Vicky Ewan - Vroom with a view: cars that stir memories

Quite by accident, my husband and I found ourselves in the midst of a car festival one recent weekend. We had arranged an evening in the company of friends of ours who live in the place that was playing host to this event without being aware that the date we had chosen would coincide with the festival.

The city in question has a long and rightly proud history of vehicular greatness; it boasts a wonderful transport museum that we have enthusiastically visited more than once, chiefly because the first excursion had occurred before our youngest child - vehicle fanatic extraordinaire - had arrived in the world, and we thought he deserved his own experience of this truly fascinating attraction, which tracks the evolution of manmade transport from the humble bicycle to the awesome super speed creations of latter years.

One example of these vehicles, a streamlined behemoth wondrous to behold, has set impressive records for the fastest land vehicle ever designed in man’s endless quest for bigger, better, faster, more; its exhibition at the motor museum was quite something to see. It seems only fitting, then, given its rich heritage, that the city provides the venue for a celebration of motorsports - the event was simply unbeknownst to us at the time we arranged our rendezvous.

As the appointed hour of our meeting approached, our friends, noting the festival’s arrival, warned us to expect some disruption to our travel plans, but we sailed blithely into the city, heedless, only belatedly taking notice when road closures made access to the car park we had pre-selected impossible.

Consultation of online recommendations for alternatives yielded less than satisfactory results, as the responses suggested a woeful ignorance about present diversions. Thankfully, my husband is a confident and competent driver, and would not be deterred by such trivial concerns; we simply drove around until we had located somewhere suitable.

Walking the short distance to our hotel, we became aware of open-air music and a festive buzz in the atmosphere, but, intent on getting booked in before heading out for our rendezvous, we paid scant attention.

Over dinner that evening, our friends explained a little about the festival, and confirmed that they had attended it a few times in the past; it sounded rather pleasant, and we idly mooted the idea of taking a look. The next morning, sauntering into town in no particular hurry, our ears were suddenly assaulted by a cacophony of wailing sirens.

Assuming that there was some kind of drama unfolding, and poised to dash out of harm’s way, if necessary, we were suddenly - and rather thrillingly - accosted by a fleet of American police cars zooming past, lights blazing and sirens blasting, the names of their particular departments emblazoned on the sides of the vehicles. It was quite something - a veritable audio-visual feast.

Crossing the road in their resounding wake, we alighted upon a display of classic and collectable cars, ranging from an elegant example of a 1920s Riley to a sleekly contemporary 2008 Aston Martin DB9 - a stylish beast looking for all the world as though its doors would slide open at any moment to reveal James Bond in all his suavely-tuxedoed glory.

No such luck - but the car’s owner was, in fact, hovering nearby, and was an affable fellow, falling into easy conversation with my husband as they lovingly discussed the vehicle’s virtues and the joys of Aston Martin custodianship, my husband's appetite for joining this exclusive echelon whetted to a greater and greater degree.

As we wandered around the exhibition, chatting to other owners and admiring countless pristinely preserved cars, both of us were warmed by nostalgia’s tender touch: my husband when he caught sight of a Ford Capri similar to one that had, all too briefly, been his prized possession; and me when I spotted an elegant Rover akin to a model that had been a family treasure in my childhood, my dad’s pride and joy.

My husband waxed lyrically about the vehicles of yesteryear, whose design and creation were labours of love, and which, if the skillful and faithful restoration on display that day was anything to go by, clearly occupied a special place in their owners’ hearts.

He spoke forlornly about motors he had loved and lost, and was moved by recollections about cars his brothers and sister had brought home in his youth - his first taste of the freedom of the open road.

We eventually dragged ourselves away, but the festival had been a fascinating experience - not least because it was an unexpected component of the weekend. As we climbed into our own slightly battered carriage later that morning, I think we were both ruefully picturing the luxuries of the vehicles we had seen on show.

Still, our old faithful covered some thousand miles or so that weekend, in comfort and safety; we could definitely do a lot worse.