Notwithstanding, I do like cars and in my constituency town of Ruthin one day last summer, I saw a car that was – to my wholly subjective eye – utterly beautiful.  It was a 2003 Peugeot 406 coupé, a model that had previously, inexplicably, escaped my notice.  

I spent several minutes walking around it, admiring the purity and elegant simplicity of its lines.  It was, according to a discreet badge low on its flank, a product of Farina, the Italian design house responsible for some of the most exciting models of such exotic marques as Ferrari, Maserati and Alfa Romeo, as well the more interesting offerings of such home-grown names as Morris and Austin in pre-British Leyland days.   It was just a mass-produced car, but it was gorgeous.

That’s the thing about cars: uniquely among machines, they have the capacity to inspire, sometimes in equal measure, love and loathing, frustration and adoration.  They are not just bits of metal; they are extensions of ourselves.  When we are on the move, they become our homes.  We personalise them, spending hundreds of pounds on accessories. We cosset them when we are still in love with them and we take it personally when they let us down. 

 We never feel that way about, for example, our dishwashers.

For most of us, cars are our second-biggest purchase.  A big chunk of our income goes into buying, running and maintaining them.  So we need to be sure that they are as reliable and economical as possible.   While few of us are so naïve or optimistic as to think that we can make money on a car, we also need to be assured that the “residuals” are acceptable.

Importantly, too, we need to be certain that they are as safe as they can be, because their principal function is to convey the perishable human frames of us and our loved ones around the increasingly overcrowded tarmac of this little island.   And those of us who care about such things – and most of us do these days – need to feel that our next pride and joy is going to be as friendly as possible to our fragile ecosystem.

And that, in short, is why we need you, the motoring writers.  

Because you are there to help us make sure that our hearts, so far as possible, don’t rule our heads; that we don’t fall for an apparently desirable piece of eye-candy that turns out to be a lemon. 

You apply your years of experience and your technical expertise in supplying us with that rarest and most valuable of commodities: good, sound advice. 

And yes, you love cars too, as I learned at your annual dinner last year.  But it is not uncritical love, and therefore it is the best kind.

So please continue with your valuable work, all the more important in these difficult economic times.  Tell us, by all means, the bad as well as the good.

And if you must disillusion us, please do it gently. 

Image via Wikipedia

An all-day ministerial excursion took me today to Wrexham, the part of the world where I was brought up and which, in my admittedly prejudiced opinion, is one of the most interesting corners of Wales, with a rich military, industrial and social heritage.

There, I learned some facts of which I was previously unaware:

• Glyndŵr University was constructed in the 1950s, in what I can only describe as a very late art deco style, as a technical college.  It was built, however, with a more sombre alternative potential use in mind: as a hospital to accommodate the victims of a nuclear attack.  Hence, the corridors are particularly wide, to allow for the passage of trolleys and beds.  We must be thankful that it never needed to be adapted from its primary purpose.
• The old police station, which is now being converted, courtesy of the Heritage Lottery Fund, into the Wrexham museum, was formerly a barracks for the Denbighshire Yeomanry.  It originally had a tower (two of which remain) on each of its four corners  and was planned to be surrounded by a moat.  Like many fine Wrexham buildings of the period, is constructed of honey-coloured Cefn-y-Fedw sandstone, which is sadly no longer quarried.
• The police station’s architect also designed the marble church in Bodelwyddan.
• Owls, according to the members of Owlrescue whom I met at Garth CP School, can rotate their heads through 270 degrees.  They do this because they are unable to swivel their eyes.
• Not all owls are nocturnal hunters; only those with dark eyes are.  Owls with yellow eyes are diurnal and those with orange eyes are crepuscular.

Tomorrow, it’s the Denbigh and Flint show.  I’d bet a pound to a penny that I will learn something new there, too.  Because, in this job, that’s something that happens every day.

Related Articles

• University guide: Glyndwr University (guardian.co.uk)

I’ve always liked cars, which is probably a dangerous thing to admit to in these politically correct days in which, in certain quarters, the likes of Jeremy Clarkson are suspected of covertly bearing the mark of the Beast.     

Notwithstanding, I do like cars and in Ruthin today, I saw a car that was – to my subjective eye – utterly beautiful.  It was a 2003 Peugeot 406 coupé, a model that had previously, inexplicably, escaped my notice. 

