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From the weary and highly legislated 2023 perspective, the seemingly carefree world of 1950s motoring has an understandable appeal.
Fewer vehicles, fewer people and fewer rules, at a time when cars and driving were celebrated for their own sake.
It was also when the march of technology was more of an exciting page-turner than a dark prelude to ecological catastrophe.
Simple but confident lines of the Riley Pathfinder result in the classic style of an enlarged Dinky toy
Life was simple. There was one television channel and the only electric cars came from a toy shop.
It was a time before junk food, when stores didn’t open on a Sunday and a murderer could count on an appointment with the noose.
Yes, there was TB, polio and bad teeth, but our wonderful, shiny new National Health Service was going to sort all of that out.
The Riley’s horn ring doubles as a trafficator switch
With the war 10 years behind and rationing at an end, it was time to sit back, light up that 20th Woodbine of the day, smooth back the Brylcreem in your barnet and imagine the new high-speed roads that had been promised by the end of the decade.
There were foreign holidays and family cars, almost certainly of British origin – be it from Austin, Morris, Ford or Rootes.
Britain was proudly at the cutting edge of the narrative as the world’s leading exporter.
5152 Pathfinders were built between 1954 and 1957
Those who dared to dream of a Riley Pathfinder or an Armstrong Siddeley 236 in 1955 no longer lived in the austerity Britain most people inhabited.
Priced at almost three times a manual worker’s annual salary, these were cars that spoke of the certainties and solid middle-class values of an age that was already passing.
Yet today, a few miles in either will quickly sober you up to the reality of life behind the wheel 70 years ago, even in vehicles of this relatively lofty and luxurious ‘sports saloon’ station.
The Riley Pathfinder retained the much-loved ‘high-cam’ 2.5-litre ‘four’ from the earlier RM Series
The proportions of good news versus bad depends on how much work you want to put in and how much you value ‘charm’.
Built to replace successful and well thought of post-war quality saloons – the handsome Riley RM and ‘razoredge’ Siddeley Lancaster/Hurricane/Typhoon were Britain’s first all-new cars in 1945 – the £1200 Riley Pathfinder and £1600 Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire 236 floundered in a mid-’50s market where choice and supply were quickly expanding.
Against the spongy competence of a big Humber or the staid refinement of a Rover 90 for £1100 or so, the Pathfinder and Sapphire 236 tested these wealthy buyers’ marque loyalty to the limit.
Both the Riley (front) and Armstrong Siddeley prioritise comfort over the ultimate performance and style of today’s sports saloons
When the sleek, 100mph Jaguar 2.4 entered the fray in 1955 (at £1340), all concerned must have realised that the game was up.
With 5152 built between 1954 and 1957, the Pathfinder – the first BMC Riley, as opposed to the purely Nuffield RMs – was perhaps only a qualified failure, particularly when you consider that its tooling costs were included with the Wolseley 6/90’s, which shared its bodyshell.
But the Pathfinder and 6/90 twins weren’t as closely related as you might think.
Stylish Riley badges decorate the Pathfinder’s body, which it shared with the Wolseley 6/90
Made in separate factories (the Pathfinder at Abingdon, the 6/90 at Cowley), they were different in ways that went beyond the obvious engine, trim and interior details: the six-cylinder, 2.6-litre C-series-powered Wolseley ran smaller 15in wheels, yet sat two inches higher.
It had deeper sill and wing pressings, and thus cut a bulkier profile than the relatively sleek Riley.
If the Pathfinder covered its costs – just – then the new small Armstrong Siddeleys for 1955 can only be viewed as a commercial disaster. Just 1406 found homes in a three-year production run.
Large 16in wheels give the Riley Pathfinder an assertive stance
That figure includes 803 of the four-cylinder 234 model, a 100mph car with a sportier character but the same unhappy, dome-roofed body that looked like the very definition – even in 1955 – of ‘styled by committee’ design.
The point was cruelly made at the Earls Court launch of the 234/236, where the crowds that mobbed the new compact 2.4-litre saloon from Browns Lane were in sharp contrast to the more or less empty Armstrong Siddeley stand.
It was probably at that moment the Siddeley bosses realised their new car was going to bomb.
That they failed to give the 234/236 range a dedicated production line perhaps shows how little faith they had in its future.
‘To drive the lively Pathfinder on the sort of gently rolling A-roads it was developed on is far from a chore’
Designed as a companion model to the grander (but not all that much bigger) 346, the ‘baby Sapphire’ 234 and 236 were the firm’s final attempts at building a volume model before the distractions of aviation and military contracts ultimately turned automobile manufacturing at the Parkside, Coventry, works into a financial sideline.
