Happy Memories: Austin Rally, April 2012
A Clive James-style recollection of one man, one dog, and several hundred Rovers
Until recently, I’d attended my fair share of classic car rallies—mainly the Rover persuasion, from the muscular SD1 to the ever-grumbling P6. I’d never thought much about going to the local Austin event, largely because every time it happened, I was either working or entirely unaware of its existence. A fine excuse, if you enjoy pretending you’ve been living under a particularly uncurious rock. Which is odd, really, as I pass through Cofton Park five times a week. Apparently, I’ve been walking through a major vintage automotive congregation every spring with all the awareness of a blindfolded mole. One can only hope that one day the organisers discover posters—and put them up.
This year, thanks to my nephew (a brave soul in a Metro Manhattan), I was finally alerted to the rally. He was joining a convoy from Hopwood to Cofton Park—like The Italian Job, if The Italian Job had been slightly slower and mostly featured men in sensible shoes. Had he not mentioned it, the rally would’ve roared on, unnoticed by me, like a military coup in Luxembourg.
So Rocky—my dog, amateur photographer, and seasoned critic of grass quality—and I set off. He carried the camera. I carried the snacks. Between us, we made a passable press team, though admittedly he’s better at focusing on things, particularly if they smell of sausage.
We arrived at 10:15am to find the park transformed: hundreds of Rovers in every shape and shade imaginable, their owners gripping the steering wheels as if fearing their beloved machines might be repossessed by the gods of Leyland. There was a quiet pride, the kind usually reserved for family portraits and unopened whisky collections.
Rocky was dismayed to discover that his favourite green expanse had been annexed by machines and middle-aged men in fleece jackets. He was on a lead, and unimpressed. But, ever the professional, he began snapping photos—mainly of people’s feet. Still, it’s art if you squint.
Now, the planned layout of the show had, by mid-morning, collapsed in the way most British organisational efforts do—quietly, and with a sense of dignified improvisation. Cars were parked in clumps, clusters, and at least one existential crisis. A few were cheekily intermingled with civilian vehicles, leaving one unsure if that Triumph Dolomite was on display or had simply lost its way to Tesco.
And then came the inevitable: the burger van. A British staple at any outdoor event, and subject to its own peculiar gravitational pull. People will queue for an eternity for a burger so overpriced it must surely come with shares in the van. It’s not the food—it’s the queuing. We are, after all, a nation whose superpower is forming a line and pretending to enjoy it.
The same logic seemed to apply to the portable toilets. Their queues rivalled those for the burgers, suggesting that either the burgers were extremely efficient, or the portaloos were being used as warm seating. I proposed to Rocky a revolutionary idea: a portaloo with a back exit, leading directly to the burger queue. “It’ll halve the waiting time and double the sense of purpose,” I said. Rocky, who is more pragmatic than he looks, suggested we bring it up at the next rally meeting. But we agreed: best leave both luxuries to the professionals. We’d survive without meat patties or chemical loos.
As we wandered further, the real joy of the event revealed itself—not just the cars, but the imaginary lives they’d led. A two-tone Marina might have cruised the Cornish coast in ’78. A mustard Allegro could have witnessed marital breakdowns in three counties. Some might have even appeared in films—though, judging by the owners, no one would tell you that. Most of them were locked in deckchairs, paralysed in a state of motorised meditation.
A few had taken things further—locking themselves inside the car. Doors shut, windows up, thermos gripped like the sceptre of a minor royal. I knocked on one window with a cheery “Good morning!” and was met with the stony silence of two people communing with forces unknown, possibly psychic or just deeply British. I suspect they’ve been in that car since 2006.
Eventually, we came to the highlight of any British gathering: watching people leave. I filmed the departing procession—one by one, cars rolled away, proud, squeaky, and sometimes uncooperative. I seemed to be the only one filming. People either admired my dedication or pitied it. Either way, I had a clear shot.
Then came the day’s most touching moment: an elderly couple—he 82, she 84—stood beside us, disappointed. They’d come to see a Metro, they said, but hadn’t seen a single one. I briefly considered pointing out the hundreds we’d already walked past, but thought better of it. They were lovely, and besides, they’d both worked at Austin—“in between strikes,” she added. Her fondest memories, it turned out, were of voting not to work. “Always something going on in Cofton Park,” she said. “Yes,” I replied, “usually waving your arms about.” She laughed like someone who remembered how to strike, but forgot why.
And with that, Rocky and I headed home—me pondering the mystery of the silent car people, and Rocky dreaming of chicken. We’d had a brilliant day: history, hilarity, and just enough absurdity to make it unforgettable.
Link to all photos at the Austin event. https://photos.app.goo.gl/TiPxNu7M5XWy4fmd9