I spent several minutes walking around it, admiring the purity and elegant simplicity of its lines.  It was, according to a discreet badge low on its flank, a product of Farina, the Italian design house responsible for some of the most exciting models of such exotic marques as Ferrari, Maserati and Alfa Romeo, as well the more interesting offerings of such home-grown names as Morris and Austin in pre-British Leyland days.

I was lucky enough to meet its owner shortly afterwards and got into conversation with him.  He told me that the car gave him enormous pleasure and that he felt sure it was a future classic.

I feel pretty sure he’s right.  It’s an absolute stunner.

What ingredient is it, I wonder, in the Italian DNA that makes them such brilliant designers?  It’s not only cars; it’s ships, it’s clothes, it’s even coffee machines, for heaven’s sake.  Italy, above all nations, produces designers con bravura.

The seven year-old Peugeot, though French-manufactured, screamed “Italian”.  And, as such, it was an object that engendered instant, indefinable desire.

The secretary, David Curtis (who is shortly to retire, which will be a major loss to the Association), read the minutes of the previous month’s meeting.  I was particularly interested when he referred to the “adopt-a-border” scheme at St John’s church.  Under the scheme, individual local people will assume responsibility for looking after one of the church’s seventeen flower beds, so helping maintain the wonderful garden that has won so many Wales in Bloom awards.

I pointed out that “adopt-a-border” was very much in tune with the Big Society agenda.  Big Society was simply a reflection what is already happening up and down the country, with people taking responsibility for the direction of their own communities, with the Government helping them to achieve their aims.

All over this constituency and, indeed, all over Britain, people such those I met this evening are rolling up their sleeves and getting stuck in, doing their bit for the place they live in and so making it a little better.  If Big Society can help them to do even more, it will have proven its worth.

Yesterday, for the sixth year running, I participated in the judging of the annual “Glyn in Bloom” competition, which has become a firmly established feature of civic life in that part of Colwyn Bay.

The concept is simple: Glyn is divided up into individual streets, and first, second and third prizes are awarded to the best front gardens.  Up to two additional merit awards are given, to encourage completion.  The result is that over the past five years, the overall standard of gardens in the Glyn has visibly improved and the competition is keenly contested.  . 

Paul Richards, the local town councillor who plays a big part in organising “Glyn in Bloom”, told me that its annual cost is no more than £250.  To see such a positive impact on civic pride in return for so small an outlay is truly to appreciate the meaning of “bang for the buck”.   

I am pictured with Phill Williams, one of this year’s winners, whose garden in Ffordd Dawel is an absolute delight.

Llanrhaeadr show yesterday, and the weather turned fine after an early morning cloudburst.

The show was one of the best attended of recent years, with high standards in all classes, particularly the pony section.

Entering the showground, I did a double-take at the incongruous sight of an enclosure what I thought were llamas, but in fact turned out to be alpacas, from a herd established at the wonderfully-named Sodom Hall, near Bodfari.  They were beautiful, gentle animals and produce, I am told, exceptionally fine wool.

If anyone knows why the area they come from is called Sodom, I will be fascinated (albeit a little nervous) to hear. 

Sadly, therefore, I have to conclude that light blogging is likely to be the rule, rather than the exception, for the foreseeable future.  My profuse apologies to my readers, but there we are.  I’m sure you’ll understand. 

A second reason for the lack of blogging has been the fact that we have just moved house – a significantly harrowing experience, bedevilled and delayed by all sorts of hiccups. 

The move itself took place on Friday.  We said goodbye to the old family house, loaded our worldly possessions in a couple of vans and headed two miles eastward, over the next hill but one.  There we disgorged the same possessions and settled down to a summer in which we will be sharing our new home with builders, electricians, heating engineers and decorators.  

It will be a long haul, but I’m sure it will be worth it.

Moving house is a terrifically disruptive business; I’m told it’s the third most stressful event in life, after death and divorce.  All that paperwork, all those boxes, all that chaos.  But, still, we are moving and are looking forward to a summer sharing our new home with builders, electricians, plumbers and decorators.  There’s a lot of work to be done.  I only hope that, at the end of it all, it’ll be worth it.

