.This is a serious catch-up blog.
A week after my daughter’s wedding on 4th September (beautiful weather, everyone happy etc.) I set off on a round trip to deliver a block to Warwickshire and a cowling to Rugby,and then on to attend a family funeral in Huddersfield and then to collect Tracy the Tractor from Penrith. I’d allowed four days for all this which is what it took.

What I hadn’t allowed for was the appalling weather on the M14 and M6. It really chucked it down so when I arrived at the block venue I unloaded the block (I’d remembered to take a sack barrow with me) wet (fun going down the slippery wet ramp with it but we landed safely) and had been told to put it in the porch as the owner was away. I’d imagined a deep, dry porch where I could tuck the block in the dry at the back and was aghast to find a porch into which the rain was driving. Now we all know that rusty bores are not a good idea so I dried it as best I could and covered it with all I had which was a piece of rather sad plywood. I was not happy about leaving it when suddenly the farmer-next –door materialised to feed the owners cows and extremely kindly said he’d take the block home with him and would grease the bores as well. Some people are so nice.

Off I set again (it was still raining) and I realised that if I was to reach Huddersfield in time to put my tent up in daylight, delivering the cowling would have to be given a miss. I rang and explained and he was understanding and accepted its being sent at the end of the week instead.

I arrived in Huddersfield as daylight was fading. It’s a big place. It’s a long way right round the ring road. I’d phoned earlier to say I’d not arrive, as arranged, by 7’O’clock and yes would be happy to park in the car park and carry the tent in so I wasn’t worrying about time so much as actually finding the damn camp site. I’d taken a picture off the internet (as well as directions) so I knew what I was looking for but firstly I sailed over the turning, twice, on a flyover with no apparent exits then tried a different route and found myself in a rather derelict industrial area with huge empty mills and warehouses. I’d had the sense earlier to buy a street atlas so I knew the names of the streets but not how to find the one I wanted. It was now10.30pm, dark, oh, and it was, surprisingly- raining!  Amongst the dereliction was a small pub so I parked, went in bought a half of the local brew and explained my predicament. Most of the customers (all three of them) were, together with the young barman, extremely helpful, identified my campsite road and gave me directions to get on and off the flyover. Reluctantly I left the warmth – ‘Don’t forget’, the barman said, ‘If you can’t find your way, come back here.’ (How nice can people be! ) and set off confidently. I missed a turning, went in a circle (onto the flyover, off the flyover, underneath and back on again) twice (I must mention, coming from Norfolk as I do, that the lights far below suggested a stunning view- pity it was dark) and found the campsite lane the third time round. It was by now, 11’o’clock. Finding the lane was great but finding the campsite was not. I’d driven 380 miles by now and turning the truck round in narrow areas several times was trying. I ventured further up the lane and suddenly say something which approximated visually to the view of the front of the campsite. Thankfully I turned in through large gates and drove up the track- only to find myself in a farmyard with no exit. There were geraniums in pots- they showed up in the headlights. There were also a number of dogs barking wildly and lights starting to go on on the ground floor. A man’s voice shouted at the dogs and a door opened. Now I am very familiar with the kind of reception one would receive down south at that time of night and switched the engine off in order to be able to receive the blast of annoyance. There was no escape. I was very apprehensive and words of profuse apology were ready on my lips. I did get as far as saying, ‘I’m most awfully sorry to have disturbed you but when I explained what I was looking for and why I was there the disturbed owner could not have been nicer- he was kind, he was chatty, he was helpful. Told me where I needed to go and wouldn’t let me back out up the drive, ‘No, turn round here- much easier for you. Don’t worry, I’ll see you back.’ I drove away filled with deep gratitude for such kindness.

I did find the campsite. I did try to put a large tent up in the dark  with a vicious wind blowing (the site was high up on a hilltop) and gave it up. I bundled the tent into the truck cab, ate two oat biscuits and some houmous and drank some water (a far cry from my planned hot meal prepared on my camping stove drinking a glass of wine while I cooked but never mind …), climbed into the cab on top of the tent (it felt like a nest) pulled my sleeping bag over me and unbelievably had a really good night’s sleep (well, what was left of it by now).

By ten the next morning I had put my tent up (guy ropes first to stop it blowing away), dressed myself in my funeral gear and found my way (more helpful people telling me where to catch a bus) to the funeral parlour from where the cortege was due to set off.  Bit of a miracle I thought afterwards.

The following day I set off to Carlisle. Now I have a mystical drawing to the north- possibly because of my Scottish ancestry and from a child just seeing ‘Great North Road’ on a signpost sent a tingle up my back- it still does. I was thus incredibly happy driving further and further north until reluctantly still 9 miles from the Scottish border I reached my destination.

