When I left Sussex a decade ago to seek my fortune, I dreamt of one day returning in an E-type Jaguar. But never for a moment did I think it would actually happen. Electric blue and throatier than Shirley Bassey, the 1972 model I was purring around in was a car, as John Betjeman once said of Joan Hunter Dunn, to lean against for life.

Alas, it wasn’t actually mine to keep. I was on my way to the Revival, Goodwood’s annual paen to mid-century motor racing, as a guest of Jaguar. The company had loaned us vintage sets of wheels and advised us to come appropriately togged up in tweeds and trilbies. I was gratified by the admiring glances my ensemble seemed to be attracting, until I realised they were being directed at another member of our party-Dolce & Gabbana dreamboat David Gandy.

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Swing bands, gentlemen’s outfitters, a cheese shop-so absorbing are the Revival’s sideshows that you could easily spend a day there without seeing a single race. But where else could you watch a multi-million-pound cavalcade of cars roar past while tucking into homemade carrot cake? Truly, Goodwood is glorious.

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