ET IN ARCADIA EGO. A Talbot Owners’ Club visit to the Bugatti Trust, 11 February 11th Feb 2025

Of all the wonderful events that the TOC had in store, this was the one I wasn’t going to do. I had been to the Trust on countless visits and didn’t want to go again, besides I already had seven books on Bugatti, I had driven the eight-cylinder type 44, and not been impressed. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a type 40 and I couldn’t afford a type 35B. 

But my friend Trevor said he would drive, it was supporting the Club, and his car had a heater. But I immediately regretted the decision to go, it was a very grey day, an early start, and the journey seemed to take three weeks. However, I was somewhat pacified by a pretty girl who gave me coffee, and three chocolate biscuits later, I felt almost human.

The talk did not begin well. The usual speaker had pulled a sicky, and we had a bloke for some reason talking about Vauxhall 30-98s. Was I in some alternative universe? 

I have had two of the blessed things and they don’t stop. I had already crashed an E-type in Falaise in Normandy and the OE was not much better. Our speaker then went on to explain how his son had done the same - really!  It was not looking good; it did not bode well.

So just when I thought that things could not get worse …

“Err! Quentin, could you do the write-up on today’s visit, and don’t upset anyone this time.” The words of David, our esteemed leader.

He had received written complaints before about my attitude; on the upside, at least someone had read the thing.

The prequel 

December 24, I was being wined and dined with other writers in the Spread Eagle in Thame, courtesy of Matthew Bell and the VSCC, in the vain hope of drumming up a bit of copy for their mag. All somewhat strange as 1, I had not paid my subs in years; 2, The VSCC library always complained that I didn’t return books, and 3, they too had received written correspondence about my supercilious attitude. Anyhow, Matthew sat me between the girl wot does the classifieds in the magazine and also in Magneto; he knows I own a classic car garage and was hoping to drum up business; and a bloke, called Vivian, a Bentley three litre man who demanded to know my chassis number. Not on a first date, ducky!

Anyway, half way through the second bottle of a rather nice Sicilian Corvo, I think I agreed to put pen to paper and immediately forgot.

It came to me in a vision, a generic article for the TOC and the VSCC, half the work and twice the complaints. Why is this bottle empty?  So here goes folks:

Where were we? Ah yes, bloody corks, where are screw tops when you need one! (Martin Amis reckoned that they were the greatest invention of the twenty first century.)  Now, this geezer wot was talking about Vauxhalls is a cove called Charles Trevelyan. Once we left Luton and went to Molsheim, it was a master class. 

Ettore Bugatti was never an engineer, but rather a designer, artist and visionary. The first Word War had changed everything, suddenly it was now modernism. It seemed that everyone had a new utopian dream, whether it was National Socialism or Communism, or even futurism in Italy, or Wernher von Braun in Germany, or the Bauhaus movement (and in England of course we had mock Tudor.)

So Charles slowly opened the door to us, bit by bit, just like a Le Carré novel. Starting very slowly, single overhead cam and four valves per cylinder; nothing new here for a Bentley owner. But when he showed us the crankshaft, no white metal or shells, no rubbing parts, but roller bearings on the big ends and, if I remember, ball bearings on the mains. Magically, the whole shaft comes apart to enable this. It was as if we were looking at a Patek Philippe watch movement. And the unique tappet adjustment that involves no rubbing parts. Actually, I didn’t fully understand how that worked, but everyone else seemed very impressed. No gaskets, perfect surfaces, a hollow front axle to save weight. How do they do that? This is not car engineering as we know it, but something messianic; everything is so small and delicate and gorgeous. 

I am now struggling to find some sort of comparator for Ettore, to put him into context. Firstly, great engineers of the period; Jano, Henry, Bertarione, Becchia, Roesch, and even maybe Coatalen and Kimber. But none of them were principals, they were all hired hands. Maybe then Walter Owen, but he never had the finance and lasted a mere eleven years starting with his wonderful three litre, then ending up with the dreadful four litre designed by Ricardo and, of course, all operating out of tatty sheds on Oxgate Lane, Cricklewood.

The Duesenberg Brothers were doing amazing stuff in the States and liaised with Ettore on various projects, as did Ballot who worked alongside both. So much talent around, Nibel and Wagner at Mercedes, Lory and Gauthlier at Delage.

And if you are looking for nascent talent, Ferrari at Alfa and Porsche at Auto Union. And, just a bit later, whilst Lyons is fire-watching at Browns Lane, he is drawing up the XK engine. The post war era was going to be showtime!

       On my return from the Trust, and after selfishly avoiding the TOC organised meal, I repaired with my accomplice to my favourite fish restaurant. So, two big questions in my head: firstly, what was the exact relationship between the Deusenbergs, Ballot, and Bugatti and exactly how did Ernest Henry fit into this ménage à trois? I was going to need the help of Griffith Borgeson with this. And secondly, was this delicate Viognier really the right choice with the lobster bisque?

Deus ex Machina

I am now in a darkened room with my Borgeson book, I have come to the conclusion that nearly all the other books on Bugatti are either pure hagiographies or large coffee table books. Jean-Albert Grégoire put it better: “After the death of him whom all respectfully called ‘Le Patron’, a religion was constituted with its faithful and its high priests who gather in commemorative ceremonies.”

I am now a little bit lost; we had all worshipped at the Bugatti cathedral with Charles acting as high priest, and Bugatti’s racing successes speak for themselves. So I don’t know what I can add without doing some serious hard research.

We are not talking about a ‘folie de grandeur’ nor really part of post enlightenment romanticism, but rather some very fast cars. 

However, I still wouldn’t be seen dead in a type 40, but a type 35B - wicked!

But for a short time on a miserable February day, I was in Arcadia.