We parked up next to a couple of 1930’s Bentleys which were getting almost as much attention as the TVRs and quickly reviewed our route to the Nurburgring.

All was not lost, while we were running late, the place wasn’t that far away and we’d get there in good time to see what was going on, have a mooch about and find a coffee.

Ben had said it could get pretty hectic at the weekend, though I’d not really twigged what day it was.

We set off in convoy, this time the T350 led with the Cerbera following.

Coming off the motorway we joined a series of A roads flanked by rolling green fields and finally started seeing signs for the Nurburgring. With that, the number of aggressive drivers, sausage cars (e.g. suped-up Mitsubishi’s) and speed cameras increased until I finally saw my first glimpse of the Nurburgring through a gap in the trees.

As we weaved our way under the track and up towards the main parking area, the Cerbera gave a loud cough and started to judder like a plane in choppy air. I assumed J had just put it in the wrong gear and the 4.2l engine was protesting; the look on his face however said the gear was right but something was fundamentally wrong.

We pulled into a spec opposite a lovely green BMW M4, and my thoughts turned to all those at home who had hinted it was inevitable we’d break down somewhere in Europe.

At this point, it started raining.

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