MGB Grand Tour
It was the third time that morning a thunderous roar and unnecessary tyre skid had pushed me to the edge of the Moyenne Corniche. Another super-car had careered past. My bicycle wasn’t up to the pace of this road, and nor was I. As I cycled towards Monte Carlo I promised myself I would return again, but with four wheels rather than two. It was October 1999.
Fast forward to June 2001: London, England. I bought the wheels – a 1966 tartan red MGB GT christened “Captain Scarlet”. The preparations included a trial run to Land’s End that ended disastrously after complete electrical failure. Bits continued to drop off the car throughout 2000, and the year culminated in smashing into a police car on the M1. The Captain had looked destined to becoming a gentle urban run-around, but nursed by the good people at Fisher MG, he was now back to fighting form. Ferry tickets had been booked, and armed with spark plugs, contact points, a wire brush and the obligatory spare headlamp, there was now a chance I might soon get back to Monte Carlo.
Bets were taken of how many of the 1000-miles between SE1 and the C’ote d’Azur would be covered. “The trouble with your car is metal fatigue”, I was told by my sceptical father. “It simply won’t cope with the strain”. Just before I left work-mates had given me ‘The Disaster Handbook’ and a Michelin map. This was the original endurance test – Monte Carlo or bust.
A drizzly departure from Dover and a morning of tearing through the flats of Northern France brought us to Reims. Facing engine oil shortage we got some helpful advice from two old Bentley boys who looked like they had stepped out of the original 1969 film. In the evening we found a farmhouse B&B in Champagne for our first nightly stop. Maurice, our host was a vintner, who served Champagne with every meal while his wife served endless courses of radish, smoky bacon crisps and pork stew. Around the room were some odd ornaments: not only a cabinet of anthropomorphic teapots, but more strange were the champagne bottle and charred wooden plaque both painted with the image of the dreary Peugeot 604. These were clues to Maurice’s obsession, which he revealed the next morning.
He unlocked the farm outhouses to show us about twenty very tatty 604s together with a Range Rover, a VW Cochinelle, a hearse and a psychedelic Philippino disco bus that Gerry Garcia would have died for.
This was a magnificent adventure. Other than a few tweaks to his shiny new carbs, the Captain was loving it.
The second night we head for Basle in Switzerland. Towards the end of the day our route took us through the small town of Thann, where they happened to be celebrating classic cars. Unplanned, we drove right into the show ground and parked behind a local white BGT. Our bonnets were soon up and we shared disaster stories, pointing to the shiny engine bits as evidence. He showed me his Kenlowe cooling fan and radiator-overflow-reservoir: “It gets hot in these parts”. The Captain made no such concessions to the local climate. A bottle of water in the boot would have to do.
Basle, Geneva, Chambery, the kamikaze mountain-passes of the Massif de la Chartreuse and dusty Sisteron passed by. The doubting friends and relatives were a distant blur. The casino was getting closer. We were going to make it.
With the Phillips alternating between the medium-wave cheese of “France Bleu” and my cassettes of the Average White Band, we slalomed the rocky-valley-roads of the River Var, cutting through spurs and small Provençal villages. “Let’s Go Round Again… maybe we’ll turn back the hands of time… yeah baby”. Give me another hairpin. Perhaps it was bare feet baking from heat that blowed straight through the bonnet vents, the comforting gusts from the Webasto sun-roof or my proximity to the wrong edge of the road, but the Captain had never felt so good. With effortless grip and poise, we charged on to Nice.
Evening approached and the mood of the traffic changed. As the Var meandered towards Nice the road filled out to dual-carriageway, and the driving became more leisurely. This after all is Europe’s holiday region where even a driver’s right arm takes a break. They don’t just perch an elbow on the open window sill, but dangle an entire arm down the driver’s door, developing a lop-sided tan. It explained why most cars were ominously dented.
The first night on the coast would be spent in the Antibes. A few miles before we got there the milometer turned over from 999 with a cheer, marking 1000 miles in four days. The Captain smugly skulked into the cool subterranean car park of the apartment block and I took a deep sigh. A quick check under the bonnet ensured we were completely intact. This was not quite the end of the journey, but we had all but made it.
The next few days were for picking up a tan, pottering around local markets, and becoming an indigenous ex-pat. Antibes is like Chelsea by the sea, probably because quite a lot of Chelsea sails down here in the summer to dock their glossy hulks. One of these yachts even had an on-board Mini-Moke that could roll straight off the deck on a baguette errand or for an excursion to the beaches of Juan les-Pins. For the Captain and I an excursion on the Corniche roads beckoned – Monte Carlo was in our sights.
Through Nice you reach a road that has given its name to drop-top Rolls Royces. Just past the chi-chi resort of St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat there is a tunnel-and-bridge sequence that takes you to the cliff-top village of Eze. This enchanting knick-knack destination plays a fleeting cameo in “To Catch A Thief” during the sequence when Grace Kelly whisks Cary Grant away in her Mercedes 190 SL. It was also where, about two years before, I had nearly taken a detour towards the beach when a Ferrari brushed past. This time a policeman and his motor bike were stationed on the bend waiting for a playboy racer to try his luck again. The Captain and I passed him without incident.
At lunchtime we finally reached the steep descent to Monte Carlo but something felt wrong. I am sure that when James Bond parked outside the casino on any of his numerous visits, or when Terry Thomas and Eric Sykes reached the finish of their Monte run, it was a glamorous dusk. It seemed pointless to ruin the moment so I decided to delay my arrival, and took a left to follow the Corniche onto San Remo. I had also promised to bring back my brother some Parmesan cheese, so when I reached the Italian resort I went supermarket shopping. (N.B. After a long hot drive, when your T-shirt sticks to your back, supermarkets are the place to go because they have the best air-conditioning). Supermarkets are worth another mention, because of one particular French chain appropriately named Le Casino. Disorientated tourists might be disappointed to walk into crates of fresh fruit when they are looking to gamble on fruit machines.
Back to Monte Carlo, via the seaside country club and onto the immaculate tarmac racetrack that snakes around the principality. A right hook from the seafront drive takes you past a parade of Louis Vuitton and Gucci boutiques that lead to the bustling roundabout in front of the casino.
Every bit the part, dazzling after a recent restoration, the casino sat waiting for our arrival. A Bentley and a couple more Ferraris were already parked directly outside leaving a space for a neat MGB to join them. I parked up and nodded to a doorman, perhaps he might like the keys? Unfortunately this was not the 1960s, and even then “the poor man’s Aston Martin” (as the BGT was known), would probably have never bought me free parking. I was asked to move on. Foiled from completing the journey in dignified style I did manage to stop on the other side of the roundabout to take a portrait of the Captain and the casino. We then parked in a nearby pay-and-display. I had gambled on getting here from London and succeeded. My luck was looking good, and an evening of black jack would be a great way to unwind after the drive.
It was not to be. Other than the fruit machines near the Casino entrance, the only place inside you can explore without a suit and tie are the marble-clad lavatories. They are worth a visit, especially when you’re still feeling icky and there’s not a supermarket nearby. After a moment savouring the luxury I left the casino, none the richer (or poorer), but at least a bit fresher. The evening was spent with a slow cocktail, some potato chips and a novel. Next time I’ll bring a suit.
[The journey home is another story, involving a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, a Marseilles rubbish-truck, Paris car thieves and the treacherous sand dunes of Le Touquet].