After the train ride to Liverpool, we caught the ubiquitous black cabs of England and found the people who had our car. It’s…She’s beautiful! Everything was magical, except for the dead battery which required a jump from the local forklift. So with a lovely car, charged and raring to go, we decided to call her Rosie.
From Liverpool, we drove a measly four hours to the campsite in the South of England, where it then took another hour to try and find the campsite. The other rallyests are tonnes of fun and the general age is about 25-30. On one side of us is a team from Switzerland, the other has some British university students and across the makeshift road is a team from Vancouver. So now it’s a late night and an early morning before we get to the racetrack for the morning festivities.
PS. Ken has almost died countless times already, simply because he is such a good driver. Having to drive on the left has confused both of us but I have yet to come inches from getting hit by a car while crossing the road, not once but twice. We have both drifted into the right lane, luckily devoid of oncoming traffic once each and the strain shows on Ken, I’m just better at hiding it.