My navigator then was six feet tall, 19 years old, and the numbers 39-26-36 have mysteriously remained in my head ever since

One Wednesday afternoon in September there was one solitary, nostalgic old git standing at the top of the spectator bank on the outside of Stowe Corner – me, and it felt really weird. Honestly, the whole time I was there not another soul was to be seen on that part of the GP circuit.

At least it wasn’t raining for once. It was quite bright and, apart from a stiff breeze, it was dead quiet. Gazing around, it occurred to me that Silverstone looked superb, with its well-mown grass and everything neatly laid out. It seemed absurd that there might only be one more Grand Prix at this fabulous place. Ever.

Oddly enough, far from injecting a sense of gloom, the spirits of everybody at Silverstone have improved dramatically since the impending loss of the GP was announced. The realisation that F1 is not the be all and end all of motor racing has swept through like a breath of fresh air.

But never mind all that; this was Day Two of Tour Britannia and something had compelled me to turn out for the Silverstone race. This particular stage of the Tour was not open to the general public and, quite frankly, why should it be? Nobody with half a brain is going to bother to go all that way just to watch one race for historic cars, lasting not much over a quarter-of-an-hour. But there I was.

Waiting. It’s always different for competitors on these events. Busy all day, they’d already raced at Mallory Park and done several special stages since breakfast. I reflected that it would do me good to be the spectator for a change.

Then, at long last, in the far distance, some small specks came into view. The race was on. People say Silverstone isn’t the greatest place to see the action but they can’t have stood on the outside of Stowe. I could see about half the circuit, with plenty of corners.

Under the bridge and down the Hangar Straight they came, a Porsche 911 just in front. That must be event leader Sean Lockyear, I thought, as the field piled into Stowe.

Chris Chiles, in an AC Cobra 289, was hounding the 911 and Mike Dowd had his Carrera RSR right on the Cobra’s tail. Behind them a Cooper S was having it out with a huge Ford Falcon Sprint, a quick MGB, a Big Healey and a Shelby GT350 Mustang. There were Elans and Elites, a monster Bizzarrini, an Aston DB6 and much more, all tearing along having one almighty thrash. Most improbable of all was the little 1300 Alfa of Richard Frankel, battling it out with a Ferrari 250GT Lusso. Terrific stuff.

After that opening lap, the crowd became increasingly excited. Yes, there I was, on top of that bank, jumping up and down in my bright red jacket, all on my own. Up front, things were really hotting up as the two Porsches and the Cobra reappeared, sliding round Stowe, side by side but somehow not touching each other.

It’s a real shame you didn’t see it. In a close finish, Dowd won that leg from Chiles and eventual Tour winner Lockyear, and somebody said later it was only Dowd’s third-ever race. You’ll just have to take my word for it: that was one of the most entertaining races I’ve ever seen at Silverstone.

What a fine event is the Tour Britannia. Watching it made me so envious that I want to do it myself next year. Back in the ’70s, I had a great time on three of the original Tours of Britain, including a class win in 1975 with a Penthouse-sponsored Fiat 1300 Coupé. My navigator then was six feet tall, 19 years old, and the numbers 39-26-36 have mysteriously remained in my head ever since.

From time to time I wonder what became of Madeleine Le Mauviel and whether she would care to resume her rallying career. A genuine Penthouse Pet, she started that 1975 Tour dressed in her nightclub uniform, a stunt which attracted some attention. For the competitive sections, if anything she looked even more arresting, having changed into a tightly tailored Nomex suit I’d had made for her.

Unexpectedly, she then proved highly proficient in the navigator’s seat. I imagine her today, married to some billionaire. He might be reassured to hear that today’s Tour competitors are no longer able to go right through the night.