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It’s a slow, lazy start compared to the last week. As is our tradition, Evie and I skip breakfast in favour of getting on the road. We re-unite with TS2, now safely returned to the hidden car-park, and nuzzled up next to Doug’s GTR5.

Doug and Matt in the GTR5, Clive and Gill in the Dolly, James and Helen in the MK1 GT6,
Dom and Archie in the TR6, Phil and Simon in the MK2

Cars we’ve seen on the road, we now count amongst our friends. It’s hard to say goodbye. We take one last celebratory drive around the abbey’s front-door, then head off for petrol.

The good people of Kerkrade are walking their dogs. To them it’s a Sunday morning, rainier, but perhaps like any other. To us, it’s the start of the long drive home, and the first morning of our lives as 10CR finishers.

Nobody puts the drive home in the road-book. It’s just admin; a simple 400 odd mile bimble. On a trip of this length, almost everything is negotiable. Everything except ferries. They’ll leave without you at the slightest invite. Just as we did on the way out, we’ve tried to make the drive to the ferry as short as possible. Our spirits are buoyed by the passing flash of other cars from the event, but the weather has turned against us.

The view out of TS2's windscreen in the rain, wiper part way across, the phone on its mount showing the route, red dashboard below

A red TR ahead on a wet grey motorway under blue gantry signs, seen past TS2's rain-beaded white wing and wiper

Water seems to be making its way into the cabin from the roof, and I’m getting wet legs. We stop at services on the other side of Antwerp to double check the Tenax fasteners and find one that wasn’t quite engaged. There are other Triumphs here, waiting out the rain, so we share a quick breakfast of croque monsieur and coffees.

TS2 nose in at the kerb of an Esso services outside Antwerp, Evie in a hooded rain cape leaning into the cockpit, grey sky and a Burger King sign behind

Jabbeke

I’m scanning the route ahead, and realise we will soon be passing the roadway used by British manufacturers for speed-trials when TS2 was new. Perhaps there’s time for one more treat. I give TS2 her nose, and she pulls forwards with the enthusiasm of that still young car.

Evie has covered Jabekke off in her notes from the ferry, so I’ll leave it by saying it was a huge privilege to put her in her big sister’s playground.

The ferry

There were plenty of Triumphs in the ferry queue as we arrived. Through the rain, our own little flotilla approached Dunkirk, a small fleet of British sports cars making its way to the port.

A Police aux Frontieres booth at Dunkirk marked Controle Passeports, another entrant's Triumph saloon at the window ahead, TS2's white wing in the corner — The skies dried whilst we waited, and as ever, a crowd gathered around TS2.

TS2 with her hood up, parked alone in the empty marshalling lanes at Dunkirk under a heavy grey sky, port fencing behind — The skies dried whilst we waited, and as ever, a crowd gathered around TS2.

We boarded at half-three and made our way to the seating area. Two hours later the captain announced we should return to our cars. TS2 started on the button at ten past six, and we rolled down the ramp onto… French soil. The ferry hadn’t moved.

All that time, and it’s a 20 year old ferry that breaks down. We roll around the port and straight onto the sister ship. This one is thankfully more reliable, and three hours later we exit at Dover.

The M20, the M25 and the M3

Of course, the hardest drive we’d face was always going to England. Intolerant traffic. Lousy surfaces slicked with diesel and cratered by potholes. It’s dark, wet, our minds are on French time, and, to add to the fun, the M25 is closed.

Google recalculates our route, adds a further eighty minutes, and diverts us through Reigate. It’s a very popular choice, that, with most of southern England apparently having the same idea. It’s all creeping hill-starts and temperature management, and is probably the most technical driving we’ve done. We use the local roads to top up the petrol. This is the first day we’ve needed more than one fill.

TS2 from behind on a floodlit forecourt at night, UK plate and 773 EWO under the Shell V-Power canopy, everything else black — After a week of living in, I'm going to miss this little cabin.

TS2's red leather interior lit by the forecourt lights, big black steering wheel, the dials dark and the seats empty — After a week of living in, I'm going to miss this little cabin.

Finally we find our way to the M3. I’m famously bad with directions, but even Evie can trust me to get us home from here. A 1950s car on a motorway at night is a small animal in a herd of large ones. You sit low, you hold your line, and you count off the junctions like rosary beads. With no sidescreens, rain ripping at her, and the car surging in the wake of lorries, Evie goes to sleep.

Without conversation, the drive turns introspective. I realise I’ve become less useful to the Register. When I first made our pitch to TS2’s trustees, I knew some members felt she was a burden, a liability, a needless expense. I thought, through this trip, I could build a bridge to those people. It hasn’t worked. I’m not on that bridge. I’m not even near the damn river. People that cannot see this car is an absolute wonder are lost to me. I just do not understand them. They’re a different species, and not one I can find any empathetic response to.

Dom and Archie flash past, somewhere around Fleet, and that’s really the end of the Triumphs.

We pull onto the drive at two minutes to midnight. TS2 should have an indicated mileage of 92,591, but with the speedo disconnected she’s only been counting the good bits. The last time she checked in was a bump as we rolled onto the ferry in Dunkirk. Perhaps in her mind, she’s still there. Just down the road from Jabekke, within a day’s drive of the mountains, ready to take it all on.

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