It began, as the best weeks invariably do, at a table. Les Grands Buffets in Narbonne — that magnificent, slightly delirious temple to the French conviction that more is not enough, and that what is needed is considerably more — played host to four of us who had arrived by train from Carcassonne like a small delegation of serious eaters. Chris and Julia, visiting from the UK and thus still unaccustomed to the particular French philosophy that lunch is not a meal but a commitment, were there for the first time. One could chart their progression through the experience: initial polite curiosity, then widening eyes, then a sort of reverential silence usually reserved for cathedrals. They were, in a word, impressed. In several words, they were very impressed indeed.

“One could chart their progression: initial polite curiosity, then widening eyes, then a sort of reverential silence usually reserved for cathedrals.”

Wednesday brought departures, plural, and of varying emotional weight. Chris and Julia pointed themselves westward — a meandering trajectory that would eventually deliver them to Santander and a boat back to Albion. One wished them fair seas and, perhaps more usefully, a digestive pause before attempting the Bay of Biscay.

MEANWHILE, IN THE GARAGE

The second departure of the day was rather less festive. The money — that decisive, irrevocable money — had finally arrived in the bank account, and with it came the new owner of a certain Citroën Méhari, known in these pages and in my heart as the Turtle 🐢.Papers were signed at the kitchen table with the quiet solemnity of a notarial act. Keys changed hands. And then, with a cheerfulness that I found faintly indecent, the new owner drove it away. I watched until the familiar profile — that improbable, loveable, plastic-bodied absurdity — disappeared around the corner. There may or may not have been something in my eye. There was definitely something in my eye.

I should, in the interests of historical accuracy and domestic harmony, note for the record that the sale was emphatically not my idea. The decision originated with my better half, who, in her wisdom, determined that one classic car fewer was the appropriate direction of travel. I have registered my position. It has been noted. Whether it will be forgotten is, I suspect, a matter on which she and I hold differing views, and on which I intend to remain gently persistent for approximately the remainder of our marriage.

“The decision originated with my better half. I have registered my position. It has been noted. Whether it will be forgotten is a matter on which we hold differing views.”

NORTH BY NORTH-WEST

Fortunately, Thursday arrived before grief could fully take hold. We were up early — the kind of early that requires a level of motivation not normally accessible before coffee — and the borrowed car was pointed north. Seven hundred kilometres stood between us, the 4 valiant friends, and the Circuit de la Sarthe. Seven hundred kilometres of motorway, péage booths, and building anticipation, at the end of which lay Le Mans, the race, the noise, the spectacle, and one of the genuine highlights of the calendar year.

What followed at that legendary circuit warrants its own telling — several tellings, in fact — and they will duly appear on this page in the days to come. For now, suffice it to say that the Turtle’s absence had been, if not entirely forgotten, at least temporarily drowned out by the rather more emphatic sound of prototype machinery at full chat. Some remedies are louder than others. This one was extremely loud.

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