The road back

As the Peage booths approached we pulled in to devise some sort of plan for the final race home but mainly to cross-examine John over the missing magnum. He had not only nicked one bottle but both of them. His strategy was simple. He would hide one of them in an anti-chamber of the Chateau in order to be easily discovered. The Birmingham crew would become relaxed, thrown off the scent naturally assuming the second bottle would be found in a similar, obvious place, but at the same time taking their eye off the recovered bottle. John hoped they would think that this was a friendly prank that at best, would only, but inevitably delay their start in the race. Murphy was not going to let them off so generously. Interspersed by chuckles, he explained that he had stashed the second bottle under the coat of the Chief of police knowing that no one would demand that the ‘top bobby’ should be strip searched. During the pandemonium, at the start of the race, John had slipped this bottle into the boot of Graham’s car, after it had been previously thoroughly searched, when John had become the main and only suspect. The first bottle, carelessly unprotected, was hidden simply under his coat unnoticed as we climbed into the cars.

The drive north would be straightforward but fucking cold. November nights in central France are notoriously arctic particularly in a rag top with no heater. This promised to be some journey. We would follow the A6 through Auxerre on to Fontainebleau then into the center of Paris to re-fuel.

We arrived in central Paris at 4.00am bitterly cold, disorientated with only fresh air in the tank. It was the combination of consuming gallons of wine, relentless pounding fatigue; we had actually been actively awake for twenty-one hours sustained by extreme temperatures. Finding an all night petrol station was sheer good luck. We filled the Burlington and found ourselves driving down the Champs Elise, out to Place Cliché, along the Pigalle to Scare Coeur. All of these roads were empty, even Monmartre with its notorious reputation for all night revelry was deserted. Leaving the suburbs the A16 carried us north to Beauvais. On auto-pilot we reached Amiens at 6.30am. as dawn was breaking, Geoff and I were fading fast. Sleep deprivation, lack of food, sub zero temperatures were ruthlessly unremitting; all taking their toll. Geoff needed, at least, an hour in the support vehicle to defrost. John and Jack were already fast asleep. The heater in the Volvo was pumping out red hot air. This was too good an opportunity to miss. Geoff fell in, greeted by Graham who was still, thankfully, wide-awake grateful of the company he was very welcoming. I returned to the Burlington with a stubborn determination to see Calais before 800am. The grey opaque mists had risen resting softly over the endless pastures then leisurely, silently and peacefully dissipating into the hedgerows, we were faced with the flat, calm rolling landscape of Picardie, inevitably the strong yellow sun began to creep above the tree line. With only 30kms to the coast I stopped to see if Geoff wanted to join me for the last few French kilometres entering Calais in triumph in a Triumph. To Graham’s dismay he was fast asleep along with Jack and John but after being gently prodded and poked he, like myself, was desperate to finish this part of the journey in the car that had brought us so far without a single problem. Arriving at the docks on schedule at 8.00am.we booked the first available ferry at 8.30am. we had now been awake for over 24 hours scarily resembling the walking dead.