283. The village fête (continued)

I should not have been so critical of the hill start skills of the Sunday drivers in their antique cars because only minutes later I was having to negotiate the same steep hill in a car the faded vieux rose tint gave away as not equipped with hydraulic clutch, reversing camera and other wall-detecting sensors.

'You can drive up here with your car! That's not a problem.' The old man whom I was buying garden chairs from was trying to convince me.

'But I thought the village was closed off and that they just let the vintage cars drive up.' I said, a very faint tinge of panic in my voice would be detected by a seasoned ear.

While I was uttering these words it struck me that I could almost pass for part of the motorcade ... Vieux rose was the perfect colour and a right hand drive quirky enough around here. 

The started waving his hands all over the place.

'No! Of course not!' He said rather forcefully as if outraged.

'No! Drive right up here to my stand and I will help you load up.'

The tone of voice was close to an order which I did not dare to disobey and off I went to get my little pink car with the wheel on the wrong side. The first part of the hill was already steep and there were less people around but as the hill got steeper the crowds got thicker and reluctant to yet again move out of the way. So they just ignored me and I had to slalom up the hill at 5mph, desperately trying to avoid stalling. I did not want to but eventually I used my beeping horn. It sounded strident and foreign and rusty but it did help in making people notice me - which was the aim so they would let me through. Maybe they were fed up letting people through but they simply turned and stared at me. I started waving my hands around and, trying to pass for a very distinguished English lady, I was saying 'Sorry! Sorry! Excuse me! Sorry!' but they just stared and I stalled.

I had to perform the perfect hill start and worked the clutch and the brake and the gear stick on the left in an admirable way but in doing so revved up the engine hard and caused all by myself a second peak of pollution: a cloud of dark smoke and a whiff of acrid smell made everyone - at last! - step back. Then I realised it was because I was close to the field and they decided I should park there in the small field with the collector cars!

I quit the 'sorry' and the waving and the revving and obediently parked next to the 1921 sheep-van.