Member-only story
Crackling
Bob Mandrel knew these roads as well as he knew the crazy paving path he’d recently built at his home in the Mendips. He’d been a travelling salesman for a West Country company for twenty five years by the winter of 1972 and, much as he loved his comfortable home and wife, he still got a thrill setting off on a new ‘trip’ in his big maroon Jaguar XJ6.
Here he was again, two hours from home and negotiating the satisfying curves of the A40 to Brecon. He’d already seen his first cluster of customers and looked forward to an overnight stay in the town. It had gotten a damn sight easier to get there once the Severn Bridge had opened a few years back. Before then he’d had to go up into Gloucestershire to get to South Wales, never a comfortable thing for a native Bristolian. His region stretched from Newport in Monmouthshire to Newport Pembs and he’d built a faithful coterie of independent traders across the area, that trusted his word and valued his judgment. He visited them all three times a year to introduce new lines, iron out any wrinkles and keep all his valuable plates spinning. The whole trip, along the old drovers’ roads and up and down valleys, would mean three days on the road negotiating an awful lot of countryside along the way. On the way home, he’d make use of the almost completed M4 and let the Jag do what it had been designed to.
