I know exactly what I was doing on that day. I wonder if anyone else does? (Know what they were doing I mean, not what I was doing)
I remember the time well but not exactly what I was doing. Ok I'll bite, what were you doing Tom.
On this day in 1976 we were stopping on Dinnington Camp, one of the new purpose-built Gypsy sites.
As council sites go it was exceptional in that it was well tolerated by the local settled community. Another plus was that most of the families on there were related, so it mirrored to some extent the way we would live in the wild.
Each plot had a good sized concrete slab to park your caravan on, a utility shed with a sink, toilet and shower, and, best of all, an electricity supply via a meter.
The day before I had been to Barnsley in my Transit lorry. On the way home I was just cresting a hill in Hoyland when I heard a funny plink plink noise coming from my engine. Before I had time to pull over a con rod snapped and pushed it's way through the side of the block leaving a hole in the side of the engine that was big enough to put my hand in. To prove this point, I did put my hand in and quickly learned that the oil in a transit engine that has just come up a big hill in Hoyland gets pretty. I also learned that Yorkshire audiences are very generous with their applause for inpromptu dance performances.
To cut a long story short, the next day my transit was parked in front of my caravan on the slab at Dinnington. At the front stood the old knackered engine that I had removed with the aid of a borrowed trolley jack. I had unbolted it from the gearbox, put the jack under the sump, lifted it about half an inch to remove the pressure from the drive shaft and locator studs etc and then I just wheeled the jack out along the concrete with the engine balanced on it. Beautiful.
Now to fit the replacement engine that I had bought yesterday from a scrap yard that we passed as my dad was towing me home. All I had to do was reverse the removal process, i.e. balance the engine on the trolley jack and push it into place. The trouble was, the replacement engine was on the back of the lorry and I had no way of getting it off.
I stood at the side of the lorry trying to come up with a solution, and I clasped the engine to my chest, then I sort of leaned back a little and found that I had actually manged to lift it clear of the lorry floor, which is pretty amazing because I've just looked up the weight of a 2ltr V4 Transit engine and it comes in at 148gk dry. Mine was filled with oil and had the flywheel and clutch plate fitted.
What I didn't realise was that I hadn't actually lifted this engine, what I had done was just support it's weight with my back and legs locked in position. As soon as I turned away from the lorry I realised that I couldn't put it down. What's more, in the few seconds that I had been holding it I had sagged a few inches and so I couldn't put it back on the lorry either. I was just stuck.
After standing there quivering and panicking for a minute or so I had to let go. The engine dropped on to the concrete and one of the cast gearbox mountings shattered instantly rendering it useless.
At that time my bankroll had stretched to buying a replacement engine but it wouldn't stretch to buying another and my dad had to bail me out. I was mortified at my own stupidity and even more mortified at having to put on my dad.
That night on the news the man said this would be remembered as the hottest day of the hottest year and I thought, 'That's not why I'll remember it'.
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