I have often passed the Rover Factory at Cowley, and wondered what went on inside the silent metal buildings. It was more than I expected.
 
Every face was pressed against the grimy windows of the coach as it rumbled through the gates, and the security barrier slid slowly closed behind us. The clean, white tourist centre was far from my ideas of a busy factory. Men in overalls answered our many (and sometimes silly) questions, throwing light on many aspects of car manufacturing I had never thought of. Still, I was just itching to get inside the heart of the factory where it all went on.
 
As we filed along the tiled corridors the guide appointed to us threw at us horrific warnings about the dangers which lurked behind the double doors ahead. Each statement was met by a ripple of whispers, and safety glasses were pushed further up the bridges of our noses.
 
The first thing that struck me as we entered the factory was the noise. Mechanical whirrings were backed by shouting, clanking and screeching, and all was laced oddly by the pop music emitting tinnily from small radios.
 
The scene was so futuristic: gleaming metal, wires, red light displays, flashing descending numbers in a kind of space countdown, and every so often a cascade of white sparks which sent the crowd scuttling back behind the nearest lump of metal. We were shown around this first stage of assembly, half listening as our guide fed us random explanations and warnings. The crowd advanced timidly, leaping away from the razor edges of pressed metal, cringing at whirring cogs, and watching in awe as the great robot arms swung gracefully about their business, conducting a discordant symphony of rolling car bodies.
 
As we moved through the stations, the cars began to take definite shape. I was amazed by how the whole thing was kept constantly moving. Each worker had no time to rest as he chased the rolling bodies along the line only to be presented with another body as soon as the first was dealt with. If the line was stopped, for any reason, for one minute, it cost the company some ridiculous sum in the tens of thousands. I could see how the mere thought of this inspired each man (and the small percentage of women) to work, and work fast.
 
The next stage, the paintshop, was restricted access, (to keep the dirt levels to a minimum) and so when we next met up with the cars, in the electrics section, they were coloured. A colour-coded form taped to the inside of each bonnet determined where the car was to be shipped to on completion.
 
Huge boxes whizzed past in the arms of fork lift trucks, spewing rubber tubes, coloured wires, and an assortment of knobs, dials and gauges. Soon, engines, seats, lights and number plates were installed in the final trim and assembly and each car was driven up and out of the workshop to be transported to dealers world-wide.
 
It was satisfying to see these cars finished, having been with them as they were "born" and on "growing up". After participating in a few educational exercises, we left. I was sorry to go, but now the wiser as to what goes on inside those gaunt metal structures. It makes them seem a lot less sinister!

[End of document, updated to 10 June 1997]