The inspiration, if not the detail, of the 234/236 is partly to be found in a project that WO Bentley was contracted to work on for Siddeley in the late ’40s.
The cross-braced chassis is notably similar in design to the ‘Bentley Sports Car’ prototype – and the production 346 – except with a shorter wheelbase and narrower tracks.
The Pathfinder was the first BMC Riley, following on from the purely Nuffield RMs
The coil-spring-and-wishbone front suspension, hydraulic drum brakes and rear axle were also along Sapphire 346 lines, but scaled down slightly both in size and weight for their lighter duties in this application.
Both cars are based on rugged box-section chassis technology that meant good ground clearance and a strong reputation in certain far-flung colonies.
By using Rolls-Royce aerospace-developed Hiduminium alloy for the outer body, with mild-steel bulkheads and inner wings, the idea was to get a better power to weight ratio.
The Armstrong Siddeley 236 (left) and Riley Pathfinder faced tough competition in the mid-’50s market
Less lavishly appointed than the bigger Sapphire (the interior trim swapped leather for vinyl), the 234/236 bodies had no wood in their construction and featured practical bolt-on wings.
The 236 received an improved and lighter version of the unit found in the old 18hp cars, giving 85bhp for a leisurely 88mph, a top speed deemed adequate for its ‘traditional’ market.
BMC’s chief body and chassis engineer, Gerald Palmer, settled down to design the new Riley in 1949.
Tasked with wooing diehard Riley customers – and taking the fight to the MkVII Jaguar – the 100mph Pathfinder was unveiled rather prematurely at Earls Court in 1953; production didn’t start until the following year.
The Siddeley 236’s tall roof provides plenty of head (and hat) room, but odd proportions
The RM had been well liked for its precise rack-and-pinion steering, so keen drivers winced at the thought of the Pathfinder’s cam-and-roller steering box.
Not merely a financial expediency, it was a means of making space for the C-series engine used in the short-lived Pathfinder’s replacement, the 1957 Riley Two-Point-Six.
For now, though, the Pathfinder kept the much-loved ‘high-camshaft’ 2.5-litre four-cylinder engine and RM-style torsion-bar independent front suspension, but dispensed with the torque tube of the earlier cars.
The small ‘six’ in the Armstrong Siddeley 236 has a 100mm stroke
Behind the scenes, Palmer was already turning his mind towards a twin-cam 3-litre C-series engine, but it wasn’t to be.
BMC chairman Leonard Lord used minor criticisms in an otherwise positive The Autocar road test of the 6/90 as an excuse to sack 44-year-old Palmer, making way for Alec Issigonis’ return from Alvis.
Had he cast around for additional sticks with which to beat Palmer, the irascible Lord could also have pointed to the fact that some owners had experienced alarming problems with the rear suspension on their Pathfinders.
The Armstrong Siddeley 236’s dashboard echoes the grander 346’s
Failure of the welded bracket locating the Panhard rod had led to some accidents – it wasn’t long before the Pathfinder became known as the ‘Ditchfinder’ by its detractors.
But it was quickly established as a problem with the way the chassis was being built rather than any particular shortcoming in Palmer’s design, a sound combination of coil springs, radius arms and said Panhard rod to locate the rear axle.
A change to semi-elliptic rear springs was probably already in the BMC pipeline on grounds of rationalisation; it emerged at show time in 1956 on the new MkII 6/90 and the final few Pathfinders.
The 236 was affectionately know as the ‘baby Sapphire’
The smooth, simple lines of the Pathfinder are strangely compelling. With very little embellishment and an assertive stance on giant 16in wheels, in duotone livery it has the naïve look of a scaled-up Dinky toy.
About the Armstrong’s visuals the less said the better, although it did occur to me that, were it painted Ministry blue, the geeky 236 could easily be mistaken for a giant Invacar, particularly from the rear.
Its bulbous roof was the result of a diktat from a director that passengers in the new baby Siddeley had to be able to wear hats.
A Smiths clock is a nice touch inside the charming Armstrong Siddeley
For reasons less obvious, all four doors of the 236 open to a full 90º, yet its designers appear to have overlooked the need for a well-sized boot when they gave it that droopy, unappealing tail.
The Riley’s luggage area, in contrast, is huge. Both cars are spacious overall, with ample leg and shoulder room.
The Pathfinder must have been one of the last cars with trafficators – a feature most modern drivers don’t even acknowledge – and both cars predate column-stalk controls, seatbelts, or anything we would recognise as ‘ergonomics’.
