By Sally Francis. Added Date: 23/10/2006

On July 20 1939 the Automobile Club de Charente organised the first Circuit des Remparts around the streets of Angoulême. An annual race was held until it was abandoned in 1951.. Many famous drivers competed such as the late and much revered Fangio, also Prince Igor, Guy Ligier, Stirling Moss, Jacky Ickx and Didier Pironi.

In the mid seventies, a new young socialist mayor was elected in Angoulême. He  had a passionate love of classic racing cars and managed to turn the whole town car crazy once again,  re-instating the Circuit des Remparts in 1978.

Angoulême lies in the heart of south west France, on high ground, mid-way between the towns of Poitiers and Perigueux.. The street circuit climbs steeply up the ramparts to the top of the old town and consists of some almost impossible hair-pin bends, steep hills and a couple of very fast straights with high kerb-stones. The slightest mistake could end in disaster.

The mid-September weekend consists of a road rally on the Saturday with picnic lunch, an art exhibition of all things automotive and early evening cocktails, followed by a banquet hosted by Monsieur le Maire. There is also a best turned-out car event sponsored by Rémy Martin, with the winner getting his/her weight in brandy! Sunday is race day…….

This year as my husband and I prepare to be onlookers rather than competitors, it brings to mind our adventure exactly twenty years ago when we were invited to participate.

We prepared our little 1932 Austin 7 open sports car with meticulous care -  complete engine re-built, dynamo re-wound, changed the copper brake pipes for flexible hydraulic ones, fitted a new manifold, twin carburettors, strengthened some of the bodywork and designed new storage areas within the engine compartment for spare parts. The only thing we didn`t touch was the back axle, mainly through lack of time. The pinion seal was weeping, but don`t they all?  The gearbox was fine, so we reckoned this was best left alone.  As final safety precautions, we fitted an electrical cut-out switch to the battery and took out the AA European 5-star recovery service.

Spare parts were bolted to every spare nook and cranny – in the engine compartment, in the cockpit, even some underneath the car itself. The few clothes we had were crammed behind the seats. We were ready to go…………………

Wednesday prior to race weekend, we set off leaving the cold, misty Kentish countryside. We were wrapped up warmly in our new flying jackets, complete with goggles, leather helmets, scarves and gloves. We had a non-eventful journey to Newhaven Docks.

We decided to go straight on board as loading had already begun, and were directed towards the upper car deck ramp. We stated the car was far too low for this. The steepness of the ramp and angle at the top were sure to catch and damage the exhaust. The loaders wouldn’t listen. There was a lot of shouting and fist shaking, and we were forced to proceed. This we did with caution. Clunk.  The silencer bracket caught the top of the ramp. We tried to back down to the ensuing consternation of the vehicles behind us. The loaders went absolutely potty and said they would lift the car onto the deck but “WE MUST GO UP.” We did. The car cleared the top, this time with no problem at all. We soon knew why!The exhaust was blowing. On inspection we discovered, when the exhaust bracket had met the top deck, it had in effect jerked the exhaust pipe from the front end. It had split badly just below the manifold joint. There was no way we could drive to Angoulême like that. What to do now?

The only possible solution was to try and get ourselves off the boat, run into Newhaven town to the car accessory shop and buy some exhaust bandages, these not being available in France. We managed to find a rope ladder going from the top deck of the boat down to the quayside, and down we went! (Never again!) We walked around the back of the custom control point and back to the ticket officer, where I stayed to make sure the boat didn`t sail without us. Meanwhile Michael ran into town. The car accessory shop was now a video shop. Michael then remembered he had passed a garage, so sprinted back there. Did they have any exhaust bandages?………..four………….took the lot,  paid the man. “Must be a big hole mate!”  Michael sped back to the port with only five minutes to departure time.

Meanwhile, I had explained to the Ticket Officer what had happened. He in turn told the Boarding Officer. Michael dashed into the gents’ toilet to wet one of the exhaust bandages in the hope he could fit it straight away. We headed back to the boat only to be stopped by a lurking Customs Official (who had no doubt, been watching all our antics). He neatly barred our path and said:“Do you mind telling me exactly what you think you’re both doing, Sir?”

After a quick explanation, we were allowed on our way. I think the poor man thought Michael had rushed into Newhaven to rob a bank. Back at the boat we were met by the Boarding Officer and the Captain who asked us to explain what had happened. The loading crew listened in, denying the whole story, so we all had to go up to the car deck to inspect the damage.

