We are privileged in Clarendon Park to have a ‘real’ garage, staffed by chaps who have the ability to repair anything from classic to modern. There, in oil stained overalls they toil in all weathers under the watchful eye of Terry, the proprietor. They do MOTs which is very handy, though they are a bit efficient, if you catch my drift. None of that ‘I’ll let it go this time, but get it sorted for your own good’ malarky. The building itself is interesting. I think it was once a tram garage and wears a faded plaque above the door, too eroded to read. Trams did once run along Queens Road and the place would be far better if they still did. Before Terry took it on it was known as Reggio garage, after Reggio in Sicily, ‘Mafia Country’ as Tony, the old Italian owner once confided in me. Tony specialised in Citroens, along with his son, Tony and grandson.... you’ve guessed, Tony. Tony senior had a lovely DS 23 Automatic, which one day he intended to drive back to Sicily. I had a DS 23 Pallas at the time which seemed to spend far too much time round there. In October Tony and other members of the Leicester Italian community used to buy a lorry load of grapes and make their own Italian wine in his garage at home in Knighton. I was invited to witness the event once and sampled a glass, or two. I believe it was an acquired taste!
4 comments:
Ooh this is lovely. That blank gable end cries out for an embossed Citroen symbol, which a girl I knew in the Dordogne had cut into the hair on the nape of her neck. I have a pic somewhere.
Talking of trams in your locality, you doubtless know of the terminus garage still extant next to the garage as you arrive in Stoneygate from the racecourse roundabout.
Yes. Next to the Shell garage. Got you. It's changed hands several times of late. Still retains the tall doors.
Peter, of course you know your Dordognian girls better than I, but are you sure it was a Citroen symbol? Could you perhaps have encountered a Klingon? An easy mistake after a little too much Monbazillac...
Alois, I knew you'd know Monbazillac. I tipped up at the chateau one rainy, misty afternoon and copiously sampled the product to such a degree I was conned into bringing two wrought iron garden chairs back to Blighty on top of a Golf.
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