This is the complete account of my trip from Ireland to Germany to drive home my 1969 Unimog. This story was originally posted to the Unimog (MOGML) mailing list in instalments in the days immediately following the journey. Here, I have slightly edited it to make (hopefully) a little more sense…
DAY 1 –May 5th, 2000. Left home in West Limerick, Ireland at 6.00am, Uneventful and un-mog-related flights from Shannon, Ireland to Heathrow, London and Heathrow to Hannover, Germany, with my dentist buddy Adrian the Navigator. I love the surge of power when an aircraft takes off, and I am a total child for wanting the window seat, and watching the control surfaces move. I wonder if anybody has ever mounted an aircraft jet engine on a Mog chassis for the quarter-mile dash? Norm's aerodynamic mods would be useful.
Arrived in Hannover just after lunchtime, spotting interesting vehicles in traffic - taxis here are prestige cars at home; new E-class Merc estates, BMW 5-series estates etc. Spotted a 4wd Golf (rabbit in the US), not sold in Ireland. These are badged "Golf Synchro".
Hoped to see a Bitter, a rare German car, but no luck this time. Ha! a Unimog! a U1700 Pritsche, very short and butch looking, being used by a road repair crew. Spotted one or two more in the traffic on the opposing lane as we bussed to the main railway station - Hauptbahnhof Hannover.
Train to Goslar, incredibly 10 minutes late. Yes, a late train in Germany!! I thought there would be a firing squad for the driver when we arrived, but he escaped this time. Spotted a U1700 fire truck speeding along a country road, from the train. Holger Brauwers was in Goslar to meet us, and he lost no time in his 250bhp Audi taking us to his house, through absolutely beautiful villages in the Harz Mountains. It was Walpurgisnacht, and effigies of witches were on all of the lampposts, recalling the days when witches were burned. The wooded scenery was gorgeous, and the neatness of the garden plots, with apple blossom everywhere, undersown with vegetables and flowers. The use of wood and woodland in Germany is fascinating - we passed one yard where hundreds of very large trees were sliced horizontally into planks, and reassembled with air circulation spacers to cure and season outdoors.
Holger was the first list member I've met in person - and he's a fine guy. We easily established a rapport, and I had enough German to keep up the conversation. At his house in Wildemann, I met my Mog! She was all that Holger said - very straight and unmolested. Holger also had a 404 in his shed for truck-trial driving, and his father had an incredible 50's Mercedes recovery truck that he had restored. There was a winch about 4 feet in diameter on front of it - I never saw a truck like it. Holger refers to his Mog as "He", not "She", which I found funny. He was firing information at me, all around the Mog - tyre pressures, oil type - he calls hypoid he-peed, how to do everything. Then off for a test-drive, with Holger driving initially. Some driver! He has a technique for changing gear - smacking the lever from side to side with the palm of his hand, making it look easy. Full emergency stop demonstrated with parking and service brakes - the Mog pulled up with a squeal of rubber. He ran through all of the unmarked switches, the radio box contents, level checks, the Truma, the Schwingfeuer, the hand throttle, the fuel tank system - loads of information, and I was finding it hard to retain it all. My turn next to drive, first time ever in a Mog, and we went to the local fire station, where we saw their Mogs, and to meet a friend of Holger's, who also was a Mog trials driver. I never saw so many Mogs in so short a time. All fire trucks in this part of Germany are Mogs.
A quick meal with Holger and his charming parents, a look at the map for directions, and we were off, on our own - first time driving on the 'wrong' side of the road, vague directions, gas gauge showing empty, and only a promise that there was anything in the reserve tank. Night was quickly falling, and we were getting tired. We made a few minor navigational blunders, but we soon found a fuel station and filled the Mog, which gave us more confidence. I noticed a dribble of oil underneath, amidships - was this the dreaded transmission trouble, so often discussed on the list? We checked the levels, and all seemed well, so we drove away again. We soon found ourselves on our first Autobahn, and headed for Gottingen, where Holgers' father had told us there was a rasthaus where we could stay. It turned out to be fine, and we checked the transmission oil again - after about 40 miles. It had noticeably dropped - so we topped it up again, using a funnel and short rubber pipe brought from home for the purpose, as wisely advised to me by list members. It looked like we were really going to experience serious oil loss problems with the transmission, and I was quite concerned about it. I was also worried about parking the Mog, with no locks anywhere. However, we had a few good German beers and turned in for the night - not a bad day's work done overall.
Day 2:
Leaving Gottingen at approx. 0730 on Saturday morning, we now had a chance to really get to know this beast! The engine has more of a diesel character, with its gruff bark and narrow power band. It doesn't like to be hurried, particularly when cold. We noticed some more gear oil on the ground under the Mog, where she had been parked all night, and we topped her up again, and bought spare synthetic gear oil before leaving the rasthaus. My dentist buddy had brought along a simple walkie-talkie set-up, and this proved to be a brilliant idea, for turning and reversing the Mog - the last thing we wanted was to scrape a strange vehicle, in a foreign country, with all the attendant hassle.
