My first all‑nighter | Thank Frankel it’s Friday

But actually? No. The reason it’s taken me this long to commit it to words is that despite it being one of the most formative motoring experiences of my life, every time I think of it and decide to devote a column to it, I’m never anywhere near a computer. And by the time I am the idea has vanished from my mind. I think it’s the Astra’s fault: for if I’d decided instead to describe what a Ferrari 250 GTO is like to drive, or what it’s like to race at Monaco or Le Mans, I’d not struggle to remember. But a drive in an Astra along a wet motorway a very long time ago? You can perhaps see my problem.

It wasn’t even a fast Astra with a convincing three-letter acronym after its name like GTE, GSI or VXR. In fact I’ve quite forgotten what engine it did have, the trim level and, indeed, the reason I found myself driving it to the South of France, though the fact I know I was young and it was a third-generation car that was still news at the time suggests it would have been to take part in some group test or other. That dates it to 1991,88 for most of which I was 25 years old.

I’ve often wondered why that journey still pops up in my head, every so often. I’d been a road tester for a couple of years by then, driven a Ferrari, done long drives and had most of the experiences cub car journos hope to be having at that time of life, so why an Astra of indistinct origin and zero distinguishing features? I didn’t crash it, blow it up or drive so fast I ended up in a French jail; indeed for those of you waiting for some kind of MacGuffin to wander into this story any time now, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. In essence, nothing happened. But there the memory remains. And finally I think I’ve worked out why, of which more in a minute.

The details I can remember are these: I was told to depart from Autocar’s office after work on day one, with instructions to deliver the Astra to a hotel somewhere on the south coast by the following evening, which was not too punishing a schedule. I had been given a budget, from which I would need to pay for fuel, sustenance, tolls and a hotel bed in a services at the side of the Autoroute. It wasn’t generous, but it was fine.

So I set off, got to Dover, caught a ferry and started to wend my way south. Probably around 11pm I thought about stopping for the night but as I felt fine, decided to keep going for another hour. At midnight I repeated the thought process and continued to do so through most of the night as my trusty Astra and I pressed on. Until about 4.00am when the most wondrous thought occurred: what if I didn’t stop at all? Went straight there. I’d have a day in the South of France all to myself, and my hotel and dinner budget to blow. By my sadly rather modest standards, it was a stroke of genius. On we thundered. Ok, droned.

I saw the sun rise over the Mediterranean by which time I knew exactly what I was going to do. I drove into Cannes, along La Croisette and parked in a side street behind the magnificent Carlton Hotel. Quite what the group of elderly bejewelled ladies in the foyer must have made of the tramp who walked in off the street I cannot say, but as my typical attire back then would have been perforated jeans and an old T-shirt listing some heavy metal band’s long past tour dates, I’m guessing not much. How I got served is equally unknown to me. But served I was.

Now it is true to say that the franc didn’t go quite as far in the grandest hotel on the Côte d’Azur as it might have done in an Ibis outside Dijon, but I could not have cared less. I sat on the terrace with a small beer and plate of olives for breakfast, watching ridiculous people tottering by and feeling like a king. I then walked onto the beach and fell asleep in the warm Mediterranean sunshine.

So why has it stayed with me? I think it must have been the first long journey I’d done entirely alone and through the night. It had started in Teddington and ended in one of the most glamorous places on Earth without so much as the need for a bed. And it was an entirely faceless tin box that had carried me quietly, comfortably, swiftly and safely between the two.

As I sat there, nursing my 1664, I hope I took time to reflect on the unprecedented freedoms the car has given the world, far more so than any other device, and how remarkable it was that a bloke like me in a car like that could so easily have an experience as profound and uplifting. But actually? I was probably too busy laughing at the ridiculous people.