An exhilarating morning of rally driving – hurling classic and vintage cars
around the countryside – has come to an end, and luncheon is being taken.
This being France, it is a lengthy affair. And being in the distillery of a
château near Cognac, it is well lubricated.
Imagine, then, the discomfiture of the competitors leaving to resume racing
when they are breathalysed by two gendarmes. And imagine their confusion
when those who fail are sent on their merry (and I do mean merry) way, while
those who pass are admonished for having insufficiently enjoyed the
hospitality of their host, and sent back inside for a swift
attitude-adjuster.
France is another country. They do things differently there, especially when
you get behind the wheel of a car. Partly it’s a matter of space. There are
only 90,000-odd square miles of Britain, and most of it appears to be a
giant car park. When you’re not stuck in traffic because someone’s filling
in the hole they dug last week, you’re being congestion charged, whinged at
by holier-than-thou cyclists and lectured for destroying the planet. Driving
is no longer a pleasure, but a chore.
Which is why God (who, incidentally, drives a 1935 Bugatti T57) invented
France: all 210,000 square miles of it, crisscrossed with twisty-turny
D-roads where it’s a busy day if you see another vehicle every 15 minutes,
and that’s probably a Deux-Chevaux with a pig in the back. Get the roof
down, leave the sat-nav at home and you’re back in the golden age of
motoring, when men could double declutch and women wore floppy hats and
long, flowing silk scarves (ill-advisedly in the case of Isadora Duncan).
You need a base, of course, and you won’t find a better one than Le Logis du
Paradis, an hour’s drive from Bordeaux in the village of La Magdeleine, the
heart of the best cognac country. Under an improbably blue sky, a collection
of one and two-storey buildings dating from 1712, with 2ft-thick walls of
charentais stone and red, curved tile roofs, surround a gravelled courtyard.
A gate leads to a garden and pool, and the picture is completed by two
energetic springer spaniels barking a welcome.
There are two things you can do here. If you want to sit outside on the
terrace sipping aperitifs and eating the food of the gods – the gastronomic
heaven that is Périgord is just next door – then the woman who will look
after you is Sally Brimblecombe. The house and kitchen are Sally’s domain.
Starting with a virtually uninhabitable wreck a couple of years ago, she has
transformed Le Logis: pastel colours complement the ancient stone, the house
furnished partly from her family collection (she was brought up in India)
and partly from local brocante markets.
If, on the other hand, you wish to tootle round the Charentais countryside in
an open-topped classic car – and you’d be a fool if you didn’t – then
Sally’s husband Nick is your man. Nick is a former tour operator who spent
several years organising classic car rallies in France from his base in the
South of England before deciding to sell up, go native and move across the
Channel.
I barely have time to unpack before Nick rolls aside the door of an old chais,
or former cognac store, to show me his pride and joy: a collection of
classic cars that would inspire pangs of envy in any man who has ever yanked
a starting handle. Only self-discipline prevents me from leaping immediately
behind the wheel of la grand-mère of Nick’s fleet, a 1948 MGTC in British
racing green: well, that and the fact that the cockpit was clearly built in
an era of malnutrition and rickets. I would have to take off all my clothes
and oil my body to get into it, and while the locals are resigned to looking
on with benign amusement at the eccentricities of visiting Brits, I feel
this might be an eccentricity too far.
No matter, there are plenty of cars to choose from: they include an MGA, a
classic Baur BMW, even a Deuche, as the French affectionately call the
Citroën 2CV. Inthe end I settle for an old favourite: an MGB roadster. It’s
almost 30 years since I was last behind the wheel of one of these babies,
and turning the ignition key is like turning back the clock. My wife,
Maribel, settles down in the passenger seat (she’s from Havana, and
therefore adaptable: a quick riffle through the wardrobe and you’re looking
at Whitney Houston meets Penelope Pitstop), and off we roar along the
winding roads of Charente.
To begin with I feel uncomfortable – I’m too upright (you’ll be waiting a long
time before I write that again). But push the seat back and stretch out,
with your bum a few inches off the road, and it’s pretty much the best fun
you can have with your clothes on: no traffic lights, no bus lanes, no
tossers on bicycles, no big Cs painted on the road (Ken, eat your heart
out).
There aren’t even any hedgerows to obscure the view, just undulating rows of
Ugni Blanc and Colombard vines, with the occasional turreted château on a
hillside. The warm air would whip through my hair if I had any hair for it
to whip through, and the Cuban has to clamp her floppy hat to her head with
her hand. I zip through the gears, then a stretch of straight road appears
and I ram my foot to the floor: faster, faster. Jesus, I must be doing 80. I
risk a glance at the speedo: 50mph. What? Some mistake, surely.
But of course, that’s the secret. It’s not about speed, it’s about the
sensation of speed; it’s about sheer fun. Even in the nearby city of
Angoul-ême, hurling through the cobbled corners of the old town feels like
competing in the Circuit des Remparts, the annual series of classic car
races that tempts hundreds to risk their necks every September: in fact, I
probably didn’t hit 30mph.
Angoulême also reminds me why cities and fun driving don’t mix. There is a
roundabout where the first exit, or right turn, is signposted “ Toutes
Directions”; the third exit, or left turn, is signposted “ Autres
Directions”. An easily confused person might still be there, going round and
round. Give me an open-topped car on a D-road any day.
Need to know
Le Logis du Paradis, La Magdeleine 16300 Criteuil la Magdeleine, Charente (00
33 545 35 39 43, www.logisduparadis.com):
B&B costs from £68 a night for two; lunch (from £13.60) and dinner (from
£25) are extra. To hire the MGB roadster costs £143 a day, including 200km
mileage and insurance for two drivers, but not fuel.
EasyJet flies from Luton and Bristol to Bordeaux (0905 8210905,
www.easyjet.com). From April 1 Ryanair (0871 2460000, www.ryanair.com)
will fly three times a week from Stansted to Angoulême-Cognac.
No tossers on bicycles but plenty of tossers in vintage cars by the sound of it.
Fred Dere, Stockport,
Whilst most of this article is an interesting read, it sounds like Ross's only true love ran off with a lycra-clad cyclist and he turned to comfort eating to get over it.
Jon D, Gloucestershire, Gloucestershire