We had some trepidation about the autobahn, having heard stories about the unlimited speed and volume of traffic. However, our worries were unfounded, because life in the slow lane is fine. All trucks in Europe are tagged "80" on their rear bumper, meaning 80 kph, and that is what they do. We were well able to keep up once the Mog warmed up, and even on hillclimbs we sometimes were faster than the trucks in front of us. Remember that driving on the right is the 'wrong' side for us. We soon settled into the rhythm of the Mog, and got to know where to downshift as she lost speed on long inclines. The cabin noise is really something - we had to shout to be heard, but I can't pretend that the list didn't mention that often enough.
Using a route plan from www.rac.co.uk we made good progress, and the plan proved to be accurate and reliable. The only bug in it is that some Autobahn A-numbers correspond with British A-road numbers, therefore the RAC's computer supplies context-sensitive traffic information that refers to the British road - utterly useless information in Germany. Being car enthusiasts we were not bored on the autobahn - the new Porsches sweeping past in the fast lane were exciting, and we saw two vehicles that seemed to be involved in something like the Paris-Dakar rally - one beige Land Rover with Camel cigarette advertising, and a Nissan-type crewcab 4x4.
Our first fuel stop showed the transmission was still losing oil, and we topped up with our supply. I had cause to thank the friends on the list -I again used our small funnel and rubber hose to refill, and eased off the throttle every fifteen to twenty minutes to lubricate the bearings. We carried on, and stopped again after fifty miles or so to re-check. Major concern - no oil on the dipstick, and no gear oil left, or for sale in the fuel station. I put in engine oil, on the basis that any oil is better than no oil, and continued carefully to the next fuel station. Remarkably, the oil loss stopped, and stayed stopped - I can only speculate that either the seals came back to life after use, or some additive in either the synthetic oil or engine oil revived them, or simply that the earlier mountain driving and hillclimbing in fifth and fourth gears took a toll. Whatever the reason, we were happier that the dreaded transmission failure was at bay.
A feature of the autobahns was the Hochbrucken, or high bridges - their civil engineers are proud of their work, and rightly so - some of those bridges were over 150 metres high - well over treetop level in the valleys. Each bridge has a little sign with the name and height on it.
We made good progress, rounding the large cities of Moers, Dortmund, and Essen in good time. Crossing the Rhine was a big landmark, and we took photos in the cab at full speed – 80kph – while going over the bridge.
By late morning we crossed the Dutch border at Venlo. Mogs love Holland, because Holland is flat. I love Holland too, because the first of our safe havens is in Holland - list member Thomas Ezendam, even thought we didn't need him this time. We powered on, and crossed into Belgium without stopping at all in Holland. We made a lunch stop in light rain outside Antwerp, and again checked our Mog all round - all was well, no further gear oil loss. We did have to tighten the outside mirror bolts, as the mirrors were tending to flatten into the body in the slipstream. The standard windscreen wipers are poor, and we swapped left to right to put the best one in the driver’s line of vision. The Antwerp ring road was probably the busiest stretch of road we encountered, and we particularly enjoyed thundering through the Kennedytunnel, with the door panels off and our lights on. Past Antwerp we were soon picking up signs for Gent, necessitating some tricky lane changes across very wide roadways, but we managed it without any drama. We had the sensation of being on one of the world's busiest thoroughfares - signs one way saying Paris, and the other way saying Brussels. The trucks keeping us company in the slow lane were from many countries - Sweden, Turkey, Denmark, Greece - making the whole project seem more cosmopolitan!
The wipers on the Mog are nothing to enthuse about - thankfully the rain stopped as we drove westwards and over the French border, again without troubling our Belgian safe havens, but thanks anyway - you really gave us a sense of security. A strange thing happened as we drove westwards into the setting sun - the Mog seemed to project an intense beam of light which was sunlight reflected off the windshield, illuminating the roadsigns as we approached. We could see that it totally disconcerted the car drivers in front of us, watching the signs on the right of the road flash brilliant blue, and we grabbed a few photographs of this phenomenon.
Now we swung Northwest off the Paris route, through the towns on the Channel coast, and soon we were among mainly British registrations heading for Calais. We were reminded, by roadsigns bearing famous names, of the long and violent history of this part of the world, and we often remarked on old surviving farmhouses, and the sights they must have seen. Some beach fortifications are still plainly visible in Calais.
Calais is like every frontier town in the world - every man for himself. The signs offering bargain-priced French wine and continental beers tempted us, and having chased up several, we found that the sign was usually bigger than the business premises. Let's just say those traders are no choirboys. We bought a few cases of wine though, as peace offerings for our long-suffering wives. The traders aren't accountants either, because I got two 12-bottle cases without being charged, in the vocal Gallic confusion.
Approaching the ferryport, we discovered the cornering limits of the mog on a tight roundabout. Entering with perhaps too much gusto, her tyres squealed as the steering weighted up - a lesson learned. From then on, the routine became: brake in a straight line to get the speed off, downshift, signal and manoeuvre. The French couldn't decide if we were a freight vehicle or a car, and we eventually settled for '5-metre camper' as a category. We noticed several people in the ferryport compounds whom we decided were probably refugees, approaching truck drivers for a lift to England. I'm not commenting, just reporting, and we could have been wrong, but the activity was noticeable, and ignored by the officialdom.
