The day was ominously stormy: the rain came down stair-rod fashion and even a pair of waterproof trousers and anorak seemed hardly up to the brief walk to the Metro Station. The passengers waited in the summer gloom that was that particular Wednesday in June. The train approached; the driver’s bulk was barely visible through the wet misty conditions.

“Pallion,” had said Alan Shepherd. “I shall meet you there at 0815.” No doubt he was there then. I made the portentous error of leaving the train at Millfield, a stop too soon! The rain had stopped by then, so a brief walk brought me to Alan’s countenance, puzzled until my arrival by my non-arrival. A word of explanation, a hearty laugh, and we were on the way to Deptford.

Despite the rain, GBB 516K looked impressive in the yard, adorning the concrete apron between a driver-trainer Bristol LH and a forlorn caravan, dreaming both of better times, whether of custom or weather. “I have checked her over, but you will need fuel.” A part of the instrument panel dangled ominously from the front bulkhead, suspended by a wire, so that finding the light switches was an exercise rather like blind man’s buff. A spare blind and other clutter occupied would-be vacant spaces, so that a general air of mobile workshop prevailed. We switched on, the doors soon performed as doors do, and all the lights were working. “You will need diesel,” Alan reminded. We agreed on a garage on the A690.

It is difficult to keep a Leyland Atlantean up with a saloon car. Sunderland is a confusing place except to the conoscenti, of which I am not one. Soon I had lost both my bearings – Hartlepool, surely not! – and Alan’s piloting. Fortunately we were reunited at the petrol station. A canopy of 4.4 metres? Hm… My calculator – tool of the trade – showed it would be a close run thing, so discretion prevailed and we proposed to part company.
“Blackburn Transport by 1530?”
“That’s what David said.”

A690, A1, Durham services in sight. What on earth is that buzzing noise? A not-to-be ignored feature of the journey had sprung into life. The air-pressure warning, of course! Odd, that….it had not sounded (as it should) when we started the engine. To Durham Services, which offer a generous 4.9 metres to go with their diesel. Refuel, dip the tank. Switch on again, no noise this time. Underway once more.

The early rain had given way to the alternative sultry heat. I had thought the early Atlanteans were famous for freezing cabs and overheating engines. Various controls did various things but not exactly what I wanted. Eventually I found the “cab heater” switch, above my right ear, and operated it. Minutes passed and still the oppressive dry draft from above. At length the solution was the lower saloon heater switch and the temperature became more bearable.

The bus droned on smoothly and happily at 35 mph. It would do 42 before the governor cut the fuel off as I had already discovered by experiment. Keeping it steady was easy and the noise level quite acceptable. The draught from the cab window tempered the sun’s heat. All was right with the world

The buzzer warning started again. Why so? The regular air-valve discharges gave reassurance that the compressor was working, the brake gauge showed steady high readings, and I did not need the doors. What else could fail? The gearbox … the gearbox….but nothing, as yet, untoward.

The air buzzer should come on when you switch on and go off once the pressure has built up. Why should it suddenly come to life when happily trundling along a motorway, not once but twice? The miles passed, Catterick came and went, Leeming Bar was imminent.

It is highly disconcerting when the accelerator stops working. Almost, I imagine, but not quite, as disconcerting as when the brakes give up. No power! The engine whined, the Atlantean slowed. Clearly fourth gear was a lost cause. At a regal 23 mph we proceeded in a still resilient third gear heading at breath-taking slowness to the first available lay-by, while the heavy lorries hurtled past with frightening persistence. Now what?

“Is that the RAC?” Thank goodness for mobile phones! And for the foresight to bring a book. As I approached the dénouement of Ian McKewan’s Saturday, two mechanics arrived.

“What’s the problem?”
I explained the air buzzer and loss of top gear.
“Where are you going?”
“Blackburn.”
“By the M62, presumably?”
“I want to get there today! No, via Blubberhouses.”
I had been looking forward to the winding climb up to the moorland pass, and the heady brisk descent into the Aire valley by Skipton, passing close by Bolton Abbey.
“Not today!”
“Why not?”
“Landslip, blocked road – did you not listen to the news?”
I could hardly credit that the Today Programme would have featured that, but thought better than to say so.
“So which way do you suggest instead?”

Kirkby Stephen also failed the Wednesday test. Ribblehead – but how high is the viaduct? Settle – low bridges in profusion! In moments like this true dependence shows its place. I rang my wife, Enid, – last seen as she wished me a pleasant journey - with a slight but discernible snort - that morning.

“I am at Leeming Bar, almost. Blubberhouses is blocked. Which way should I go?” Broadband, Multimap and wife combined proposed Leeds, Otley, Skipton.

Meanwhile, a brief inspection underneath showed nothing untoward, and the engine was running again with the buzzer silent.

“What have you done?”
“Nothing!”
“And that fixed it?”
“Apparently so.”

They left and I set off once more. No buzzer, good; no top gear, bah! At the next layby I phoned the RAC again. No, not another fault, the same one. Expect the same team again. Alas, I had only brought one book to read.

The duo arrived for their second visit. The conversation could be a bit tense this time, I thought. All, mercifully, was agreeable. This time they began with the engine, and soon detected a hissing sound from the power pack. It was a valve, one of a set of four, and its seal had clearly outlived its design life.

“Have you got a spare?”
“No.”
“So now what?”
“We could by-pass it.”
I imagined a motorway journey punctuated by an exploding bus. “Is that safe?”
“Dunno.” Hm.. “Abbott’s of Leeming will know. We shall go and ask.”