The Captain said the crew would weld up the damaged area during the crossing.  We felt a bunch of burly sailors, used to welding ships hulls etc., might not appreciate the fragility of the car, or where the petrol lines were. What if we arrived in France with the car in an even worse state? After a bit of persuasion, it was decided we could stay on the car deck during the crossing and effect the repair ourselves. The Captain needed to get his ship underway as by now he was running late.

By this time the wet exhaust bandage was about to set in Michael’s pocket. However, we managed to get the hole strapped over and secured with a couple of jubilee clips and odd bits of wire.

Later the Captain called us up to the bridge. He filled in the necessary paperwork so we could put in a claim, but had the gall to say next time we must tell the crew if we did not want to go up on the top deck!!  We reminded him we had still to get the car down! He radioed the crew. Our car was to come off last and the ramp was to be adjusted to whatever angle was needed not to damage the exhaust again.

Mid afternoon. At last we were off and driving in blazing hot sunshine.  Direction Rouen.  It got hotter and hotter until we just had to shed our flying jackets etc., but where to put them? In the end I had everything crammed under my legs with my knees now jammed against the dashboard. This was going to be a very uncomfortable ride indeed.

Although the car was going well, Michael was not overly happy with the carburettors. They were just not “spot on.” He decided, never having fitted twins before, he would just have to keep adjusting them until he got it right. About 10 miles from Dreux, he decided to pull into a lay-by to have yet another look at them . As he was doing so, suddenly the ammeter gauge went from + 10 to – 30 and off the dial. At the same time, thick white smoke started curling out from under the dashboard. Instantly he stopped the car and yelled at me to get out.  At the same time he reached down to where my feet had been and managed to cut the electricity supply. Thank goodness he`d fitted that switch last night as a last minute safety precaution.

How I got out of the car so quickly, I will never know. You normally have to ease yourself slowly out of the tiny cramped passenger cockpit. Sitting, as I was, with two thick flying jackets under my legs, it was a feat in itself.  I told Michael it was sheer fear when I saw the smoke! So, what now?  We were miles from anywhere. It was 6 pm. The only thing to do was to try to find out what the hell had happened.

If Michael turned on the ignition switch the car was charging. If he turned the petrol switch on, he got – 30 amps. He methodically tracked the wire from the switch back towards the rear of the car and towards the electric petrol pump. About halfway back he found the problem. The wire had been chaffing against the chassis and was shorting-out.

He re-routed the wire, having bound it with insulation tape. What a narrow escape! I dread to think what would have happened if he had not fitted that electrical cut-out switch. How would he have stopped the wires smouldering all the way back to the petrol pump? And then…………….it just does not bear thinking about!

The only other immediate problem was the pinion seal on the back axle, which had been weeping slightly when we left the UK, was now more of a drizzle. Michael had to top up the back axle oil – considerably! We managed to reach the Hôtel de France in Dreux by 7.30 pm. Exhausted. We had driven two hundred miles. What a day it had been.

The next morning, suitably refreshed, Michael filled up the back axle oil again, also the engine oil, water etc., and generally checked the car over.  We headed off towards Chartres. Here we got involved in a horrendous deviation, adding an hour to the journey to Châteaudun. From there onto Tours. The car was going well.

By the time we reached Poitiers, the heat was unbearable. We had no protection from the sun as the car did not have any sort of roof. The exhaust had started blowing again and the fumes were overpowering. Eventually we had to stop and rest under the shade of some trees. We discovered we were both red in the face and covered in black smuts from the exhaust fumes. I told Michael he looked like a dirty lobster.

We set off again after an hour’s respite during which time Michael adjusted the carburettors yet again, and put more oil in the back axle. It was now dripping out almost as quickly as he was putting it in.

We reached Angoulême by 5 pm which seemed a miracle.  By this time we were scarlet in the face, streaked with sweat and grime. We were absolutely exhausted. I thought I was going to faint and slumped down onto the pavement outside the Coq d`Or.  Michael dragged me into the hôtel. We were like two desert explorers having reached their destination, gasping “deux bières, s`il vous plaît.” The hotel owners were so impressed, or horrified (Who knows?), they offered us their private lock-up garage so we could repair the car. Better than trying to do this on the pavement outside the hotel. We thankfully accepted, and went out for dinner to try to decide what to do next.