We soon organised cross-channel tickets, which were quite expensive for the journey involved, and were on our way to England. Arriving in Dover Docks around 2200hrs, we began to look for accommodation. Now we were driving on the left, with a substantial loss in driver vision for manoeuvring and traffic driving. After an abortive expedition up a cul-de-sac in a housing estate from which we had to reverse out, we decided to press on towards London and the M25. It was now quite late, and we were tired. We reached Maidstone Motorway Services in Kent, just off the M25, around 2300hrs, parked up amongst the truckers, and turned in for the night.
Some day! 15+hours driving, five countries, an awesome amount of fuel, a ringing in our ears and two windblasted faces!
So ended day two; tomorrow we head for the Welsh coast and the boat to Ireland.
Day 3.having slept well, if a little expensively, in Maidstone Services, we collected our truck in the commercial vehicle park and again checked all vital fluids for levels - no problems. In light rain, we headed back on to the M20 and shortly afterwards joined the M25 London Orbital motorway and headed west. There's a trick in closing the doors in the rain - we used a screwdriver to push the seal carefully over the door. It is probably not the right way, but it kept the rain out.
The ‘Sunday drivers’ were out in force in small cars, defiantly holding the slow lane at 30mph, sometimes less, and we began overtaking them, using the middle lane - great fun, watching the fear in their eyes from the driver’s’ side as this tall green monster slowly rumbled past. The fear was in my eyes if a hill loomed unexpectedly ahead.
Approaching the stretch of M25 serving Gatwick and Heathrow airports, traffic became more dense and frantic, and full concentration was called for. We soon afterwards left the M25 to join the M4 due west across England, passing by Reading and through the scenic Berkshire Downs and Marlborough Downs.
The sunshine broke through, and once again we took off the door panels at a fuel stop. The Unimog really attracted some attention, even among the normally reserved British. We were stopped for ages by roadworks, and people got out of their cars to walk over and have a look. When they heard that we had bought it in Germany, and were in the process of driving it back home to Ireland, they were totally amazed. Even a few British Army military vehicle drivers on the other side of the carriageway coming towards us waved. I would love to know what they thought we were.
We crossed the Severn Bridge, which is an incredible feat of civil engineering – again shooting photographs from our cab.
Those roadworks, the bane of England’s motorways, cost us about an hour, and the nett effect was that we missed our earliest ferry crossing opportunity, from Fishguard on the West coat of Wales to Rosslare on the East coast of Ireland. The same Ferry Company operates a high-speed catamaran, but when the booking clerk took a look at us, he sent us to be weighed, and at four tonnes, we were not allowed onto the vessel. This meant a wasted round trip of about eighty miles - the only disappointment on our voyage.
It was now mid-afternoon, and our options were to wait in Fishguard for a ferry at 0300 am, which is a dreadful red-eye special, or trundle eastwards again to Swansea, and try to get onto an overnight sailing to Cork, Ireland’s southern port. We opted for Swansea, and soon the Mog was rumbling through Swansea docks and we were lucky - we got on board the ferry. The ferry port staff were fascinated with our Mog, and we had a crowd of uniformed officials around it, along with a few hairy hippies - I think it is going to attract both in equal measure in the future. As is usual Moglist practise, I want to declare no vested interest, but I can recommend this service - a fine ship, with comfortable cabins and the highest-pressure shower I have ever experienced!
We had some food and a drink, and slept well as we moved towards home.
On Monday morning, the ferry docked at 0700 am in Cork, and we were actually the first vehicle waved off the ship. Our only encounter with officialdom then came - having crossed six countries we were stopped by immigration in our own!
Leaving the ferry port area still leading the convoy, we encountered a long hill, with a cold Mog - so we climbed dead slow at about 20mph, with a hundred cars behind us. I would have loved a photograph of this!
We again passed through a tunnel - the Jack Lynch tunnel under the river Lee, and now we were headed northwards towards home - just sixty miles away. We stopped once - at the home of a legendary mechanical-genius friend called Mick Lynch, who didn’t in the least mind being roused on a Sunday morning to see this curiosity. Mick has single-handedly solved the rotor tip seal failure problem in NSU Rotary80 (Ro80) cars, and added fuel injection for good measure, along with many other miracles before health problems forced a temporary cessation of wizardry. Shortly afterwards we encountered something that probably only happens on the Irish Euroroutes – a farmer driving his cows, about one hundred of them, across the road to pasture after the morning milking. Somehow that wouldn’t go down well on the autobahns, I reckon.
We reached the home of my dentist buddy first, leaving me about twenty miles then on my own with the Mog - a weird feeling on familiar roads with this conspicuous beast.
When I arrived at home, my own kids and all the neighbours’ were wildly excited with the Mog, and joyrides had to be given immediately.....
1200 miles, three and-a-bit days, six countries, two sea-crossings, tons of fuel, gallons of gear-oil, loads of cash, cases of beer, free wine, surrender the credit card, deaf for three days, what the hell...you only live once...
Great trip. Great memories. Great Mog.
John in Ireland
Mogless no more.