With memories of four days of near constant rain in Shieldaig now fully dried out and stored for future use, thoughts turned to a restorative blat to redress the balance of nearly a week in Scotland watching rivulets of water dripping off the Seven, the roof tent and the end of my nose. Oh and that bloke Andy with his 3mm Allen key and thinly veiled need for some new friends in his life.
The gamble of going all the way to the Jockanese Congo hadn’t paid off. The snag is it’s so bloody far, and the climate simply cannot be relied upon to deliver, unless you want a few million litres of water, then it delivers that with aplomb. The combination of distance and drizzle make it unworkable as a blat destination, or a blatstination for short.
France however, in an unusual break from trade unionism and Gallic attitudes to delivering on a promise, is quite accommodating in this respect. (One possible exception to this is the size of the car park at the Ibis hotel in Nice but we’ll let that go for now).
It’s still a bit of a trek to get to and there’s the small matter of 22 miles of English Channel to cross, but chances are you won’t be playing meteorological roulette when you get there. And funny old thing, it was that time of year again when the French throw what little Health & Safety they have to the wind, close the roads round the old circuit at Reims and let middle aged men in middle aged cars burn off some energy and tyre tread.
It seems hard to believe but it’s been two years since Carrots, Wilto and I blasted down to Reims for the Weekend d’Excellence d’Automobile (WEEA), and we’d made plans a plenty to return the following year but never seen them through. It seems for every blat that actually takes place there are another ten that never make it. So in the end it was a spur of the moment decision to go again.
In keeping with past Euroblats, a late night ferry crossing marked the start of this particular epic. Again it was with Norfolk Lines, again it was excellent, and the new WFP and I enjoyed a bit of blatters’ supper on board before a short blast through the night across mist-laden Northern French farmland to the Etap motel in St Omer. I should point out at this stage that WFP elevated herself to a new position of respect by not complaining once about the late hour, the cold air, tangled hair or indeed my repeated misjudgment of where the gear lever was in relation to her right thigh.
Saturday dawned bright and sunny, a potentially great day overshadowed only by the mildy concerning sight (and I’m not making this up) of a bloke wearing a parachute in breakfast.
With thoughts of impending doom or aviation related mishaps cast aside, we were soon down at Reims where the circuit was already alive with the sights, sounds and smells of the French and their classic cars. The event hadn’t really changed a bit from the one we attended back in 2008…..Derelict road racing circuit, big field full of cars, and a champagne tent. Perfect.
And better still, this year the car parking stewards recognised automotive excellence when it blatted in to view and directed us to the special car park for special people with special cars. By pure chance, we ended up parked less than ten yards from the main entrance.
The thing I love about the WEEA is it’s a no-frills event. There’s none of the corporate hospitality willy-waving of Chichester, no one tries to sell you the Sunday Times and a Secret Service earpiece for a quid, and a program which simply lists what’s happening when instead of overloading me with adverts for wristwatches and BMWs is less than £15, which funnily enough also includes entry to the event for both days.
After the sunshine and smoke of the drive down, the cool earthy tunnel through to the paddock offered a little momentary relief, before we emerged in to the main area of activity, where a hazy mix of Castrol, Chanel and dusty hay bales set the scene. I can’t deny it though – numbers were clearly down on the Bentleyfest we’d visited two years earlier. There were visibly fewer cars and of noticeably lesser pedigree. Now this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, although it does suggest Reims hasn’t quite cracked it yet as a “must do” event for the drivers of two tons of 90-year-old British steel.
To be continued.....
So, where were we? Ah yes, Reims.
Despite an apparent drop in numbers the spirit of the event was still strong, and unlike our previous visit, not diluted in heavy drizzle. Although the calibre of cars seen in 2008 was lacking, it was pleasing to see an emerging classic to which I find myself taking something of a shine - The Mk1 Ford Escort.
The gamble of going all the way to the Jockanese Congo hadn’t paid off. The snag is it’s so bloody far, and the climate simply cannot be relied upon to deliver, unless you want a few million litres of water, then it delivers that with aplomb. The combination of distance and drizzle make it unworkable as a blat destination, or a blatstination for short.
France however, in an unusual break from trade unionism and Gallic attitudes to delivering on a promise, is quite accommodating in this respect. (One possible exception to this is the size of the car park at the Ibis hotel in Nice but we’ll let that go for now).