We’ve had all sorts of fun and games over the years loading Fergusons but this one was a cracker!  The really nice owners confirmed that the tractor drove well which relieved me greatly as, just before setting off, while loading tents and stuff into the passenger side of the cab I managed to short circuit the winch controls with one of the metal strap handles (yes, I know, if I had tidied them neatly away earlier as I should have done they would not have been in a position to short out the winch). What happened was a minor explosion and clouds of upward-curling black smoke which filled the truck and- to my horror- real flames!  While I stood momentarily immobile, considering how best to deal with it the flames died down but it took my heart rate much longer to go back to normal.

So, I listened to Tracy the Tractor starting up promptly in the shed and reckoned I’d be able to arrive at my camp-site some thirty miles away with plenty of daylight in hand.  Alas, it was not to be. Tracy started well, a number of times, but would not run for more than half a minute at a time.  After we’d tried all the usual remedies we watched a slow drip, drip of fuel into the fuel bowl and diagnosed blocked a fuel tap filter on the petrol side of the tank. It became obvious that Tracy was not going to load herself. We discussed a number of methods including coasting down the hill and up the ramp but luckily, at that point the farmer arrived. With his dinner waiting he sorted the situation with a novel form of loading- hoinking the tractor up the ramp from behind with a bale spike under each trumpet housing. It was not as straightforward as written and was very undignified for a Ferguson and required a driver of courage to sit and steer with a huge growling monster tractor two inches away from his back. But it worked and with the tractor strapped down I was waved off.

It was getting towards dusk now and I realised, reluctantly, that camping was a non-starter that night. I thought I’d just drive on through the night but that ceased to be an option as tiredness hit me. It’s a heavy (not actually a pun) responsibility driving someone’s precious tractor so I decided to find a room in a wayside inn or a guest house or anywhere. Guarding a Ferguson is a priority so I couldn’t just stop anywhere. After many enquiries had drawn negative answers due to being fully booked (I was of course in a popular tourist area so not surprising) I was getting a bit desperate. I came to a village with, thank providence, a huge hotel which I reckoned had to have an empty room because it looked as if only an army would fill it. I parked, entered and saw one solitary person sitting at a table. I explained my requirement. He shook his head, ‘We’re not actually open yet, I’m afraid.’  One could have taken it on the chin and retreated in a dignified manner but I didn’t- I pleaded.
‘Anything would do, even a bit of floor with my sleeping bag…’ He looked at me, I waited with a trickle of hope. I’ll see if there is a room made up. He disappeared and I could here several sets of footsteps overhead and assumed someone else was helping him to look. He came down.’You look too done in to drive further if you don’t mind me saying so. There’s one room if you don’t mind the walls not being painted.’ As if I cared! With gratitude I followed his instructions to park the truck where nothing short of a travelling large crane could have stolen the tractor from the back of the truck and was shortly thereafter letting a pint of a superb local bitter start to wash the tension out of me. 

We got chatting of course and I learnt that he was the manager getting the hotel ready for opening shortly. ‘It’s a lonely job at the moment,’ he said. At that moment footsteps sounded clearly overhead again. I frowned, puzzled, and said, ‘Isn’t that someone up there?’ He caught my upward glance and said,’That’s the ghost.’  Just like that, casually. I didn’t know whether to believe him, thought he was having me on perhaps but no. He told me how terrified he’d been at first, the woman on the first floor walking up and down the corridor and at a certain time in the night, rattling the emergency door beside his room, and the man standing by the fireplace. He pointed  but I could see nothing. Needless to say, at this point I began to wonder whether I’d done something silly- just me, a strange man and several ghosts. Lack of
options won the day and I downed another pint to blunt my sensibilities. It turned out that I had no need to worry. The manager was a courteous host expressing his pleasure at having another person to talk to and showing me how to let myself out in the morning by going through the vast new kitchens with acres of stainless steel and we shook hands, said goodnight and I slept through the night without hearing a single, ghostly sound.

After my adventures it was good to be back in the workshop.

Well, mostly. I had expected a cheque for a finished tractor before I left so was sure it would have arrived by the time I returned but it was not so. I hate to say that a Ferguson owner could behave in this way but it seems he was one of the sort of guys who thinks its funny to twist the arm of a small business because they are vulnerable.  It’s the first time we’ve had a customer who gave the go-ahead to an extensive amount of work, paid the first two smaller stage payments then, when he received the final bill turned round and refused to pay a penny more until we reduced the bill substantially.

