Maurice Hamilton looks back over the 50 British Grands Prix (yes, 50!) he has attended as man and boy
Asked to talk about the significance of the British Grand Prix for an American cable TV company, I thought it might be a good idea to work out how many I'd witnessed, man and boy. To my surprise - and not a little shock - I discover that this is my 50th.
I wish I could say it only seems like yesterday since I attended the first but, given that was in 1959, I can't even claim it was the day before yesterday. My dad, the man responsible for the initial injection of fever at the Dundrod Tourist Trophy a few years before, took me across the Irish Sea to Aintree, venue for Britain's round of the world championship in 1959.
Talk about being given a false impression. Because the circuit ran around the perimeter of the Grand National course, the grand prix had full use of the permanent facilities - grandstands, restaurants, bars, toilets and so on. I thought that was the way it was at every grand prix.
You can imagine the culture shock when I arrived to camp at Silverstone with my mates in 1967. Four of us in a Beetle, pitching our tent in the field now occupied by Force India. Morning ablutions were courtesy of a clanking tap by the side of a cowshed; breakfast was in the café in the paddock. That's why Wimbledon may be strawberries and cream but, to me, Silverstone will always be the heady aroma of bacon and eggs.
I was asked why the British Grand Prix remains so popular. I can only imagine our experience in 1967 still holds true. For us, this was a trip to motor sporting Mecca; a place to see our heroes in the flesh (much easier then than it is now) and hear the sound and sniff the air as cars we'd read about (and rarely seen on TV) flashed by.
More than that, it was an opportunity to adjourn to places such as the Saracen's Head in Towcester and talk motor sport with like-minded enthusiasts - and then almost mow a couple of them down when we later swept into the field and found the space beside our tent occupied by the slumbering residents of two sleeping bags. If that hadn't caused enough noise to wake the rest of the campsite, then we surely achieved it when one of our number, stumbling from the back of the Beetle, put out a hand to steady himself against the steering wheel, fell against the air horn and was totally incapable of prising himself off. The fact that we fell about laughing helplessly did little for the momentary decline in Anglo/Irish relations.
I was asked which has been my favourite race. There have been many but very high on the all-time list (never mind our home Grand Prix) is the 1969 British, a truly epic contest as Jackie Stewart and Jochen Rindt fought wheel-to-wheel, the Matra and Lotus trading places, shattering the lap record and keeping this up for more than an hour. Stewart won the day after the rear wing end-plate on Rindt's Lotus had fouled the left-rear, such were the incredible angles generated by the Austrian in the predominantly high-speed corners.
With Brands Hatch alternating with Silverstone to host the Grand Prix, I couldn't wait for the race to return to Northamptonshire in 1971. It turned out to one of the dullest races I have ever seen; much worse than anything I've witnessed in recent months. So much for the fashionable complaints about F1 being 'boring' in 2015.
That basic element of F1 may not have changed but Silverstone has been altered substantially over the decades. The original flat-out layout, while being incredibly dramatic, could obviously never last. The various chicanes before Woodcote were never satisfactory and the addition of the in-field loop had the benefit of Bridge Bend; a really quick corner in the Silverstone tradition. Even better, however, was the Maggotts-Becketts complex, a superb sequence feeding Hangar Straight, now an iconic landmark that continues to say everything about what this place used to be.
The loop added in 2011 does nothing for me. And as for the Wing building and the need to catch a Number 9 bus to reach the sterile paddock in this far-flung corner; the least said the better.
It may not be Silverstone in the accepted sense for those of us who have been around for longer than we care to remember, but at least the grand prix remains on a calendar that has been butchered in the interest of turning a couple of million dollars in places where motor racing has no meaning. You can't say that about Silverstone, a race track that continues to provide an annual highlight for arguably the most knowledgeable fans in the world. Just be careful where you place your sleeping bag after closing time tonight.