It’s still a bit of a trek to get to and there’s the small matter of 22 miles of English Channel to cross, but chances are you won’t be playing meteorological roulette when you get there. And funny old thing, it was that time of year again when the French throw what little Health & Safety they have to the wind, close the roads round the old circuit at Reims and let middle aged men in middle aged cars burn off some energy and tyre tread.
It seems hard to believe but it’s been two years since Carrots, Wilto and I blasted down to Reims for the Weekend d’Excellence d’Automobile (WEEA), and we’d made plans a plenty to return the following year but never seen them through. It seems for every blat that actually takes place there are another ten that never make it. So in the end it was a spur of the moment decision to go again.
In keeping with past Euroblats, a late night ferry crossing marked the start of this particular epic. Again it was with Norfolk Lines, again it was excellent, and the new WFP and I enjoyed a bit of blatters’ supper on board before a short blast through the night across mist-laden Northern French farmland to the Etap motel in St Omer. I should point out at this stage that WFP elevated herself to a new position of respect by not complaining once about the late hour, the cold air, tangled hair or indeed my repeated misjudgment of where the gear lever was in relation to her right thigh.
Saturday dawned bright and sunny, a potentially great day overshadowed only by the mildy concerning sight (and I’m not making this up) of a bloke wearing a parachute in breakfast.
With thoughts of impending doom or aviation related mishaps cast aside, we were soon down at Reims where the circuit was already alive with the sights, sounds and smells of the French and their classic cars. The event hadn’t really changed a bit from the one we attended back in 2008…..Derelict road racing circuit, big field full of cars, and a champagne tent. Perfect.
And better still, this year the car parking stewards recognised automotive excellence when it blatted in to view and directed us to the special car park for special people with special cars. By pure chance, we ended up parked less than ten yards from the main entrance.
The thing I love about the WEEA is it’s a no-frills event. There’s none of the corporate hospitality willy-waving of Chichester, no one tries to sell you the Sunday Times and a Secret Service earpiece for a quid, and a program which simply lists what’s happening when instead of overloading me with adverts for wristwatches and BMWs is less than £15, which funnily enough also includes entry to the event for both days.After the sunshine and smoke of the drive down, the cool earthy tunnel through to the paddock offered a little momentary relief, before we emerged in to the main area of activity, where a hazy mix of Castrol, Chanel and dusty hay bales set the scene. I can’t deny it though – numbers were clearly down on the Bentleyfest we’d visited two years earlier. There were visibly fewer cars and of noticeably lesser pedigree. Now this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, although it does suggest Reims hasn’t quite cracked it yet as a “must do” event for the drivers of two tons of 90-year-old British steel.
To be continued.....
So, where were we? Ah yes, Reims.
Despite an apparent drop in numbers the spirit of the event was still strong, and unlike our previous visit, not diluted in heavy drizzle. Although the calibre of cars seen in 2008 was lacking, it was pleasing to see an emerging classic to which I find myself taking something of a shine - The Mk1 Ford Escort.
As a kid I never gave these cars a second glance, but over recent years there's something about the nippy saloon that appeals, more so when one appears in rally mode, the brassy Crossflow engine note, lairy power slides in to and subtle tail-wagging out of the bends strikes a chord. Another daydream added to the wish-list.
The lazy afternoon continued, with various groups of cars taking to the track for some very enthusiastic display laps, so enthusiastic in fact that on more than one occasion the track closed and the attendant recovery truck would trundle off out of sight, returning some time later with varying degrees of battle damaged cars. Part of me felt bad to see someone's proverbial pride and joy mangled and mishapen, then again, another part of me drew comfort from knowing these motors were martyrs to the lost cause of speed and thrills, and there was to be had a certain nobility in being wounded in motoring battle, rather than hit from behind in a queue of stationary traffic.As the balmy evening closed in, so did a barmy group of cars, with the track being given over to modern cars of, as les organiseurs called it, exceptional interest. Personally, I find showroom fresh Porsches and hire fleet Aston Martins being driven by twats and tosspots rather dull, for that's what followed.
In typically simplistic blatting fashion, the later evening consisted of a checking in to a simple hotel in Reims itself, having a simple shower, then decamping to the nearest restaurant for a simple meal. Uncomplicated pleasures.
Sunday was a re-run of Saturday, a little moister in places with some light drizzle, although after the perma-drenching I'd received in Scotland it mattered little. The lap action did suffer a touch though, and by late morning we were thinking of heading home anyway so, with another weekend picnic Euro classic historical motorsport blat in the bag it was back to Blighty....