 He held us to ransom for another five weeks threatening us with solicitors, legal fees, etc. etc. if we didn’t return his tractor, The business weathered everything thrown at it over the last few years but he nearly brought us down. With holding his payment meant men  laid off for weeks which didn’t amuse them or me, I received a court summons for non-payment of rates, I let down a number of suppliers who’d been promised payment that month and I borrowed money from my mortgage payments for the business and got behind with the mortgage.

I understand, talking to other people that this is not an uncommon trick. Happens mostly to small builders apparently. When their work is done, they can’t take it back again. Yes, we did have his tractor but that did not pay bills and his threats of legal action to get his tractor back seriously stressed us all out. He didn’t realise how the engineer who did the work would feel at having his conscientious work seriously undervalued, and he didn’t realise how close he was to having all the parts taken off his tractor and his tractor returned to him in bits.
 Its possibly a way of life with him- he runs two big businesses- but I’m now seriously wondering if I should put his name out on our website to warn any other small businesses he might have dealings with. It can’t be libel because it happened and it can’t be defamation of character because I have all the evidence that he did this to us.

In the end I was faced with closing the business down or accepting a compromise. I thought long and hard, thought of all you responsible Ferguson owners who’ve appreciated what we’ve done over the years, thought of the customer who, hearing what had happened, offered to pay now for parts he wants later in the year , I had to accept the compromise. Losing the sum we did was a huge blow for a business our size and I can’t forgive him for what he did, how he did it and the things he said. Now needless to say we do not, want him as a customer again, ever. Any guarantees he would normally have had would have been invalidated due to his taking up workshop time and efforts and not paying his full bill.

In the meantime while we were waiting for the crankshaft to come back (another cashflow casualty) we were able to get on a bit with  the Z120 because the new ring gear problem had been sorted thanks to my niece (who as well as being an absolute star at Jessie and Tom’s wedding, dashing out to buy a needle and cotton and then sewing my flower onto my wedding hat then sewing one of the bridesmaids into their dress as well as putting up my new tent for me single handed while I was busy elsewhere (and I didn’t hear until afterwards that she was in considerable pain whenever she moved her arm)) also had ordered a new ring gear in the States where she lives and brought it back to England in her suitcase!  She found that the customs had been right through her luggage but they obviously recognised it as being what it said it was, not a piece of terrorist kit.

We’re now into October…

This bit of the blog is a bit notational because I’m writing it in between entering bills on the computer and listening to the comments as the engineer starts to look at Tracy the Tractor’s engine.

Tracy’s oil leak had worried the owner as possibly being something serious but turned out to be due to the rocker cover gasket’s having been twisted inwards when fitted, leaving a gap for oil to leak out.

The rockers were rusted (water present) but the oil when drained from the sump was uncontaminated so the engineer concluded that the tractor had been left standing for some time with the rust due to condensing water in the rocker cover.

As the rocker assembly was lifted off it left half a support pillar behind! Obviously broken for some time.

There'll be a bent push-rod here said the Engineer and sure enough there was.

Probably, he said, a cam follower had jammed up and as the push-rod was moved up, the only thing that could give was the rocker pillar. On top of the head is 16/11/51 in cast letters which should match the engine number unless there has been an engine replacement.
With the engine further stripped down a liner was found to have  a piece out of the bottom. The fracture suggests pressure from inside eg. something under the piston. Same piston which had the bent push- rod. All starts to hang together.
Something new discovered when the liners were taken out- fibre spectacle gaskets!

As usual- loads of mud in the water jacket!

November…

Tracy is on the last stage before going back home. 

The hydraulics have been tested and are found to work well. the fuel tank has been taken off again to be examined for holes (some fuel on the floor after the weekend) but appears sound. Earlier the petrol side had been drained and cleaned out and a new filter to replace one missing had been fitted. The TVO side had shown not problems and the filter could be seen to be in place when a torch beam was shone obliquely across the inside of the tank. The electrics have been checked and the rotted cotton binding replaced with self-bonding matt black tape. Burnt points have been replaced and the charging light which failed to go out has been sorted by identifying a bad connection (paint is good for keeping off rust but bad for good connections). A new piece of rubber pipe has been put on the carb end of the breather pipe and bolts which don’t go in until the engineer is sure all is well, are back on, a small leak in the oil pressure pipe has  disappeared with a further turn, new oil is in the oil filter, the foot-rests, bonnet and tax disc are on and the brakes have had another adjustment after the tractor has been driven around  for half an hour. There is more oil to go in the gear box now it has had time to seep through the incredibly small hole on the bulkhead between the gear box and the hydraulic end