In all the times I’ve visited Prescott the sun has always shone, so if any of you are planning to visit the picturesque Gloucestershire hillclimb you should check with my diary. Last weekend the Bugatti OC held another ‘La Vie en Bleu’ weekend, where the theme is Gallic and the scent of Gauloises hung heavy over the sun-filled paddock. Or would have done if smoking wasn’t banned – some health and safety nonsense about high-octane fuel.
Saturday had a pan-European slant, and the Battle of Britain flight buzzed the hill with Spitfire, Lancaster and Hurricane in a Merlin concerto.
Sunday, though, was mainly reserved pour la patrie: the French machinery lined up in rows of racing blue under Parisian street signs saying ‘Bde de la Republique’ and ‘Rue Charles de Gaulle’, (as many a British politician did).
Alpines, Amilcars, Matras, Hotchkisses, BNCs and more than a few Bugattis (it’s the marque centenary) tore up the hairpin hill while spectators, some in striped shirts and berets and one in a pith helmet, munched crêpes and drank – well tea, mostly. Coffee in the afternoon would be taking the continental theme too far for an English fête. But the car parks were packed and there was a convivial atmosphere on the grassy bank above Ettore’s as boxy blue Renault 8s took their turn with brawny Alpine-Renaults and thundering Delages, while puttering Parisian cyclecars brought relief to the ears and allowed the untiring efforts of the wandering accordionist to be heard. Luckily no-one played any Edith Piaf, once described as sounding like a goat being driven down a cobbled street in a 2CV.
Speaking of which, a Deux Chevaux actually contested the hill, although as it was a race version it was disappointingly rapid and did not fall over at Ettore’s. Qualifying due to its French engine, Ayrton Senna’s 1986 Lotus-Renault T98 sprinted up the hill in a flicker of black and gold. Down below, a veritable fleet of Veyrons (one of them the polished ally Pur Sang version) and an EB110 squatted in the sun and made occasional rumbling forays to the top, while if you elbowed your way through the flashing legs of the troupe of Can-Can dancers prancing to Le Band Français you could inspect Prince Leopold’s amazingly original Type 59 dans son jus and the Earl Howe Type 57S which emerged recently from years in a Tyneside lock-up.
In the Paddock you could climb onto one of those 1920s Parisian buses with a corral at the back for the less salubrious passengers, while in the Orchard 50 Alpines gleamed beneath the trees. There were white-faced mime artists wandering about too, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Anyone who swore during the boules match had their names taken by Gendarmes patrolling the paddock, while serial offenders were signed up by the Foreign Legion.
But while the accent this time was French, Prescott remains a thoroughly English summer party. It’s one of the few places where you can hear the commentator say “oh, how super!” with a straight face.
