Angoulême Circuits Des Remparts

HM-CTT1908 30/07/2014 | 0

September 2002

So, what’s it about, this Circuits des Remparts? Do they really race cars around the ramparts of the town? What else happens during these “trois jours d’exception”? A lot of fun, that’s what happens and a lot of excitement.

The MGOC Travel Club contingent, with a range of 13 cars from T-series through to Bs, my own RV8 and an up to the minute ZR, were guided loosely (mainly from deckchairs at the outside bar of the Hotel Mercure) by Richard Monk and Andrew Melley. Taking a variety of routes from Le Havre had enabled all but one of the party to elude the Gendarmerie on the way down. Which was fortunate, as had we all been caught in the radar trap and been fined the same amount, the total take would have been over £8000, or not much less than the cost of a new ZR with Club discount!

Congratulating ourselves on our escape and the fine weather, we headed for the Jardin Vert for the Friday evening Concours d’Elegance, which competition included several MGs, including Andrew Murfin’s TD and Roy O’Donnell’s MGB. We arrived in the garden as dusk fell, with judging due to start outdoors at 2130. Clearly this would be no ordinary concours. And so it proved. We sat on the hillside in a natural amphitheatre amongst local families, were entertained by crackly Françoise Hardy records and waited.

Alarmingly, the first development was the appearance of a searchlight beam which played across the spectators and at the end of the tune settled on a middle aged Frenchman sitting next to my wife, Anne. He and an equally unsuspecting lady in front of us were thus chosen as concours judges to replace two who had not turned up. One of the panel was introduced as a motoring journalist, who appeared to be the only judge who knew anything about classic cars (and then only French ones). However, the most popular judge, measured by the applause, was Miss Angoulême 2002 who was gorgeous and could therefore be forgiven for knowing nothing whatsoever about cars, classic or otherwise.

What then was the allure of a competition to be held in the dark and to be judged by amateurs? The answer, of course, is for la gloire, a kiss from Miss Angoulême and the prize, – the winner was to receive his or her weight in cognac. This annual prize had been carefully chosen by the organisers to exceed the quantity of booze that could be taken through customs by an English contestant, should the judges, by some dreadful incompetence, fail to secure a French winner. But there was no chance of that this year! The competition got underway.

Traditional English style – Roy O’Donnel and Andrew Melley

As each car was driven out of the shadows up a ramp onto a display stand, lit by spotlights from several angles, appropriate music blared from le tannoi. For each French car the choice of music was triumphant. The Marseillaise or Beethoven’s Ode to Joy at least. For the English and Dutch entrants a few coughs and bangs from the speakers, and a snatch of some forgotten pop tune that made number 88 in 1975 sufficed.

It quickly became evident why no real knowledge of the cars was required of the judges, as the occupants of each car emerged in themed dress. The archetypal French couple who alighted from their Citroen Traction Avant were superbly turned out, he in zoot suit, she in 1930s haute couture and this pair were only outshone by their coiffeured poodle. Mimi, amazing as it may seem, had been trained (the very first French dog ever to succeed in this) not to pee over the wheels as he was paraded around the car. The applause was deafening. Even the spotlight which until then had been focused permanently on Miss Angoulême’s bosom was brought to bear on this tableau of French automotive genius and chic. My personal choice from the French entries would have been the 1952 Renault 4 Décapotable which was beautifully presented and from which emerged two small children dressed for a picnic at Le Touquet. This charming ensemble was only slightly spoiled by the elegantly dressed lady driver forgetting to apply the handbrake as she got out. This resulted in the car rolling back down the ramp toward the next competitor, accompanied by cries of “behind you” or the French equivalent, as if we were at a pantomime, which I suppose we were.

Concours d’Elegance – costumes to match the era of the car

Renault Caravelle complete with appropriately dressed crew

Timeless elegance of the MG TC

But what of our English competitors? Notwithstanding his drive from Yorkshire, Andrew Murfin’s TD was immaculate. But I hadn’t given him a chance. I had been sure that the judges would spot that his K&N filters were not original equipment, or that his rear tyres were pumped up 2lbs over recommended pressure. But we were saved. Miss Angoulême had clearly not studied her Wilson McComb while waiting for her nails to dry and the TD got a clean sheet and a terrific reception. As did Roy O’Donnell and our own Andrew Melley who swept up in an immaculate white MGB with red trim and, dressed in full cricket togs, batted (soft) cricket balls into the crowd. It was a fun evening and even our taxi driver entered into the spirit of automotive excess by driving three times around the city before heading off to the hotel, with the meter running, naturally.

