Boogity, boogity, boogity...

Long distance truck drivers - I don’t know how they do it, really I don’t.  Yesterday we’d covered just over 1000 kilometres but the drive had really taken it out of us.  I went to bed at nine and had a great nights sleep but, when I woke this morning, the last thing I wanted to do was get back in the saddle and drive any further.  But the thought of getting home was driving me on and it was a necessary evil. 

After we’d had la petit dejeuner (breakfast to us anglophiles) we decided that we really should take advantage of our proximity to the historic Cathedral du Notre-Dame de Reims and headed down on foot to check it out.  We’d spotted it last night whilst we’d driven round looking for a parking space - it would have been hard not to - but it was only as we walked the two or three blocks from the hotel that we really begun to appreciate the true scale of the place. I am a firm atheist and, as a result, I am largely unmoved by religious buildings but there’s no way that such an imposing building could fail to impress anyone.  Even me.

After spending time wandering around the inside of the historic building - it was here where all French kings were crowned before the populace decided to demonstrate their disapproval of their monarchy by beheading them - we headed off to the outskirts of the town to visit a place of a worship much closer to my own heart.

Le Circuit de Gueux had been established way back in 1926 and, in the years that followed, its series of long straight public roads bore witness to numerous international motor races.  It was one of the classic venues but in 1966, after 14 Grand Prix, Formula One departed and the circuit fell into disrepair.  International racing continued to be held at the circuit but the demise of the Grand Prix hit the area hard.  There were several attempts to bring the venue up to the required safety requirements of the time but they all failed and, in 1972, the Automobile Club de Champagne held one final race, packed up their equipment and left, never to return. 

Since then the once busy tribunes have sat, abandoned and largely forgotten, overlooking the pitlane which had once seen the legendary Alfred Neubauer pit his awe-inspiring Silver Arrows in competition with the Auto Unions.   The advertising hoardings fading and the paint peeling, the decaying circuit buildings have presented an incongruous sight to motorists passing along the Route Nationale 31 for years.
 
Inspired by events across the Channel which had seen a very successful annual historic race meeting see a return of racing to Goodwood  - a circuit on the south coast of England which was abandoned at a similar time - interest in le Circuit de Gueux had returned and plans were even made for a revival meeting in 1997 but the circuit was destined to remain a relic of the past as these plans, like so many before them, failed to come together.  In the end the fate of the circuit was sealed when, in 2002, bulldozers, excavators and graders arrived to re-profile areas of the road system.  With several large chunks of the track now missing, and with a couple of huge roundabouts now built on other areas of the track, the circuit now commonly referred to simply as Reims is destined to remain a ghost track.  Locals have formed a group and have started preservation works on some of the buildings which remain; it somehow feels right this way. 

In these days of ‘progress’ which see us losing increasing numbers of classic challenges from our circuits in the name of safety it is a beautiful thing that we have places such as Reims where we can go and pay homage to the greats of yesteryear.  As signs dotted around the old pit garages urge us, ‘Memoire des pilotes - respect du site’.  Amen.
       
And with that it was time to make a break for home.  We arrived back at the Eurotunnel terminal outside Calais three hours before our scheduled crossing but, rather than a lengthy wait, we were quickly ushered onto the next train with minimal wait and, before we knew it, we were rolling off the train and heading out on to a wet, busy and incredibly bumpy M20 towards a miserable looking London.  Welcome home.

Okay, so we were here to do a job.  It has to be said that I’ve worked in worse places and for worse people but it’s still boring.  We were shown around the property - easily the most awesome house that I have ever been in - and were then offered lunch on the terrace (which benefitted from awe inspiring views along the French Riviera to the east and Monaco and Italy to the west) but, when it comes down to it, it was still work so I’ll not mention it again.

When we’d finished the unmentionable we decided to head on down the coast to check out Monaco.  The drive along the coast was beautiful but almost spoiled by a crazy local who did his utmost to reverse into us as he tried to park his car.  Not once, would you believe, but twice!  He then proceeded to remonstrate with us - at least I presume that he was remonstrating for he was waving his arms about a lot and shouting something in French which I did not understand a word of, maybe he was asking us directions? - for having had the audacity to blow our horn at him to thank him for his efforts.  We gave back as good as we got but, as we would later realise, he’d done us a favour by giving us a relatively gentle introduction to the atrocious driving standards of the Monacese before we arrived in the chaos of Monte Carlo.

Of course we’ve all seen Monte Carlo on the TV whilst we’ve watched coverage of the Grand Prix but it’s just not possible to get an accurate impression of the place as the cameras try their best to follow the cars as they race around the streets.  It was quite surreal then to suddenly turn onto the circuit and follow the route that the racecars will be taking in a few weeks.  If the gleaming yachts moored in the harbour didn’t set the scene then the already installed Armco barriers and track signage, along with the construction crews assembling the grandstands and safety crews rehearsing around the track, sure did. 