At the start of the process of selling our house, we had to pay for a Home Information Pack.  It cost over £300, which Sara paid while I was in London, and for which I keep meaning to reimburse her.  A man with a clipboard came round one afternoon to carry out the inspection.  The HIP, when it arrived, told us nothing we didn’t know already.  The Energy Performance Certificate (required as a consequence of a European directive) informed us that the house is not terribly energy efficient.  Given that the property was built over 150 years ago with walls of solid stone, it didn’t come as a huge surprise.  Neither, I imagine, did it surprise our buyers.

HIPs were, of course, meant to speed up conveyancing, by providing buyers with a complete set of pertinent information at the start of the sale process.  Did it work in our case?  Not really; our buyers’ solicitors decided, quite rightly, to commission their own search, on the basis that the search provided by the HIP company was a personal one, not issued by the council’s local land charges department.  They also raised a number of pre-contract enquiries in addition to the standard ones we had answered.   There were also further delays, with which I shall not bore you.  In all, it took some ten weeks before contracts were exchanged.

The HIP didn’t help at all; it was still a painful process.  The £300 odd that we stumped up was a straightforward waste of money for which we feel we had nothing in return.

This week, our removal man came round to assess the job.  Naturally, he mentioned the election and said he was delighted that the Conservatives had promised to abolish HIPs.  “They’ve cost me loads of money,” he said.  “People didn’t want to pay for them in a difficult housing market, so they just made things worse.  More houses should go on the market if HIPs are scrapped; people should start moving again.”

Yesterday, we delivered on our pledge.  My colleague, Grant Shapps, the Housing minister, announced that the need for buyers to commission HIPs has been suspended pending legislation for their permanent abolition.

Too late for me (or for Sara), I’m afraid, but still in good time to boost the spring selling season.

Yesterday evening, after driving back from London, I attended the annual dinner of the North Wales CBI at the St David’s Park hotel, Ewloe.  There were a number of extremely good speeches, including one by my friend Jeremy Salisbury, the CBI’s current chairman, who gave a summary of what the organisation was looking to the new Government to do for business.  On the whole, he gave the coalition a reasonably warm welcome.

The principal speaker was the Welsh First Minister, Carwyn Jones, who delivered a good speech, including an entertaining account of his experiences canvassing in South Wales during the general election campaign.

I was particularly amused when he related a story of knocking on the door of a house in Bridgend to be greeted by a lady who said she was absolutely delighted to see him, because she watched him on television every night.

“Every night?” enquired Carwyn, perplexed.  “I’m on TV quite a bit, but not that often.”

“Oh, aren’t you the BBC Wales weatherman?” asked the lady, clearly very disappointed.

I was pleased to learn that I am not the only one to have noted the resemblance.

Monday was spent in Cardiff, settling into the Wales Office building in Cardiff Bay, meeting the very welcoming officials and generally getting my feet under the table.  There was a very successful visit by the Prime Minister to the Assembly, where we met the Presiding Officer and the PM and Secretary of State had a private meeting with the First Minister.

Yesterday I got my feet under another table; this time, the one in my office at Gwydyr House, the Wales Office’s principal base, in Whitehall.  Again, a round of meeting more officials, who were equally welcoming.

In the afternoon, I crammed with colleagues into the overflowing Commons chamber for the election of the Speaker.  Not only were there hundreds of new faces, I had the experience for the first time of viewing my colleagues from the Government side. 

The election procedure was conducted in stentorian tones by the new Father of the House, Sir Peter Tapsell.  Sir Peter is a formidable yet well-loved figure, and appropriate tribute was paid to him by Sir Malcolm Rifkind, who informed the House that its new Father had first entered the chamber in 1959, having previously worked for Sir Anthony Eden.

John Bercow was re-elected by almost universal acclamation.

Then back to Gwydyr House, and more meetings.

Cardiff Monday, London Tuesday.  If it’s Wednesday, it must be St Asaph.

The ash cloud has not, however, descended to the lower reaches of the atmosphere.  It is, I repeat, a stunningly clear day: so clear, that it is possible to pick out every sheep enclosure, every whitewashed cottage on the slopes of the Carneddau, now free, at last, of the snows that have lingered since October. 

The may is breaking into blossom, too, throughout North Wales.  The journey back from Ruthin surgery yesterday was a delight, the Clwydian roads lined with hawthorn trees heavy with the white, sometimes pink, bloom that is the cheerful hallmark of springtime here; the most visible sign of nature’s renewal.