On Saturday the Le Rallye Touristique Internationale was held which at 250 euros we had decided to skip. But more than 180 classics from the 1920s onwards were to drive through the picturesque Charente region and at various villages participants would be invited to drive onto a stand to explain all about the peculiarities of their vehicles. MGs were extemely well represented with models from every decade from the 1930s on, with my own favourite, and perhaps the most sportif being John Dutton’s 1934 NA. We went to the send off at the Geant supermarché, conveniently opposite the Mercure Hotel and followed two 4.0 litre Bentleys out into the countryside for a free ten Euros-worth of the run before peeling off and returning to Angoulême for the next event, “la Présentation de la Grille de Départ”. Yet more driving of cars up ramps, this time those due to take part in the next day’s races, and another non-stop commentary from Murray Walker’s long lost French cousin.


Bugattis are much in evidence at Angoulême

At the caisse we bought our tickets for the races, being careful to buy the wristbands which gave unlimited access to the paddock and the grandstands. The paddock was already very busy with competitors fettling their cars or undertaking more serious repairs after the long journey from England – about half the teams were British. MGs, of course, but also a fine turnout of Frazer Nash, Aston Martins and Bentleys amongst the indigenous Bugattis and Delahayes.

As first time visitors, our initial exploration of the circuit revealed a course 1.3 kilometres long, in the heart of the city. Public roads had been closed and Armco installed right outside peoples’ front doors. Two long straights were connected by right-angles at one end and by three consecutive hairpins at the other end where the road climbed from the residential streets up to the rampart itself. The grandstand opposite the second hairpin looked to be the best viewpoint and so it proved.

Our enthusiasm for an early start tempered by the excellent company the previous evening, we arrived on Sunday in time for the “Baptême Pistes” which I had interpreted over-literally, expecting to see a red-hatted Cardinal sprinkling holy water onto the circuit. The event proved to be an opportunity for local children to be driven at very high speeds around the track in BMWs. At the end of each lap the child in the front passenger seat was yanked out by marshals, the next candidate was thrown in, with no apparent time to fasten the seatbelt, the doors were slammed and off shot the cars with tyres smoking under acceleration and engines howling as they shot around the first corner. Amazingly all returned safely and we now understand that the next generation of French drivers is thus trained to tailgate in their Renault Clios at 160kph only centimetres behind your bumper.

The actual racing might have been an anticlimax, but it was not. Grids encompassed classes of varying ages and power and the circuit was short enough to ensure the slower cars were lapped early on. The longest straight allowed speeds of up to 200kph for cars capable of it and the tightest hairpin a maximum of 30kph. One minute provided more entertainment than a full Formula One procession. While some events were billed as demonstrations rather than races, it quickly became evident that cups were coveted and there was no love lost between some of the competitors. The first class was for pre-war sports cars up to two litres and was won, to the delight of MG fans, by Tim Patchet in his TA. The fact that some participants drove slowly and carefully while others threw caution to the winds added to the excitement as the former became, in effect, mobile chicanes. Two Alfa Romeos had great difficulty negotiating the second hairpin due to poor lock and, incredibly, on several laps, actually reversed back blind across the bend. Causing mayhem to unsighted cars behind and consternation on the part of the two marshals who had to take turns waving the blue flag to avoid exhaustion. A 1921 GN actually toppled over on the hairpin as centrifugal force overcame a high body and narrow chassis. Fastest dice of the day was between Richard Chester in his red Ferrari Daytona and Paul Chaperon’s silver Porsche 356; the latter’s overtaking manoeuvre on the hairpin resulting in a coming together of the cars and damage to both.


Bugattis in action

Would we recommend the weekend? You bet! Or, in 2004 you could kill two birds with one stone by following our example. Taking in the biennial Le Mans Classic races the following weekend, where what did we see in Coy’s auction? A familiar red Ferrari Daytona, one careful driver, with the left side turned carefully away from the bidders. C’est la vie.

John Wilson