No scheduled work could be carried out in the workshop for weeks while the technical department developed a Ferrari 250 ash scatterer

Autumn; season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, and the sound of tooth-sucking that engineers make when faced with a car that has been up on bricks all year, and will be found to require almost unlimited expensive fettling. It’s a moment one tends to forget when extolling the wonders of old car investment: ‘Much more fun than something hanging on the wall, old boy.’ Well, yes, but the Mona Lisa never seems to need a top and tail, certainly not a repaint, nor even touching up (ooh, missus!).

Worse, there’s the siren call of spares as insurance against that rainy day when the gearbox, rear axle or crankcase suddenly needs a transplant – and the only one available this side of 2015 happens to be in Australia. I can’t resist these items; I have shelves full of odd castings, gears, and ‘animal, vegetable or mineral’ material to accompany GTO windscreens of sufficient quantity to suggest that I may be aware of impending biblical hailstorms.

Even more peculiar is my total inability to throw away anything from an old car. Of course, it’s worth keeping odd shrapnel like a piston as a useful reminder not to believe that it’s probably just a faulty oil pressure gauge; but a set of old GTO carpets seems unlikely to be needed again.

But enough pensive musings, and an embarrassed return to my Goodwood exploits, where I managed very nearly to have a substantial ‘scenery interface’ as I understand it’s now called (my favorite euphemism is still ‘ambience co-ordinator’ to designate a drug dealer) while driving an Aston Martin GT4 at one of those wonderful days where someone else brings the cars. Courtesy of MoΫt and Chandon, and with the help of Prodrive, Jean Alesi was on hand to be best at everything, Anthony Reid to demo some really hot laps in a DBRS, and Darren Turner to have the worst job of all: riding alongside me in the GT4 in order to get me out of trouble as I took a novel line at Fordwater that utilised the grass on the outside of the track. Curiously, it’s even more embarrassing in someone else’s car.

Then there was the sad but fitting ceremony to fulfil the last wishes of Mr Dabbs, my late lamented Mr Miyagi of car fettling.
I know I’ve written about him before, but in true Dabbo style it transpired that he had asked for his ashes to be scattered at Silverstone from the GTO, with me driving. This ensured that no scheduled work could be carried out in the workshop for three weeks while the technical department developed a Ferrari 250 ash scatterer, the car was polished to concours level, and arrangements were made for food, drink and shelter on the day.

Meanwhile the design department produced a personalised BRDC badge to adorn the car in recognition of his particular pride in being a member. And it is a club to be proud of. The BRDC is an extraordinary organisation. Considering it was initially kicked off by Dr JD Benjafield, one of the famed ‘Bentley Boys’ who wanted to organise dinner parties after races for his friends, it’s come a long way for a supper club.

In a world where half of the international circuits are now funded and run by governments, the BRDC runs not only the British Grand Prix but also a raft of other events, a racing school and a support system for the best of the country’s young drivers. It’s quite a sight to see Tim Harvey playing Mother Hen to an extraordinary array of rising talent… Or perhaps he’s the Simon Cowell of motor sport?

It was my first opportunity to trundle around the new circuit, and it’s massive. The new buildings are taking shape, and it’s a far cry from my first memories of going there with my dad, when access to the paddock involved a man with a flag waving you across the track between races or practice sessions

I think Mr Dabbs realised the delight we would all take in being sidetracked for so long, and I suspect this was in his mind as he devised the request. I know he would have enjoyed the project. Curiously, I have since come across a number of other people dealing with similar exercises. At one time I thought we might be able to market a limited number of these ash scatterers, but it appears that to carry out the same sort of exercise from a Lancaster bomber needs a different solution, involving the bomb doors. Without wishing to sound morbid, I think we’ll just park ours with the GTO screens and gearboxes until I need it myself.

NICK MASON

Pink Floyd’s drummer and a great car enthusiast, Nick has raced classic and modern cars for the last 30 years and has written two books: one on cars, Into the Red, and one on his version of the history of Pink Floyd, Inside Out.