Today I must drive back to London, taking with me boxes of files that were temporarily removed to the constituency during the election campaign.  The Mini is crammed full of them; it took me ages to get them in and I have no idea how I will unload them when I arrive.  I’m beginning to think that I may, sadly, need a four-door car again.

And tomorrow, there will be new challenges.  New job, new office, new colleagues, new routines.  The familiar process of adapting to the unfamiliar.

But new is good; new means progress.  New means change. 

Change, heaven knows, is what our country has needed, for so very long.  And change, at last,  has started.

The choir this evening was Côr Meibion Bro Aled, Llansannan, recently returned from a tour of Ontario.  They started with I bob un sy’n ffyddlon and never looked back.  It was a great night.

Shortly after the interval, the MC cast a mischievous glance in my direction and informed the audience that politics was:

the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly and applying the wrong remedies.

The quotation seemed vaguely familiar.  After I returned home, I looked it up. 

It was by Groucho Marx, probably the greatest Marx who ever lived.

 

In 1995, shortly after I was selected as prospective Parliamentary candidate for the constituency of Conwy, I was presented with a book entitled How to be an MP.  It was written by the former Conservative Member, Ivor Stanbrook, who had taken Orpington from the Liberals at the 1970 election.  I considered the gift an enormously good omen, because Stanbrook was the first Member of Parliament I had ever met and, moreover, his son Clive had been a contemporary of mine in UCL Conservative Association.

As it turned out, it was nothing of the sort.  The 1997 general election was, of course, a depressing rout for the Conservative party and Conwy was lost.  Nevertheless, I enjoyed Stanbrook’s book, which was a light and informative read.

One of its chapters was entitled “The election campaign: think of it as a four-week holiday!”.   The tenor of the advice it contained was to relax, enjoy the final stage of the electoral effort and not over-do it.   I considered this a piece of counsel easier to give than to follow: certainly, I have always liked campaigning, but a relaxing experience it usually isn’t.  The pace is unremittingly frenetic and one invariably arrives at the count feeling pretty exhausted.

This campaign, however, is quite different.   Sure, we are working as hard as ever, but this time we have the benefit of  the most glorious weather I have ever experienced at an election.  The sun has shone brightly every day, allowing us to enjoy the glorious North Wales scenery to its fullest advantage. 

On Wednesday, we were campaigning in Old Colwyn.   I knocked at the door of a clittfop house and was invited in by its owners.  They wanted to show me the view, which was stunning, looking westward across the sweep of the bay, its waters sparkling and remarkably calm, with the silhouetted mass of the Great Orme rising in the distance.  It was a sight, on such a day, to rival anything I have seen on the Mediterranean coast.

Yesterday, I was in Ruthin with a large team.  A visit to Ruthin, of course, is a delight even on the bleakest of days, but yesterday particularly so, as it basked in the warm spring sunshine against the backdrop of the shimmering Clwydian hills.

And the weather makes a difference to people, too.  The campaign teams are invariably in good spirits and the constituents seem genuinely pleased – or, at worst, not over-irritated  – to see us.  We all return back to base at the end of the day feeling tired but cheerful.  What’s more, everyone has developed a healthy tan and, having lost a couple of pounds in weight from pounding the pavements, is looking trimmer, too.

So Stanbrook was right, after all.  A campaign can indeed be as good as holiday. 

But only if the sun shines.

Candidates for membership of the steering committee came forward and all spoke with passion, not only about the pier, but about the town itself.  All of them clearly loved Colwyn Bay and all were anxious to see it regenerated.

The meeting unanimously approved the election of the members of the committee.  Now we can make progress.   I will meet the committee after the general election to discuss the way forward.

I have enormous admiration for the people of Colwyn Bay.  They are proud of their town and its history and want to see it improve.  Let us hope that the issue of the pier can become the catalyst for something even bigger.

John Witherow, editor of the Sunday Times, points out that the charging structure will be the equivalent of a cup of coffee a day.  Fair point, but the site is still likely to lose thousands of readers, who have become used to unlimited free content on the web.

No doubt other online news sites will be carefully watching the Timesonline experiment before deciding whether to follow suit.

Perosnally, I may be tempted to subscribe on a weekly basis if the product is sufficiently attractive.  Timesonline says that it will be offering a free trial period, which I think will be crucial to the decisions of many as to whether or not to sign up.