Home, glorious home
Nine o’clock. On the dot. Bags packed, gîte left in a condition that would not disgrace a TripAdvisor review, and four slightly battered but thoroughly happy Le Mans veterans pointing the Audi Q5 south toward civilisation. The blue sky — which had, to its enormous credit, shown up reliably all weekend — stretched ahead of us like a promise, the motorway was mercifully quiet, and at a steady 130km/h the Q5 hummed along with the serene silence of a car that has absolutely no idea what a naturally aspirated V8 sounds like and is frankly better off for it.
Seven hundred kilometres lay between us and home, via the grand tour of Tours, Bordeaux, Toulouse and beyond — which sounds like either a very ambitious holiday itinerary or a moderately ambitious wine list. Roughly halfway, just north of Bordeaux, the universal law of road trips asserted itself: someone needed lunch. A pitstop was called at Chez Le Brasseur in Aubière, a restaurant chain making its debut appearance in my personal culinary logbook.
The verdict? Food simple, solid and good. The beer — and this is important — excellent. Should one of their establishments appear in my path again, I shall not resist. Consider this an unsolicited but sincere endorsement.
Back on the road by early afternoon, we threaded around Toulouse with the timing of people who have either done this before or been extremely lucky, avoiding the commuter traffic entirely. One by one, the passengers were delivered to their respective homes like very tired parcels, and I, the last to be dropped off at, finally crossed my own threshold with the satisfied air of a man who has done something thoroughly worth doing.
Time to Reflect
All things considered, the weekend was a triumph. The plan was followed almost to the letter — remarkable for any group of humans, let alone a group who had just spent 48 hours in the company of 350,000 racing fans. The race itself was genuinely nail-biting, the kind of finish that reminds you why you make the journey in the first place. The weather was glorious. The gîte was pleasant and well located — though whoever stocked the kitchen clearly believed that cooking consists entirely of boiling water, since sharp knives, salad bowls and frying pans were conspicuous by their absence. Most unforgivably of all, in a French household, there was no corkscrew. No corkscrew. I trust the appropriate authorities have been notified. I wrote a review. It was diplomatic but honest, which is the best one can do.
I do have two small regrets — both involving my three rookies, who deserved the full Le Mans initiation. First, the Pit Lane walk on Friday afternoon, cruelly denied to us by the particular category of our tickets. Second, the 24 Hours Museum, which we walked past on Saturday late afternoon only to find queues of a length that suggested people had been lining up since roughly 2019. A Sunday morning visit might have been the smarter play, though I confess I didn’t push it — I’ve been inside several times and while I understand there have been changes, it was not my personal priority. The rookies, however, shall not escape it in 2027. I am already making mental notes.
The team itself was a joy. First trip together, no dramas, no casualties, harmonious throughout. That, in its own right, is a result worth celebrating.
And Already, The Future Beckons
The ink was barely dry on the journey home before I had fired off a message to the original Le Mans Gang — veterans of previous years, people who understand without explanation why you would willingly drive 700km to stand in a field in the dark listening to brake discs glow. Two replied almost immediately. They’re in for 2027.
It is, of course, far too early to plan anything.
Le Mans. See you next year.
I do it my way 