The company’s sphinx mascot sits atop the Armstrong Siddeley’s front grille
They share quite a few features, including position-holding door catches, but only the Armstrong is distinguished by a ‘quick action’ lever for the driver’s window.
Massive steering wheels give you the necessary leverage for parking, while wooden dashboards underline the cars’ prestige appeal.
The 236 inherited its central control layout of liquorice allsorts-style switchgear from its big sibling, along with a two-spoke wheel that pivots around the fixed, sphinx-branded centre horn push.
A nifty feature of the Riley is a chrome horn ring that clicks left and right to double as an indicator switch.
A wooden dashboard underlines the Armstrong Siddeley 236’s prestige appeal
Leg space between the helm and the seat is at a premium in the Riley, which has an impressive slab of walnut with a large speedometer and rev counter in front of the driver.
Its lovely circular radio speaker brings to mind cricket commentary and the warm, comforting tones of the Home Service. This ex-South Africa Pathfinder has Rexine-covered seats, with an optional front bench giving room for six.
The Armstrong offered manual – with or without overdrive – or preselector gearboxes on the 236, but well over two thirds, including this car, had the Manumatic four-speed gearchange, also with overdrive and a central lever.
It adds interest to driving the 236, but smooth progress is a hit-and-miss affair at times.
‘What they lack in terms of things we take for granted in modern cars, they more than make up in charm and character’
The popular, AP-supplied system works well after a fashion. With no clutch pedal to control it is a boon in traffic, but the change cannot be rushed.
Equally, indecisiveness can leave you with a box full of neutrals halfway through a roundabout. It’s easy to snatch the wrong gear in a panic if you feel you are holding up traffic.
Moving away in first or, better yet, second, the clutch engages with a light jolt as you squeeze the throttle, and the 236 ambles forward with a smooth hiss from its willing and refined overhead-valve straight-six.
The Armstrong Siddeley’s massive steering wheel gives the necessary leverage for parking
Virtually inaudible at tickover, it will cruise the Siddeley at 70mph in overdrive top, but has to be worked very hard if you want anything approaching meaningful acceleration.
There is a natural tendency to drive defensively in a car that is so much slower than everything else around it on today’s roads.
Steep gradients are not this engine’s forte, and it is long and heavy enough to have very obvious effects on the handling: there is lots of run-wide understeer, tyre scrub and hefty, ponderous steering.
The Armstrong Siddeley 236’s chrome wheels are more basic than the Riley Pathfinder’s
In search of positives, the Armstrong Siddeley does not roll or wallow all that much, stops in a straight line and has the feel of a smooth-riding, well-made car that is, above all, determined to get you to your destination.
The stable and predictable Riley has lighter, less dead-feeling steering than the Armstrong, and less understeer.
You can push it through corners without making yourself conspicuous, but four turns lock-to-lock – with a fair bit of slop around the centre – means plenty of feeding the steering wheel, in a style familiar to the Hendon Police College.
The ‘Baby Siddeley’ still shows its bulk on the road
Though 500lb heavier than the Armstrong, it does not feel it on the road, partly thanks to its lusty, 25bhp-stronger twin-carb engine with the longest stroke of any production car in the world at the time.
Its lumpy, semi-vintage throb smooths out nicely as you accelerate, but the promise of Bentley-style, knife-through-butter changes from the right-handed lever soon evaporates.
Even getting the right slot is pot luck at first with its vague linkage. Still, you do most of your driving in third gear – and an elastic top that will take half throttle from 10mph.
The Armstrong Siddeley (left) and Riley remind you of the challenges of ’50s motoring
To drive the lively Pathfinder on the sort of gently rolling A-roads it was developed on is far from a chore.
Viewed through a generously Vaseline-smudged lens of nostalgia, both the Riley and Armstrong Siddeley drive quite well, all things considered.
What they lack in terms of things we take for granted in modern cars, they more than make up for in charm and character.
They are certainly character-building to pilot, taking you back to a period when driving required anticipation, good judgement and a certain level of commitment.
‘They are certainly character-building to pilot, taking you back to a period when driving required anticipation, good judgement and a certain level of commitment’
While such things are ignored – or even celebrated – in most ’50s sports cars, we tend to judge saloons of the same period more harshly.
Yet there is a fascination in these ‘new Elizabethan era’ British saloons that transcends their shortcomings.
Images: John Bradshaw
Thanks to: Mark Elder at The Motor Shed
Factfiles
SRC: https://www.classicandsportscar.com/