Friday. We got up early. It was going to be another hot day. Michael went for an Angoulême “wander” as chaps do. He came back jubilant having found an iron foundry, set unobtrusively between two tiny shops. Just what we needed to repair the exhaust. We dashed back to the car and removed the existing exhaust. By now it was nearly in two pieces. Arrived at the iron foundry.  Half an hour later, for 30 francs, the man had broken it in half, cut the frayed edges off and welded it all back together again. It was now about three inches shorter than previously. Michael adjusted the bracketry and had it fitted to the car again in no time at all.

The back axle was the most worrying problem. All we could do was carry cans of oil with us and see what happened.  We cleaned the car from head to toe. Michael gave it another “service” and kept muttering about calling the AA.

Early evening we drove it up to the Hôtel de Ville and the officials made us park within the confines of the inner courtyard with the “posh” cars, the Talbot Largo Fangio would be driving, a multitude of Amilcars, Bugattis and historic single seaters. We had a good dinner that evening, early to bed, completely done in..

Saturday: Rally Day.  Our route was to take us on a 50 mile tour of the Charente Valley, stopping for lunch at Chambon. We were given a photocopied route map, nearly impossible to read. Who cared so long as we ended up in the right place for lunch? We walked up to the Hôtel de Ville to collect the car. Last to leave as had to fill up the back axle again. Off we sped. Four hundred yards later the car completely died. What now?

Probed under the bonnet. Changed the condenser. Nothing happened. Tried absolutely everything. Sure it was the condenser. Had another one. Change it again. All okay. We were off and running. The second condenser must have been a dud.  We were, by this time, so late, we headed straight for the lunch stop where we collected our picnic lunch – five courses in a  bag – and  allotted wines.

A few hours later, after a merry time had by all, we went to leave. Flat tyre! This should not have been too serious but the problem was, firstly Michael discovered the spare inner tube he had was for a 19” tyre and not a 15” tyre. Secondly, the front and rear tyres of the car were different sizes and the spare was – yes, you`ve guessed it - for the rear. Oh well. Put that on and hobble back the 15 or so miles to Angoulême to find a garage to repair the punctured inner tube.

An hour later, it was nearing 5 pm and everywhere was closing up for the race weekend. We drove round and round the town, eventually finding a garage still open. The owner was prepared to help and  patched the inner tube. We left his forecourt covered in back axle oil. Returned to the hotel. Quick shower and change into our glad-rags for the evening banquet.

The banquet was being held in the local meat marketing hall, about 5 miles south of Angoulême. We jumped in the car just as it was getting dark with no direct instructions. Found that the rear lights were not working, but by now so desperate (and hungry) decided to risk it.

Wow! What a banque!. About 500 people. Fangio was guest of honour. We ate such delights as wild boar casserole and chocolate gâteau. At the end of the evening, a party of chefs wheeled in a Bugatti completely covered in pale blue icing and supporting an enormous five tier cake covered in candles. It was a wonderful sight. Then, the winners’ cars from the Concours Européan Rémy Martin Challenge were driven into the hall.  These cars had been judged earlier in the evening and, of course, the winner got his weight in brandy as his prize.

A wonderful evening and we drove back to Angoulême with no mishaps. In the town there was double Armco everywhere, grandstands still being finished. The street circuit was materialising. Tomorrow was RACE DAY.

Sunday materialised through the fog. It was cold. The hours went by. No racing. The authorities, combined with higher authorities, felt it was too bleak to race. We waited and waited. Michael`s race times came and went

Late morning the sun came out, racing commenced.  I went exploring to try and find out what was happening. Fangio drove the Talbot Largo around the circuit in a very fast time. Meanwhile, Maurice Trintignant driving a Lotus 24 V8 won the Grand Prix of the day. Various other races took place. All the time, other racing drivers were stuck in their cars in side streets with no information whatsoever. Worse than that, they dared not leave their cars and  watch what races were taking place in case they were suddenly called to race themselves. Michael was entered for three races and by 6 pm was still sitting beside the Austin watching the back axle oil drip out.

There was nothing for it other than to put the car away and head for the nearest bar. We learned later, by putting together stories from various sources, that because the start had been delayed by three hours, the organisers had left out some of the races. It was only unfortunate no one had told us earlier in the day so that, at least we could have left the car and enjoyed watching the rest of the day’s racing. We consoled ourselves with a very expensive dinner……………….

