When Route 66 and France 83 converge

The first sniff of work, after a three-minutes conference call lowered the curtain on a career spanning three decades, was as a transport correspondent, specialising in cars.

It wasn't so much an invitation to apply that was easy to refuse as one that was impossible to take seriously. What I know about cars can be written in triplicate on the back of a bus ticket, still leaving plenty of room for important notes.

While I have unbounded admiration for this manifestation of man's creative ingenuity, the motor car represents nothing more to me than a way of getting about, and comes a long way behind the train and even feet as a preferred means of transport. Le Mans may figure heavily in the geographical origins of la famille Salut! but motor sport has never seemed sport at all, more a kind of industrial exhibition.

But I know what I like. And a pleasant day spent in the elegant little resort of Sanary, just west of Toulon, was capped by the unexpected appearance of a fleet of American limousines, trucks and sports cars from a bygone age.

To leave a bunch of rough-and-ready locals playing boules and take in tranquil harbour and bay views before encountering gleaming vintage cars is to pass from one essentially old-time culture to another. When the tannoy announcement came to warn an errant driver to move his car or else, it wasn't an old Ford or Cadillac that was causing offence, but a hapless, workaday Golf.

I will share some of the scenes I witnessed. Bill Taylor would have captured them more effectively, but he wasn't around so it was down to me and my little Panasonic DMC-FX07 to do the necessary.

What you must also accept, I am afraid, is that I did not approach the task in the manner of a cub reporter sent to collect the names of mourners at a dignitary's funeral. You will need to use your own knowledge or imagination to identify each model.

It might also be borne in mind that my mind was not entirely on the task in hand, since I was still savouring the after taste of a very enjoyable plateau des fruits de mer at the Hotel de la Tour, built rather cleverly around an old tower, the top of which bursts proudly through the roof.

Good as it was, however, it was not the best seafood platter I have come across. Without threatening to embark on a curry-style search for the winning example, I can say that by far the finest such spread was served in, of all places, Sunderland.

That is not the start of an argument that Wearside is the new culinary capital of Western Europe. We were lucky enough to be guests of friends who have the means to send their fishmonger out into the North Sea to provide the ingredients of a royal feast.

The first time we dined with them, we were on our way to a friend's wedding, also in Sunderland, and I recall that the refreshments at the reception extended to chicken drumsticks, pizza portions and sausage rolls.

One last thing, far from Wearside and also from Route 66. If my headline had you guessing, it was a gentle reminder of why I list certain postings under the sub-heading Salut! Huit-Trois.

The Var, in which Sanary and my present home ground lies, is the French département bearing the number 83, which I have chosen to style huit-trois in the manner of the more famous p- or infamous - neuf-trois (93) of Seine St Denis.

Comments

[Bill Taylor]

Nicely shot, Colin. Don't under-rate yourself. From the top, the cars are a classic 1932 Ford "Deuce highboy" hot rod roadster (a shame it has fenders; they look much better with open wheels); a 1934 Ford Tudor, with a lowered roofline; a customized 1958 (I think) GMC or Chevrolet pickup truck; an unmodified 1929/30/31 (I'm not certain) Model A Ford; a 1959 Cadillac; and a mid-50s Austin Metropolitan (it's unlikely, I think, to be an American Nash, which licenced the Metropolitan to Austin).
Here endeth today's lesson. I hope you took notes. There could be a test.

[Tim Sinclair]

The French don't seem to care much for the old when it comes to houses (happy to let the Brits buy and do up the tumbling ruins and pile of ancient stones).

But what a different story when it comes to motors. Every village and town seems to be able to wheel out vintage vehicles for the annual/biannual ubiquitous rallies.

Yes, the UK has its share of enthusiasts but, apart from the London-Brighton run, they are only likely to be wheeled out to take fourth or fifth place to such things as cows and cabbages at a county show.

[Bill Taylor]

You're looking in the wrong places, Tim. England has all manner of classic-car and hot rod gatherings, especially during the summer. Also old bus and truck rallies. Wonderful events.
I'm phobic about county shows. I can't shake the memory of having to go to the Wolsingham, Stanhope and Weardale shows (on three successive weekends, as I recall), often in the company of Colin. I had it easy compared to him, though. The Echo only wanted first-place winners; the Despatch demanded first, second and third. We'd lug a couple of full-size manual typewriters along. Getting it all down on copy paper was made no easier by repeated visits to the beer tent. But you're right about them usually having an automotive component. That holds true in Ontario, too, where all the rural towns are gearing up for their annual shows.

[Tim Sinclair]

Ah yes. I did my penance at Darlington, and in addition to that agriculture show there was of course the dog shows.