McLarens, andouilette and a Bourbon under the stars

A thousand classics, one monumental disappointment at the pit lane gate, and the sort of evening that makes the rest of it worthwhile.

Cloudy skies greeted us when we surfaced, but the coffee machine was on before anyone had found their shoes, and a simple breakfast was dispatched with the quiet efficiency of four people who have shared mornings before. At precisely ten o’clock — as planned — all four of us piled into the car for the seventy-kilometre run north to Saint-Saturnin.

The motorway offered us a traffic jam as a welcome gift, which accompanied us faithfully all the way to the car park of the Classic British Welcome show. More than a thousand classic cars, parked or arriving in slow, magnificent procession — a must for the enthusiast, and not only the British kind. I spotted at least three McLarens circling like exotic birds of prey. One does not simply walk past a McLaren without stopping.

A large beer was required to recover from the emotions. This is medically sound advice at any classic car show. Thus fortified, we made our way south across Le Mans towards our secret chosen car park near one of the circuit entrances — a location I shall not divulge, in case next year’s plan requires it. The afternoon objective was the Friday pit lane walk, a Le Mans tradition as sacred to us as the race itself.

It was there that we encountered the major disappointment of the day. Our tickets, it transpired, did not grant pit lane access. This had never been a problem in previous years. Words were had — internally, mostly — and then we did the only sensible thing: we found a restaurant.

I ordered an andouillette. My British and American companions regarded this choice with the particular horror reserved for those who have never been properly introduced to Charolais tripe sausage. I enjoyed every last mouthful of it, which did nothing to help matters. On the walk to the restaurant we had briefly stopped at the Harley-Davidson dealership — a few minutes of dreaming, free of charge and entirely without commitment, which is the best kind of motorcycle ownership there is.

Lunch concluded, we walked back to the car and pointed it towards home — with a stop at the Hyper U in Écommoy for provisions, and a small detour to Martigné-Laillé to revisit the gîtes where I had spent several previous Le Mans pilgrimages. There is something quietly pleasing about showing friends places that hold a history they weren’t part of.

The final thirty kilometres brought us to our gîte in the grounds of the Château Racan. The evening unfolded outside: aperitif, dinner, and then a long, unhurried session of satellite-gazing — the summer sky putting on a show that required no ticket and suffered no disappointment. A bottle of Bourbon was opened. It was, by the end of proceedings, emptied. In my case, this ensured an exceptionally good night’s sleep. Which, given what the weekend still held in store, was probably wise planning.

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