There was absolutely no hope of parking up and going to explore on foot - much as I would have loved to - but it was quite surreal to have finally driven through the streets of Monte Carlo.  What a place.  I’ve never felt the desire to visit the race before as it is ludicrously expensive and you see next to nothing from the grandstand but I now feel quite differently.  I will be back.  Watch this space!
     
To the man in the street Monaco’s only sporting event of note is the Grand Prix but the motorsport fan is better educated than that - there is the small matter of the Monte Carlo Rally in the hills above the harbour - and I had set my heart on checking out some of the stunning roads which make up the stages.  One of the most challenging of these stages is the Col de Turini so naturally that was going to be our next port of call.
 

I had a route map planned and everything but, much as I was enjoying myself on the switchbacks, I couldn’t ignore Paul who was sat in the passenger seat.  He had turned a funny shade of yellow and he really wasn’t saying a great deal.  I thought he was kidding me when he’d said he gets a little nervous when it comes to big drops but - as the roads became narrower, the hairpins tighter and the drops higher - it was becoming apparent that he’d been deadly serious. 

When we reached the village of Ste Agnes - a mere 20 miles in to my planned route and twice that shy of Turini - I knew I had no choice but to get him back to Nice using the Autoroute.  I was a little gutted to have to give up the sort of landscape that I thought only existed in South America but in reality I knew that we’d never make it back to Nice before dark and, whilst I enjoy a challenge behind the wheel, we really weren’t in the right vehicle to enjoy the drive as the road was quickly becoming narrower and more challenging.  And, well, I’d be back in a year or two for the Grand Prix.  Right? 

Back to the hotel then and I was suddenly feeling a little tired but a nice hot shower, a bite to eat and a cold beer from the mini bar certainly hit the spot.  I left Paul in his room and went for a wander to explore the local area.  After the sights of the last few days the landscape was nothing amazing but, as I sat on the beach and watched the sun set over the Mediterranean, I had time to chill and reflect.  I never used to be much of a fan of Europe at all but what I’d seen in the last few weeks had turned that on its head; I’m really starting to love it down here.  I will be back.  Oh yes indeed.  And not just to the Grand Prix.

When we checked in to the hotel we spotted a notice saying breakfast would be served from 6.30am and I’d suggested to Paul that we had a long day ahead so we should probably go down then and get on the road as early as possible.  He looked at me funny and I had wondered if he was gonna get upset but he seemed to be consoled by me reminding him that that we were in a different time zone to ‘back home’ and it would really only be 7.30am.  Of course, when I woke up and it was pitch black outside, I realised I’d done my sums wrong…

So, shortly after 5.30am, we’d eaten breakfast checked out and, after a short panic getting back into the room to collect the satnav which had been so carefully locked away in the safe for, erm, safe keeping, we hit the road.

We’d come up with a list of places to visit today but the first stop was the Circuit de Charade which was a couple of hours away to the south in the Auvergne Mountains above the town of Clermont-Ferrand.   The drive down was interesting only for its tedium; miles and miles and miles - well 120 of them - of tree lined roads through flat boring nothingness.   We must have passed no more than twenty villages and a similar number of cars.

Turns out that the Auvergne Mountains aren’t really mountains, rather a series of cinder cones and lava domes.  Volcanoes to you and I.  Now I don’t ever recall seeing a volcano before and suddenly, here we were, surrounded by a seemingly never-ending chain of them stretching for 30 miles.  It was quite a sight and something I wasn’t expecting.  We made our way to the circuit which, on any other day, I would have been very excited to see but today my mind was elsewhere.  It wasn’t that the circuit wasn’t impressive - built around the sides of an extinct volcano it has been described as mini-Nurburgring - but as we drove up through the switchbacks to reach it I kept seeing signs directing me to the top of the largest of the volcanoes.  When we were chased out of the venue by two security vehicles I wasn’t overly disappointed and we set off to check out the big volcano.

After a couple of wrong turns we eventually found our way to the foot of the snow-capped Puy-de-Dome.  We were very disappointed to discover that, although you can indeed drive to the top via a steep concentric access road, they levy a hefty charge for doing so.  We couldn’t justify the expense at the time but I’m kicking myself a little now.  Hey ho - we did have a long way to go and we’d lost a lot of time in the area.

I handed the keys to Paul for the drive back to the A75 and south to the MIllau Bridge.  It was another 120 miles or so and this allowed me to get a little bit of shut eye.  Thankfully I didn’t sleep for too long and woke to see a fantastic sight.  My stint may have seen us driving through a flat featureless landscape but we were now heading through a stunning mountainous region which seemed to go on and on.  It was quite something.

Le Viaduc de Milau is, at 343 metres high, the tallest vehicular bridge in the world and is an imposing feat of engineering.  So it was no surprise that we first caught sight of it more than ten miles before we reached it.  It’s that kind of construction.  Big.  I saw a programme on its construction several years ago on the Discovery channel and had always wanted to visit so I was delighted to be passing by for work.  We stopped at the gare de peage and paid our toll - something that we had grown quite used to travelling through France - and headed towards the overlook immediately prior to the bridge.  Excitedly we made our way to the top and there she was in front of us, stretching out across the valley carved out deep below by the River Tarn.  Somehow it was not as impressive as I had hoped but you can’t take it away from the people who designed and constructed the bridge - British, by the way, a fact we took great delight in reminding the very proud looking locals - they did an amazing job.  I would have loved to have gone down into the old village of Millau far far below us to view the bridge from there but we simply had to press on as we were running out of time.