I began to read an imaginary third book. Not for long: they reappeared and announced a plan. “We by-pass it.”
“With what consequence?”
“You will just find it is a bit slow coming out of top gear.” I could live with that! At that juncture in a gear change I should be wanting to rev the engine anyway. They did the necessary, and offered to accompany me to Leeming Bar to verify the cure. Hurrah! Top gear restored, speed now back to 35mph. They went on their way rejoicing.

Leeming Bar, toilet, telephone. Time 1430. I could not bear to stop for lunch now! “Where are you?” For Enid the measured, constructive response.
“What now?”
“I am setting off again."

For Alan Shepherd, impatience was beginning to show.
“What are you doing now?”
“Talking to you.”

What a boring wait David Hunt must be having! I imagined him, GBB’s new owner, getting through even more books than I as he awaited his new purchase at Blackburn Transport.

The miles soon started to clock up once more. Even the air-buzzer’s return seemed almost a familiar friend. It could not be the gearbox, we had fixed that. The doors had worked reliably at Leeming Bar. The brake gauges were still riding high. What could it be? I decided to ignore it and carry on. Wise counsel: it accompanied me unabated all the way to Blackburn, like a wailing child that never tires itself to sleep.

Leeds came, Leeds went. Then Otley, soon Skipton. Then I had another companion. An irregular cheeping sound kept breaking out near my right elbow. I assumed it was my mobile phone whose battery was nearly flat. I moved it from one side of my person to the other. No joy: still the occasional but hectoring chirp from the same place. Eventually the penny dropped: the emergency door alarm! Go over a bump, break the contact and the alarm sounds. Diagnosis: complete; treatment: ignore. So the journey proceeded, with a steady buzzing to my left and an irregular cheap competing on the right. What a glorious care-free existence!

A check on diesel. I was glad I had brought a home made dip-stick! As with 838 one can easily gain the impression of nil fuel consumption, so steady are the readings. I foresaw no difficulty in reaching Blackburn. A call from David Hunt confirmed that I had missed the appointment at Blackburn, but that he had booked another for the following morning. (Has the man brought a sleeping bag?) On to Blackburn Transport.

I drew onto the forecourt at 1830. Not an oasis for the thirsty soul! Place deserted. Clearly only bus drivers work after hours here. No David Hunt.

“I am here. Where are you?”
“No, I am here, you are not here yet.”
“Where are you?”
“At the testing station.”
“Where is that?”
“I don’t know; I came here by taxi.”
“I came to Blackburn Transport.”
“Blackburn Transport have not done tests for three years.” The journey had not been that long; clearly the news had not reached Newcastle by the time I left. Time to regroup for a second attack.

“Where are you?”
“At the testing station.” I paused for thought. This could take a long time to resolve.
“What is the address of the testing station?”
“I do not know.”
“I think you can find out more easily than I can. Ask!” Pause.
“Davyfield Road.”

First Blubberhouses blocked, second complete disorientation. Broadband and the team to the rescue once more. “Can you tell me where Davyfield Road in Blackburn is?” Long pause. “No, I cannot find it.” Plan B: drive into Blackburn.

You cannot just stop to ask the way if you are driving a bus. For one thing, people expect you yourself to know. For another, the only place you can stop is a bus stop: there people are programmed to get on your bus, and if you dissuade them successfully they then concentrate their attention on the bus they want, lest it go speeding past. That process yields no information.

I found a lay-by, with a complement of double yellow lines, and stopped. Plan C emerged.

“The testing station is closing now. There’s an electrician who has offered to bring me into Blackburn to find you on his way home. Where are you?”
“Opposite Larkhill health centre.”
“Where is that?” I felt a certain frisson of amusement.
“Larkhill.”
There was silence. I had to regain the initiative. “Can you cope with more bad news?”
“What?”
“It won’t start!”
“You’ve run out of diesel!”
“No: I dipped it not long ago, and anyway it just will not turn over.”

After what seemed an interminable wait David and his electrician turned up. They were soon on the case.

If your television breaks down, you can fix it by hitting it with a hammer; so much is well known. The problem is knowing where to hit it – if you want to avoid making the problem worse instead of fixing it. That is why you usually opt for an extortionate call-out fee: the tv technician knows just where and how to hit it.

So also with a bus. Fortunately we had such a technical expert on hand with no call-out charge, an automotive electrician doubling as David’s impromptu taxi driver. He soon had the starter motor unjammed.

Now to get to grips with the orientation problem. “Where is the testing station?” I got a testing answer in the form of a long sequence of traffic lights and turns, which in my hungry state made little impact. “But where am I going to?” He looked at me with a mixture of pity and frustration. (My former pupils must have been familiar with such a look.) I was taken by a sudden impulse to seize him by the throat and shake him. Restraint prevailed and I tried another tack. “I was born and brought up in Blackburn.” That did the trick. “The Roman Road industrial estate.” Shucks! I could have been there an hour and half ago, straight off the motorway.

The Atlantean toiled up one of the steepest hills in Blackburn, and soon we were there. We tidied up. David prepared to leave his new treasure and to return the following day.

“How do we get away from this place?”

The industrial estate is a long way from housing and off the main routes, so a bus service was a hopeless cause. “I took the telephone number of the guy who brought me here.” The man is an unappreciated genius.

At Blackburn boulevard we parted. What a day! I had missed my train back to Newcastle, so had to make use of my sister’s hospitality. So much for a quick buckshee visit to see my relatives!