"Ooh, nasty," he confided. "Have you tried Anusol? It's the only thing that works for me."
Then I remembered what I'd forgotten. We'd defied the purists on two counts: Jimmy had fitted a pair of tasteful wing mirrors that the manufacturers had not deemed necessary, and I'd installed a radio cassette player. Unfortunately I'd forgotten to throw in any cassettes. A quick detour took me to the record shop. I picked up a Dylan I hadn't heard, then made for the classical section. I was looking for S for Sibelius, but on the way saw Rimsky-Korsakov, and decided that perhaps Capriccio Espanol was more appropriate.
Eventually, much later than I had wanted, I found-myself heading cross-country to pick up the M1 southbound.
The E-type was a revelation. By modern standards it was heavy on the controls, and the performance was probably no better than lots of other cars, apart from the hundred and fifty miles per hour top speed. But what it did do, par excellence, was turn heads. Drivers pulled over to let me through, and then turned to wave a friendly hand. Kids in back seats gave me the thumbs-up. When I stopped at a motorway cafe there was a constant procession of admirers gawping through the windows and standing well back to appreciate the graceful lines. I felt like a celebrity, and was surprised to discover that I enjoyed the feeling.
Dover was reached by late afternoon. After filling up and buying a European road atlas I investigated the queue for the hovercraft. It wasn't as bad as I had expected, and eventually they squeezed me on. I think they quickly regretted their consideration when they realised how long the car was, and how difficult it was to manoeuvre, but we did it.
Forty-five minutes later we were in France. I followed another vehicle for a few hesitant miles, until I recovered from the shock of driving on the right. The Jag's poor rearward visibility, combined with the fact that the steering wheel was now on the wrong side, meant that I had difficulty watching what was happening behind me. The obvious solution was to drive faster, then I'd be going away from it all.
Immediate priorities were meal, bed, breakfast; preferably in that order. I drove steadily for about an hour, then, just as it was growing dark, pulled into the car park of one of the legendary Les Routiers. It was a disappointment, but bright and early next morning, stuffed full of croissants and twitchy on thick black coffee, I set about some serious motoring. Before going to bed I'd spent half an hour studying the maps and decided to travel south on the routes nation ales rather than the auto routes My intended course would take me to the west of Paris, through Orleans and Limoges, and touch the edge of the Massif Central in Limousin country. It looked an interesting way to see some of France, and this was supposed to be a holiday.
France is a big place, I discovered, and my progress to the bottom of the map was tardy. But the E-type weaved its magic, and the sun was shining, and soon the familiar shadows of the avenues of poplar trees were flickering over the windscreen. I thought of all the impressionist paintings of these roads that I had admired, and wondered how many of them would be improved by the addition of a speeding Jaguar. The next time I visited a gallery I'd take a few fibre-tipped pens with me and see. Orleans was easily bypassed. It brought back memories of the only time I acted in a school play. We were doing Shaw's Saint Joan, and I landed the part of the Bastard of Orleans, purely on the grounds of being the only kid in the class who could pronounce it properly.
It was going to take me a lot longer to reach the Costa del Sol than I had anticipated. Impetuosity is not normally one of my traits, and now I was paying the price for my foray into that territory. Lack of planning; that was the cause of the problem. What the hell, who cares?
Problem? What problem?
I stopped in an unnamed village and dared to check out the local supermarket. Stocked up with bottled water, crusty bread, fresh grapes and other local goodies, I was soon on my way again. I also bought some aspirin, because the driving seat was giving me backache; and some sunglasses. Walking back to the car I put on the shades and gave the baseball cap to a little boy on a bike.
I reckoned on stopping for fuel at about two-hundred-mile intervals. I filled up four times that day.
There's a line in a song about the old men playing chequers 'neath the trees. The shadows were long and the light had turned a warm golden-yellow when I pulled triumphantly into the small town of Foix, at the foot of the Pyrenees. And there they were: old men in woollen cardigans and black berets, playing chess in the shade along the roadside, against a backdrop of a sun-washed hilltop chateau. I extricated myself from the Jag, gingerly straightening my back and stretching my protesting limbs. I was worn out and sweating. Beautiful cars, like beautiful people, have their deficiencies.
I'd parked outside a church, underneath a colossal cedar tree. I had a quick swig of bottled water and went for an exploratory walk. My schoolboy French was an embarrassment, but after a lot of gesticulation and even more laughter I found a small, deep-shadowed hotel that could feed and accommodate me for the night. When I took the Jaguar there, Monsieur le Chef-Patron was ecstatic, and insisted on my putting it round the back, away from the road. I felt welcome.
The evening blowout started with trout in a buttery sauce, followed by steak and whitebait, with olives. An unusual combination to me, but it went down well. This was followed by a portion of cooked celery and then a salad. There was no menu; as I cleared one platter the next appeared. We finished off with a cherry flan that would have impressed my mother.
I wiped my chin on the big napkin. Madame was insistent with the cheese board but I could only manage a couple of mousetrap-sized portions. As with the food, there was no choice of wine. And rightly so: they were the experts, and I submitted to their knowledge. My glass was filled with liquid that looked black until you held it to the brightest light. Then it glowed deep ruby, like St. Anne's robe in the Leonardo painting. It was one of those wines that ambushes you.
The first big mouthful left a slight prickly sensation on the tongue, and I decided that it was not really to my palate. By the end of the glass I was reconsidering this hurried appraisal, and by the third glass I was thinking that tomorrow was another day and could look after itself.
Monsieur asked me if I had enjoyed my meal. At least, I think that's what he said. I gave it Yorkshire's highest accolade: "Not bad," I told him, grinning like a euphonium, as he refilled my glass.
Next morning I felt as if I was coming round from unsuccesful brain surgery. Two aspirin for this hangover seemed as effectual as throwing ping-pong balls at a runaway train. Maybe the mountain air would do the trick.
"Never again," I swore, not for the first time.
Normally, I like mountains. Human beings are supposed to have some primordial instinct that draws them, eternally, back to the sea. Not me, I go for the high ground. Today, though, the Pyrenees were just a barrier to my progress. The big engine ignored the gradients, but the mile after mile of hairpin bends took its toll on the driver.
Perspiration was running down my arms when we were in the sunlight, then we would swing round a bend that seemed to go on for ever and plunge into shadow. The temperature would drop until the next hairpin brought us bursting out into the brightness again. I felt sick. A road signposted "Andorra' passed by on the right. It would have been an interesting diversion, but I'd save that for the next time. I'd made myself a promise that one day I would return to Foix, but then it would be my destination and not just a stopover. The first view down into Spain was not what I expected. The entire countryside below was covered by cloud, like a vast goose-down quilt stretching into infinity. Here and there pinnacles of vapour towered upwards from the undulating mass, as if trying to break free from it, and caught the morning sun.