After being delayed by the snow on several occasions Rachel and I made our way down to Somerset ahead of Molly for the third time. We had a call from Andy (the chap towing her) to comfirm he'd set off and said all was well. We were just passing Taunton when the phone rang again. It was Andy and he'd turned back. His Defender had spent half the trip sliding sideways and he'd nearly jack-knifed a few times. He went on to make a rather rude comment about Molly's weight but I'll not go in to that now.
The cost of ragging Rachel's little Clio up and down the M5 was starting to take its toll se we resolved to make this the last trip; Molly was going to be in Somerset before the day was done. After a customary cup of tea we got on the phones and rang every poor bugger that owned a vehicle bigger than a defender in a 50 mile radius. Eventually we hit on family run company that moved caravans and motor homes and the deal was done. We sent the bloke off to meet Andy in Shaw and waited for the call.
We heard nothing for hours. When finally we received a call we could barely make out any of the words for either broken signal or provincial dialect. One word, however, we did understand; 'Eight.'
At nine O'clock there were four of us peering into the darkness from the driveway. It started as a distant murmur shaking the still nights air. We couldn't be sure if we'd heard it. We ran out to the lane just as six bright lights came flying around the corner, baring down on our position. An engine roared passed us and with a flash of white, was gone. We look at one another utterly perplexed.
'What the hell was it?' Asked Bob.
'I, I, I don't know.' Zac finally replied.
Then the noise returned. With a roar and cloud of dust a great bounding hulk arrived in the yard.
She was home.
The driver informed us that he loved the vehicle but if it were down to him he’d drop out the current engine and install a Rover V8. We thanked him for his advice and he barrelled off into the night.