet. There was the massive V8 engine and on top of it a huge distributor, the size of a large dinner plate. I put my hand on it and it was loose. I could rotate it through perhaps 30 degrees. I moved it fully anticlockwise, and fully clockwise, then put it in what I guessed was the mid position. Lacking a spanner, I tightened the bolt as best I could with my fingers.
We got into the car, he turned the key and away we went. Thereafter of course, I was the miracle-working mechanic from over the pond!