Monday: Time to leave. Michael was all for calling the AA as the rear axle oil was pouring out at such a rate we were having to buy litre bottles in bulk.  I was horrified at the thought of everyone back home knowing we couldn`t get back under our own steam.  Also, the engine oil was leaking at a far greater rate than previously. We also had a small leak from the petrol tank.  Maybe it was the heat, I said .Typical women – he said.

So, off we went - with a plan. Every half hour, without fail, we would stop to top up the back axle oil.  As long as we prevented everything seizing up, we should be okay so long as we didn`t run out of back axle oil!.

About 5 miles north of Angoulême, the oil pressure soared. Michael killed the engine immediately and coasted into a lay-by. Upon investigation, the engine jets were blocked with long thin spirals of white metal.  We had an engine bearing breaking up.  Michael cleaned out the jets.We set off again. Fifteen minutes later, the same thing happened. Cleaned the jets. Michael getting nervous. Fifteen minutes later the same thing happened a third time.  Michael cleaned out the jets once more. This time we were due to put in the back axle oil, so it timed in quite well. A fourth time, fifteen minutes later, it happened again but, as we were due to top up the engine oil, that was a pretty good coincidence.  Slow progress indeed and we were still south of Poitiers.

After that, for some miraculous reason, things got better.  Oil pressure stayed a fraction high, but no more metal in the jets. We then reverted to our half hourly stops for back axle re-fuelling, and on the hour we topped the engine oil up as well.

It seemed to take hours to reach Poitiers (1 hour north of Angoulême in a modern car) and from then we decided to take the motorway towards Tours to give the car an easier ride. We made a mental note of every SOS box we passed but the car seemed quite happy at a steady 50 mph.

We stopped at 6 pm at Châteaudun where we found a hotel and had a well earned evening meal and a good night’s rest. We reckoned we were halfway back to our return ferry point, Boulogne, with a day and a half to go. So far, so good.

We set off on Tuesday morning having topped up all the levels and given the Austin the “once over”. Every mile we drove, we breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly the oil pressure was coming down and down – now almost normal.  This is bizarre, we thought. By now the engine should have blown up big time.

The half hourly back axle refuelling stops were both dirty and time consuming but, as every time we were inching nearer to the coast, things were looking pretty good. The latest worrying thing was that the oil pressure having got so good, now couldn`t stop falling. It was way below normal.

We made it through the northern drizzle to the little town of Saint-Valery-sur-Somme early evening. Here we stayed at our favourite hotel, the Hôtel du Port, where there is an excellent, huge figure of a chef. Brilliant meal, lots of wine, slept well.

We set off on Wednesday morning, leaving the normal pool of oil where we had been parked on the quayside, and having done all the usual checks. As normal we attracted a large crowd of locals. Only an hour’s drive to Dieppe. Wet weather and goggles day. Guess what, we`ve just about done it.

Fifteen miles from Boulogne, we were going down quite a steep hill and the dreaded big end whirring noise rattled through the engine. Our hearts stopped. Michael turned off the ignition. We coasted down to the bottom of the hill.  It didn`t really seem worth calling the AA now. Perhaps we could get someone to tow us to the ferry as this was surely the end. Oh well. We`d nearly made it.

We counted to one hundred. Took a few deep breaths. Nothing to lose now. Turn on the ignition. Started the car. Perfect. It ran as sweetly as a bird. Off we went again, praying and fingers crossed.  Five miles later, the same thing happened again. The nerves can only take so much. Deep breaths later, Michael started the car again.  All was okay. The oil pressure was practially nil now, but only a few more miles to go.

We made it to Boulogne, managed to buy a few bottles of wine which were stored under my feet as we were once again wearing our flying jackets. Found a decent restaurant. Celebrated over a good lunch and arrived at the ferry port at 3 pm for the onward journey to Folkestone.

“UP THE RAMP” said the crew.  We said “NO”.  They said “YES”.  We turned off the ignition and got out of the car. The French seamen went mad.  They yelled and waved their arms at us. We stood firm this time. We won.

We arrived home later that evening in the pouring rain, having battled our way through two hours of spray from the lorries and speeding cars on the M20 and M25 wondering if we would actually survive the last leg of the journey. When we drove into our driveway, Michael turned off the ignition and we just sat. I don`t think we moved for half an hour. We were mind-blown, exhausted, maybe crying a little, or was it the anticlimax of being safe again?


Read the next piece(s) in this series...
Our unforgettable gastronomic weekend in Cognac

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