Back in the saddle I drove on through the area known as the Gorges du Tarn - a gorgeous area which somehow reminded me of Zion National Park in Utah - and, after stopping several times for photos, through a tunnel under another snow-capped mountain.  When we emerged from the other side there was another transformation.  We’d gone from flat nothingness, through a large area of extinct volcanoes, a huge range of mountains, some amazing gorges and canyons and now, as if by magic, we’d suddenly arrived in the Mediterranean.  It was quite surreal to suddenly find ourselves driving through areas lined with endless vineyards, palm trees and white houses with terracotta roofs.  I don’t know if there’s a word hiding away in the dictionary which describes something which is more surreal than surreal itself but, if there is, this would have been the perfect opportunity to use it.

We’d covered a hundred miles or so since we’d left the bridge at Millau and we still had another couple of hundred ahead of us so it really was time to put the pedal to the metal and get this drive nailed.  We cut the trip to the Gorges de Verdon loose and gunned it.  Three hours later we finally caught a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea as we neared Nice.  After such a long drive down it was certainly a sight for sore eyes and just about as far removed from the ugly town of Calais where we had started our cross-continent drive yesterday morning. 

It’s probably fair to say that it’s not the best preparation for a 4am start followed by a long drive to go to bed after midnight the previous night but that’s how I played this one.  I knew it was stupidity at the time but did that stop me?  Well, if it had, I’d not have written the past paragraph, would I?  Duh!

I have recently become a big fan of the Channel Tunnel and today’s experience only went to reinforce that faith.  We drove up to the check in window and were cheerfully directed towards the next train.  Ten minutes after turning off the M20 we’d driven onto the train and a further thirty minutes later we were driving off again and onto the French highways.  Awesome.

Our route took us down to Paris but, rather than use the infamous Periphique ring road, I rather mischievously directed us through the centre of Paris.  Well, it is a more direct route!  Poor old Paul was somewhat shocked to suddenly be greeted by the utter mayhem that is the Arc d’Triomphe - the only place in France where crashes are not judged and both drivers are automatically presumed to be equally at fault - but he coped with the shock admirably despite the Parisians throwing everything that they could at him. 

Leaving the locals to race around the giant roundabout like an out of control comet circling the sun we shoot off like a pinball down the Champs-Elysées towards the Louvre before turning along the banks of the Seine towards the Eiffel Tower.  Used to driving in London we were amazed at the speed at which we were able to cross the city - it’s just that kind of place - it may be known as the city of love but, to me at least, it’ll always be the city of driving insanity.  There is a reason that Claude Lelouch shot his most (in)famous movie, C’était un rendez-vous, there and I like the city a lot. 

As we left Paris behind in our mirrors it was fast becoming apparent that we’d underestimated the sheer size of France.  The furthest that I had been previously was Le Mans and we were heading all the way to Magny-Cours before calling it a day.  As well as being our base for the night, the town also boasts a race circuit which, for the past 15 years or so, has been the home to French Grand Prix.  Teams and fans alike complain about the location - slap bang in the middle of France - but, when we were looking for a hotel halfway between Calais and Nice, it seemed therefore only natural that we should break our journey there for the evening.

Eventually we arrive and, after driving past the circuit entrance a number of times, we finally realised that the hotel was located within the circuit itself which was, I thought, a most agreeable location.   It was a lovely hotel and a bargain to boot but what really ‘made’ it for me was the unmistakeable sound of race cars when I opened my bedroom window.  I had to go and investigate.  As I wandered around the perimeter looking for a way in, whilst trying my best not to look like I was up to no good, I started to have my suspicions about what I could here circulating…

As it started to rain I finally found a fence low enough to climb over and I made my way into the grandstand on the final corner.  From my vantage point I saw the glorious sight of a mid-nineties Benetton F1 car barrelling down the long straight towards me - full chat in the wet - the back of the car fishtailing as it powered through the puddles forming on the track.  It went round just one more time before pitting but the sight and sound of that car will live with me for a long time and I refuse to let the memory by sullied by the later efforts of a handful of very lucky people who, after handing over a large sum of money and being subjected to a ‘you bend it, you mend it’ lecture, were allowed to take this and another identified car out for a few laps.  I can only presume that the first driver that I saw was either the instructor or a very very rich individual who really didn’t give two tosses about how much it would cost him if he did indeed bend it.  Either way I liked his style and, after an hour or so and thoroughly soaked, I made my way back to the hotel for a hot shower and to meet Paul in the bar for a hot meal and a couple of pints.  Not a bad day, all in all, it has to be said.