Arriving at Chichester, it’s a short taxi ride into the rustic countryside towards Goodwood Manor, the dazzling estate that hosts the festival every July. Although it’s barely 10am, the site is already awash with happenings. Each car brand has its own arena of exhibition, as punters saunter around in the mid morning heat — some already on the lager — avidly absorbing the medley of vehicles, array of activities (I attempt to complete a sideways climbing wall challenge but fail to make it across, blaming the clunkiness of my Dr. Martens) and general festivities.

After much strolling (it is damn massive), I find my way to McLaren’s camp, and take a quick look around at the impressive entourage of cars on show — but more on that later. For now, I must prepare for the main activity of the day: the hillclimb.

In the run up to the day, I hadn’t dwelt too much on the prospect of the climb. But in the taxi ride from the train station to the festival grounds, myself and my colleague were accompanied by a lovely lady whose name has now escaped me. Her husband had been up the hill the year prior, and built a somewhat intimidating picture of this pursuit for exhilaration. Unaware of the actuality, in my head I construct an image of an eye-watering ride upwards towards a totemic, risk-laden jump — a leap of faith towards eternal glory…or everlasting failure.

In reality it isn’t that dramatic — just some good ol’ fashioned fun. Armed with a helmet just a little too small for my above-averaged sized head, sweat dripping through a balaclava down onto my furrowed brow, I’m escorted down to the bottom of the hill. I meet my driver (again his name has been misplaced in my mind, I should probably work on that) and we begin traipsing through a runway maze of cars, in rows of two or three, towards the front of the queue. These vehicles are among the most eccentric, sometimes ostentatious, always breathtaking that I’ve ever seen. It truly is a fanatic’s fantasy.

Our not-so-humble ride is the McLaren Artura. Often referred to as the baby of the McLaren portfolio, the orange supercar is light on the wheel and easy on the eye, majestically still in the emerald sun. Although the kind of car that you would triple glance at if it drove past you in Kennington, the Artura feels conventional parked next to the Solus GT, also preparing for a hillclimb. The rare (one of 25 in the world) spectacle is a v10 track-only hypercar built from the video game Gran Turismo. A mind-boggling piece of kit that even a flatline cynic would gawk at.

After some waiting around, we make our way to the starting line. My new friend and navigator revs, smiling eagerly at me. I breathe out and brace for impact.

It’s an incredible experience. 0-60 in 3 seconds flat, the Artura boasts a cataclysmic power I’ve never felt before in a car. That butterflies in your stomach feeling from a rollercoaster. Flying around the nine corners, soaring up the 1.16 mile ascent. By the time we reach the peak, all I can do is smile ecclesiastically; ascended into joyful bliss.

When you go up, you must come back down. After a sit-down recovery, I descend the hill on foot through forested terrain. It’s mid-afternoon now and the festival is in full swing. There’s rally cars scorching around a separate course, food and drink trucks everywhere. Dust swirls through the air. The people are giddy with excitement.
 
After more than a few wrong turns and an elongated walk (again, damn massive) in the boiling heat of the afternoon, I finally locate the McLaren House and some much welcomed shade. The atmosphere bubbles as groups of important looking individuals speak animatedly. I grab a white wine (crisp, fruity) and begin to mosey around, observing the cars that McLaren have on display.

There’s my old friend the Artura, its tangerine tone deliciously adaptable to any viewing scenario. There’s the all-new McLaren W1, making its global debut, accompanied by the P1™ and F1, a celebration of the brand’s ‘1’ car history. In honour of the 30th anniversary for the famed 24 Hours of Le Mans victory, there’s a first public appearance of the McLaren 750S.

Each car is unique, but utterly in keeping with the McLaren visual palette and grounded philosophy. As someone who is certainly not an automotive fanatic, there is something incredibly impressive about seeing the vehicles up close, groundbreaking in their technicality and gorgeous in their image.

The day has well and truly worn me out. I’m not sure I could last a whole weekend. I wander off into the late afternoon, beginning my journey back to London before the commuters catch wind. Staring out the window, admiring the stillness of the countryside, reflection greets me. The culture of cars is quickly evolving — finding its coating within the framework of media and entertainment. And Goodwood Festival of Speed sits as an emblem of that, led forward by progressive brands like McLaren. If only I could drive.

Words by Ben Tibbits
Images are courtesy of McLaren