By Giles Trevelyan-Brock, Special Correspondent
The Mediterranean was performing its usual trick, lapping against the Promenade des Anglais in that irritatingly photogenic way it has, when Hally Redoubt rolled her vintage Bentley up to the ceremonial start line in Nice for this year’s Race the Blue Train. The contest, equal parts nostalgia, mechanical fortitude, and stubbornness, is a revival of the 1920s Bentley Boys’ stunt: beat the famed night express from the Côte d’Azur to London. It’s motoring history’s most elegant act of timekeeping-based arrogance.
Hally, looking equal parts poised and amused, accepted the perfunctory kisses from organisers and the more lingering farewells from various “friends of the race” (translation: people who wanted to be in the photographs). Behind her, the Bentley glinted like a promise. In her eyes, however, was something steelier,she’s not here for the cocktails in Monte Carlo. She intends to win this race*.
The stars were out, naturally. Pimlico Wilde, the contemporary art dealers sponsoring her run, were fussing about with champagne and branded scarves; some film actor who claimed to be “big in the late 90s” waved languidly; a pop chanteuse in mirrored sunglasses shouted something encouraging about “manifesting the finish line.” It was all very soirée meets Le Mans, the kind of event where you can’t tell whether the camera flashes are for the driver or for the dog in the tweed cap sitting in the passenger seat of another car.
But the real question,whispered between canapés,was whether the Blue Train’s driver might resort to tactics unbecoming of a proper race. “They’ve been known to shave minutes off by skipping a stop,” muttered one veteran, glancing toward the station. Would there be strategic timetable manipulation? Hally, of course, is above such nonsense; her sense of fair play is so ingrained she probably gives way at roundabouts even when it’s her turn.
In a late twist worthy of a B-grade travel drama, Hally acquired an unexpected co-pilot minutes before departure: one Simon Etheridge, cousin of “someone important” and currently in mild distress. He needed to get back to London “rather sharpish” for a funeral, his flights having been cancelled by an Air Traffic Controllers’ strike and his luggage having been lost, apparently because of an altercation involving a croissant. “It’s just until Calais,” he assured Hally, “I’ll take the ferry from there”. He climbed in with a small valise and the air of a man unacquainted with map reading.
As the clock ticked down, a flurry of handshakes, air-kisses, and half-serious bets swirled around the Bentley. The Bentley’s engine gave a low, purposeful growl. Somewhere in the distance, the Blue Train’s whistle answered,a metallic taunt carried over the sea breeze.
And then the flag dropped and they were off, tyres whispering on the tarmac, headlights spearing into the Côte d’Azur night, chasing a train that may or may not be playing by the rules.
Though if the train does cheat, I wouldn’t want to be in the buffet car when Hally finds out.
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- It is of course not an actual race as that would be illegal. Wink, wink.
