Trading places

Only rotor blades slicing through the air at several hundred RPM make a rapid thwack-thwack-thwack sound like that. There is a helicopter in the mist, flying low over the hills towards me. It’ll burst out of the brume at any moment, I think. But when the helicopter executes a perfectly rev-matched downshift before cresting the brow, a spindly, entomological-shape buzzing into view, I see it’s not a helicopter at all – Andrew has arrived in his Caterham.

I’d never heard a Seven quite like that before. Mind you, I’d never driven a Seven as old as his 1997 car before either, and I realised right away what I’d been missing. Andrew’s arrival in that Welsh hillside lay-by caught my attention not only for the curious sound that announced it, but because it isn’t very often an Alpine A110 is made to look vast, overweight and packed with needless baubles. I felt self-conscious about my car’s carpets and climate control immediately.