The perfection of the GTO re-union, described in this monthÂ’s Event Reports, was crystallised one morning at Sears Point. Drivers were assembled and a show of hands was asked for to indicate those whoÂ’d raced at this or other circuits before. All hands went up.

It was the ultimate representation of an enthusiasm for motor sport and a belief that great cars should be exercised. I complain that I used to be the rich kid in
this select bunch, and now IÂ’m the elderly poor person, but in the 30-odd years IÂ’ve had my car this attitude has remained steadfast. ItÂ’s still a great group to be part of.

It is also de rigueur to keep moving if you pass a fellow traveller in trouble. I speak with some authority, having frequently passed my friends chatting animatedly with the Gendarmerie while I adopt an oddly vacant expression as though examining a particularly interesting item on the far side of the road.

When this happened to us I could only proffer a baseball hat with the car’s chassis number embroidered on it as documentation. Fortunately Jean Berchon, one of the organisers from sponsor MoΫt & Chandon, was prepared to stop, but only long enough to video some of the interview with the law before breezing off down the highway.

We are better than we were. There was a famous elevenses some years ago at the Hennessy Cognac distillery; they did add orange juice to the brandy in the hope this might make it less potent but it didnÂ’t work.

"When we were stopped by the police, I could only proffer a baseball cap with the carÂ’s chassis number embroidered on it as documentation."

I was relegated to navigator and Mrs M took the wheel, but even then I found it all rather tricky. It transpired this was because I was holding the route book upside down. Other people were clearly having the same trouble, since we kept meeting GTOs going in opposite directions.

Twenty-something GTOs is a modern wonder of the world. I tend to avoid the issue of values, but I couldnÂ’t help watching with particular interest as around half-a-billion dollars-worth of cars were lined up for a photo shoot. One badly driven tractor from the vineyard could have put the driver into the history books, and the underwriters into the PrioryÂ…

And now let me hand you over to Mrs M for an alternate version of the story – or, as she would put it, The Truth...

My alarm fails to go off and I pack in 30 minutes: GTO gets hot and uncomfortable – jeans; OK, two pairs, these are sophisticated people.

I wake early and behold the glorious sight of 22 Ferraris lined up in their stalls, snorting and roaring, anxious to hit the road. Nick drives and I navigate; luckily weÂ’re behind another car, so I snooze, opening one eye occasionally to gaze at endless acres of vines.

The first stop is Bill HarlanÂ’s Bond Estate for a photo call (cars only!) and my chance to luvvie up, as I jealously check out the other, now younger and blonder, female driving competition; then I realise I know and love them all. Mwah, mwah, darling; only a bit put out now.

Next is an antiques store that happens to sell coffee. They cope admirably with 50 latte mochaccinos to go. I pour mine over me while getting into the car and have to wash my jeans in the ladiesÂ’; now we need to catch up.

We pass through a forest of giant redwood trees, and then climb up and over the coastal mountain range towards Mendocino. NickÂ’s handling skills round the narrow roads are impressive, and so are mine as I clutch my latte, read the nav book, reset both Brantz and Tom Tom, and attempt a sip as we negotiate another hairpin. My jeans dry in record time, because the footwell is like a tumble dryer. Suddenly we burst onto the shoreline road, with steep cliffs falling to raging surf. It surpasses Big Sur for breathtaking views.

Mendocino is a quaint town – you can tell because there is no mobile phone signal. Many residents are former hippies and it’s said the town’s most significant cash crop is marijuana. Still, no time to investigate, as it’s my turn to drive.

Next day itÂ’s on to Domain Chandon. Getting into my driving stride, I grin and wave as I flash past the other, more sedate GTOs; and they grin and wave as they flash past me as I sit contritely explaining to the traffic cop why I was doing 80mph in a 55 zone. Luckily he is a car nut, and he assures me I was definitely the fastest.

Dinner at The French Laundry is unbelievable, and I also get top placement next to Sir Anthony Bamford celebrating his birthday. Sometimes I know in my youth I must have done something good.