Wonderful car rally builds French connection

WE had the chance to take our old friend on a car rally in Britanny recently. George was very happy – he’s over 80 but rose to the occasion. We’d made sure he looked smart for the occasion and Hubs had given him a good rub down and spit and polish before we set off. He glowed with delight and loved the admiring looks he got – he can still hack it even at his age.

George is a 1937 MG. He’s Hubs pride and joy. We were joining a group from Yealmpton, south Devon, to take part in the Milizac rally in Brittany. The two towns are twinned and it’s a lovely opportunity to meet with the French connection.

The organisers, Benedicte, Phillipe, Roger and Catty turned themselves inside out to look after our Devon contingency throughout our trip, including finding us wonderful places to stay, great restaurants and scenic drives.

The rally itself is organised by a group of French car enthusiasts from Milizac. A delicious group of old vehicles gather on the Thursday and much of the fun is spent poring over the many rare breeds assembled.

We were then given maps and clues, and set off with a great deal of camaraderie and gentle competitiveness, knowing we will be back for a great lunch laid on in the village hall, where hundreds of people applaud the winners and practice their linguistic skills.

The French have a more liberal view on alcohol we’ve discovered. At the first stop, around 10.30am, we’re all offered a glass of cider (or water), crepes and honey while we hussle for clues and fill in an impossible quiz sheet.

An hour or so later, we quaff a tumbler of wine and some delicious terrine and baguette while testing our skills by standing in a bike tyre and seeing if we can throw weights onto a board. Impossible, or maybe it was the cider.

At further pit stops, the now common boxes of wine and nibbles all become part of the journey. “Hmm I thought it was blackcurrant” said a friend, knocking back a whole beaker without persuasion.

Those pit stops should have a marriage lawyer present. They’d make a fortune. Couples arrive grumbling under their breath about their partner’s sense of direction or ability to read clues. Competitiveness rears its ugly head. For me, it was realising just how much Hubs values me.

As we trundle along through the stunning Breton countryside, waved at by all the locals, the “suicide” door on my side swings wide open. I know now why they’re called suicide doors – because they’re hinged at the back and it’s easy to fall out. “Get the door” yells hubs “They cost thousands to replace”. Great. I hang out of the car like a sidecar passenger in a motorcycle race as the road comes up to meet me. It’s my wedding anniversary, too.

Passengers in open cars always seem to be cold. In blazing May we can be seen huddled in fleeces, at odds with sunhats rammed on our heads.

Despite that, the Millizac experience is very relaxing. The mellow French lanes brought back memories of when I wrote about the historic Sicilian Targa Floria. I rode with some of the organisers, all selfdeclared members of the Mafia, I perched on the tiny back seat of a Porsche Targa trying to interview the driver. The car took off on a hairpin mountain road and flipped into a churchyard. I landed upside down looking up at a large stone angel, wondering if my moment had come. Nearby shepherds rolled the car upright, and with the temporary tyre on, (speed limit 50km) we were off (doing 150km) on the next stretch of road.

Another ride was in a Lamborghini driven by the head of the Sicilian mafia. He had parchment-coloured skin stretched tightly over his jaw, revealing his teeth even when his mouth was shut. We had brief pit stops where he fed me expresso that dissolved my canines and back in the car he proceeded to try and get his hand up my skirt, overtaking every vehicle on the wrong side and driving at speeds that Lewis Hamilton would have baulked at. At the end of the ride he told me his hotel room number and said “My wife, she sleep very deep”. I never found out.

Like the French trip, there were lovely cars – I remember riding in a very comfy British Lagonda with an engine that purred like a cat.

The Italian hotels weren’t so simple. Checking in to my hotel room, I found a naked man asleep on the bed. Allocated another room, I found a woman in the shower. I landed up sharing a room with my photographer, bouncing off the walls with caffeine and the flashing of the lighthouse outside the window.

I reflected on the Sicilian trip and came to the conclusion that negotiating suicide doors was probably a much better option than some I’d had in Sicily.

The company was wonderful, George behaved impeccably and, despite the fact that I need an osteopath to get over the unsprung seats, I can’t wait for us to take him out again.

‘Couples arrive grumbling under their breath about their partner’s sense of direction or ability to read clues.’

A pit stop during the Milizac car rally