Classic Calls the Shots by Amy Myers

shorter, I might have had trouble seeing out over the bonnet. For me, though, it was a glorious moment, even though the lanes to Syndale Manor, once one has left the A20, are not wide. In places meeting another car involves contact with scratchy hedges, ditches and mud, but I had little choice of route. There are two ways of approaching the Manor and both of them involve stretches of single-track lanes that set classic car owners’ hearts a-quiver. I took the Doddington road through Wichling, which is so small that you are past it before you recognize it as an independent village. Nevertheless it has an active church, which dignifies it by the name of village rather than hamlet. It is high up on the Downs and that whole area can be creepy, very creepy in rain or mist or low cloud. The Pilgrims Way, the ancient road from Winchester to Canterbury, runs along the Downs between Wichling and the A20 and its atmosphere suggests that the humble cars on the main road are a mere nothing compared with the ghosts of pilgrims past. Except, of course, for the Auburn, which is hardly a mere nothing. I was still savouring every minute of this drive, although the wipers were hardly efficient when I tried to remove some bird dirt that had blessed the windscreen.
    With the weather still meditating on what mischief it might produce and my anxiety to avoid responsibility for the slightest mark on the Auburn, I was glad when, having turned down the even narrower lane to Syndale Manor, which boasted grass growing through the tarmac in places, I saw the Manor’s open gates on the right. It lies in the Syndale valley, the better known end of which emerges near Ospringe, on the A2 to Canterbury. Smugglers, pilgrims, Templars, prehistoric traders – they have all used this valley and add their own history to that of the travellers on the Pilgrims Way, which is a relatively recent name for a track going back to prehistory. Like Dad in the Glory Boot, their ghosts still hang around.
    As I proceeded up the Manor drive, a sign pointed to the field where cars were to be parked, and I was about to go in when a horrified security guard (Shotsworth Security, naturally) leapt out of nowhere and frantically waved me onwards.
    â€˜You’re
production
,’ he yelled at me, goggling at the car. ‘They’re waiting for you up
there.
’
    Is
there
Heaven? I wondered, as I drove onwards. It was one form of it, I discovered. The guard had obviously rung the great news of my arrival through, because as I turned a corner I was greeted by an amazing spectacle. In the background against an unexpectedly blue sky was Syndale Manor. I’d seen pictures of it, but the real thing was stupendous. Georgian, mellowed yellow stone, dignified, huge, and with beautifully proportioned windows, it was a gracious sight to behold.
    To my right in the shade of a line of trees I glimpsed the usual cluster of day caravans and trailers, and to my left was a field full of what looked like the catering vans and loos, together with an array of tables. All these I briefly registered, but what transfixed my astounded eyes was what lay ahead of me. It seemed the entire crew, cast and staff were lining the driveway for my triumphant arrival, or more probably the Auburn’s. They were waving madly, and there was even a modest cheer or two. Striding towards me in the middle of the drive like a sheriff in a Western was Bill Wade.
    He and I both drew up with about six feet left between us. I got out of the Auburn and indicated he could take over the driving, but he didn’t move.
    â€˜About time,’ he grunted. ‘Hurt, is she?’
    â€˜Not a scratch.’
    â€˜Inside damage?’
    â€˜None that I or the police could see.’
    We looked at her together, admiring the cream paintwork, the four chromed external exhaust headers and all the other glories of this wonderful car.
    â€˜That’s bad news,’ was Bill’s remarkable conclusion,