24 HOURS AFTER LE MANS

Ah, I thought, that explains why it was so difficult for me to book my return ferry after a flying trip to France to pay bills, feed the cat, and buy wine (of course).

Despite doing this journey, from Caen to Portsmouth, countless times over many years, I always forget that the third weekend in June is Le Mans 24 hrs, the province of the white alpha male.

Silly me.

I have never cared much for prestige cars or other status symbols, so it was with some amusement I spent the best part of an hour parked at the ferry terminal observing the petrol heads who had gathered in their droves to return to good old blighty, as over 600 cars waited to board the ferry.

Porsches, which were ten a penny, were outshone by the smattering of Lamborghinis and Ferraris, with the odd Aston Martin thrown in for good measure; none of them a match for some of the wonderfully eccentric classic cars, with equally eccentric owners. Needless to say, personalised number plates were much in evidence.

Ripe pickings for any eligible female you would think, although competing for attention with a mere engine and four wheels would be a tough call here. Not in the running by a long shot, I nevertheless wished I had paid a little more attention to my appearance. Leggings and a baggy shirt just did not cut the mustard.

Almost without exception, as one might expect, my fellow passengers were male, travelling two-by-two in their hundreds, as if boarding the ark, and generally at that stage in their lives when they might best be described as middle aged; the age when, no longer in the first flush of youth, they have the beginnings of a paunch, evidence of their liking for a pint or two. They gathered in tight knit groups, casting envious admiring glances at the gleaming body work surrounding them, in much the same way women might admire and covet the latest pair of Jimmy Choo’s or a Hermes handbag.

Short haircuts, a day’s growth on the chin, wrap-around sun glasses, faded knee length shorts and polo shorts complementing the Tag Heuer watches was clearly de rigeur. The testosterone was palpable.       

With sweltering temperatures on the hottest day of the year so far, lingering in this heat was no picnic in the park for those with open topped roofs. As engines overheated, batteries died, and cars refused to do their owners’ bidding, more than one car was physically pushed on board. At close quarters, I saw the open boot of a Porsche. ’You couldn’t get much wine in that’, came involuntarily to mind.

The rest of them, waiting patiently to drive on, clearly could not resist one last burst of noisy engine power as they flexed their engine’s muscles and zoomed up the ramp once we were given the go ahead. Anyone would think they were still at Le Mans. A boy’s own outing indeed.

Amid the tangible buzz on board, I couldn’t help but notice the brisk trade in perfume sales; peace offerings no doubt.