Someone up there was obviously a fan of polished metal. The weather forecast had predicted rain for the weekend, but at six o’clock on that Saturday morning, the sun shone down on the south-east of England. Usually that time of the morning dawn was announced by birdsong , but that weekend, across the country, the familiar chirping was replaced by the rumbling of stainless exhausts. It was May. It was the ninth. It was time for Inters.
The BP station at Boreham didn’t know what had hit it. As I gave my VR6’s throttle a prod to announce my arrival, and that of Damo behind me, the car park came into view, and it was like a little corner of Essex has become forever Germany. Most of the Essex crew - yet to call themselves J29 - had turned out. Paul and Bonnie in their Oak Green Valver, Graham and Dave in their brace of black mk3s, Jeff in his Rallye, along with Tris who was piloting his Corrado up to the for sale section, where it would sit alongside my GTI, courtesy of Damo. People had come from further afield - Drew Wagar in his mint mk1, Tim in his purple Rallye. We set off up the A12 at a reasonable pace, ever mindful that the police would be more than aware of the events at Bentwaters. The journey up was enjoyable in itself. There’s a certain buzz attached to driving in convoy - the overtaking, the dropping back, the waving of digital cameras. Somehow Lisa’s boyfriend caught us up in his mk3, and the ten cars, plus some who had joined along the way, thundered up though Essex and threaded through Suffolk to find themselves at Bentwaters.
And what a destination! Originally a reserve landing strip for the space shuttle, tarmac is not something Bentwaters lacks. Long, wide, smooth tarmac, and that’s the best type. We arrived early enough to avoid most of the queuing, and once the cars were parked up we congregated near the trade stands. Well, most of us did - I spent the next 90 minutes trying to make my GTI shinier than all the other GTIs for sale, which would have been easy had their owners not had the same plan. In the end it was more a test of endurance than anything - he who needs breakfast least, wins. Whilst I toiled with my Zymol, the other took a look around the trade stands. Suffice to say, if you wanted it, you could have bought it at Inters. However, unless you had significantly more cash on you then the Essex crew did, you’d have been looking at the show cars. Some were familiar faces - the French gullwing mk2, the Dubsport cars, various vehicles from magazine covers - and some were not. Of these, Premier’s burgundy mk2 was by far the most talked about. A field’s worth of cows and an armed robbery’s worth of gold had gone into it, and there wasn’t a surface you couldn’t have eaten your dinner off (in fact, it might have been preferable to the tables near the ‘food’ outlets). No-one was surprised when it took ‘best of show’ at the end of the weekend.
In the afternoon, the subdued murmuring of browsing dubbers and throbbing bass was drowned out by a new sound.. Engines screamed and tyres shrieked as the drag strip came to life. It was good to see such a variety of cars taking part. Alongside the big guns, such as Dubsport B16 DUB and their 20vT, and the Dubweiser Golf, people lined up their daily drivers to see what they could do. Although none got more applause than one of the CGTI regions, who ran their camper van up the strip on the Sunday, confident of a good time due to their ‘vinyl flowers’. It timed out.
The show’n’shine was inspiring too. It was hard not to have a little respect for those who had turned their daily drivers into something so special. Whether they were mint examples of original cars or modified beyond recognition, you couldn’t help looking at each and thinking “I could do that to my car.” The only disappointment of the day was the club stands. It’s been said many times since so I won’t dwell on it, but it did look like a car park, and didn’t do justice to those owners who’d prepared their cars so meticulously before coming. Nevertheless, it was nice to see two cars from our convoy included - Jeff’s rallye with the No-Rice cars and Drew’s mk1 on the Campaign register stand.
Time passed, and as people finished their rolls of film and found their wallets empty and their cars full of bargains, the crowd dispersed. We didn’t go back in convoy, but it wasn’t necessary - the A12 was a convoy of its own. Every other car was a VW, and for a few hours the Dubs ruled the road. Now that’s the way it should be.
Words by Nick, pictures by Justin & Tris.