In Britain, they say horse racing is the sport of Kings. If that’s the case, then motor racing is still the preferred pastime of minor aristocracy: perhaps younger cousins or Viscounts who never quite got the hang of polo.
Welcome to the 2025 Goodwood Festival of Speed, the only event where you’re likely to see a Bugatti Chiron parked on a gravel drive next to a Morris Minor, while someone in a Panama hat debates fuel injection with an eleven-year-old dressed as James Hunt.
As always, Goodwood defies definition. It’s part car show, part hillclimb, part open-air theatre of British eccentricity. Every inch of it continues to ooze charm, speed and just a whiff of engine oil mixed with Pimm’s. Lord March (or the Duke of Richmond, if you’re writing to his bank) will once again throw open the gates to his stately pile, allowing the great unwashed to stomp their muddy trainers across his lawn. And judging by the size of the crowds, it appears half of Britain – and a decent chunk of Europe – has taken him up on the offer.
It helps, of course, that 2025’s Festival of Speed promises to be the most over-the-top instalment yet. The hillclimb is back with even more gusto, and if last year’s tyre smoke wasn’t quite enough to satisfy your inner child, don’t worry, as they’ve added more horsepower, more noise and more ridiculousness. There will be Formula 1 cars heading up the drive with the nonchalance of guests arriving for afternoon tea, while Le Mans legends make the sort of noise usually reserved for Heathrow’s north runway.
Here’s what to expect from Goodwood this year: flying electric prototypes, hydrogen-powered hypercars and probably one man in tweed shouting about how the MG Metro was the peak of British engineering. The Duke’s dedication to combining the cutting-edge with the vintage is as admirable as it is disorientating. One moment you’re gawping at the Rimac Nevera silently melting the tarmac, the next you’re watching a 1911 Fiat S76 (nicknamed “The Beast of Turin”) spitting flames like it’s auditioning for Game of Thrones.
But it’s not just the cars that make Goodwood tick: it’s the people. Some are legends, some are lunatics, most are both. Where else can you bump into Sir Jackie Stewart, stare at Sebastien Ogier wrestling a Toyota GR Yaris up the hill and then share a sausage roll with a man claiming to be a retired Bentley test driver who once raced Stirling Moss on a bicycle?
The highlights represent astonishing array of automotive royalty. From Ayrton Senna’s McLaren MP4/4 to Red Bull’s latest F1 cars, the contrasts are delicious. Porsche rolls out half their museum, while Ferrari, never one to be outdone, normally provides a fleet of V12 screamers.
Meanwhile, over on the Forest Rally Stage, things get just as lively. Group B monsters howl through the trees with all the subtlety of a chainsaw orchestra. Spectators, undeterred by the incline or the mud, cheer on a parade of sideways nostalgia. If you don’t get nearly run over by a Lancia Delta S4 or sprayed with gravel from a Sierra Cosworth, did you even go?
Then there are the manufacturers’ enclosures. Expect engineers speaking in reverent tones about torque vectoring and Lamborghini to turn up with something that looks like a spaceship. McLaren has a new electric concept called the ElectraX, which may or may not be faster than light depending on how much you squint at the spec sheet.
Yet for all the noise and newness, Goodwood remains gloriously rooted in its own tradition. The British upper classes do eccentricity like they do gardening: with care, creativity and a complete disregard for practicality. Take Lord March himself, calmly watching a Tesla-powered drift car do pirouettes on his lawn while discussing the virtues of magnesium wheels over a gin and tonic. Just keep calm and carry on.
And then there’s the crowd: a glorious melting pot of petrolheads, posh types, blokes in shorts drinking lager at 10:00am, bewildered Americans trying to understand what a Hillman Imp is and a dog in goggles sitting in a Lotus Seven. Families pushing prams, old boys in motor club ties, influencers with ring lights: the Festival of Speed is where they all collide (usually somewhere near the bratwurst stand).
In a world increasingly obsessed with screens and silence, Goodwood is a rare treat: noisy, physical, unapologetically daft. It’s an event where history roars past you on four wheels, the future hovers quietly nearby on battery power and someone dressed as a 1920s aviator sells you a £12 ice cream.
So yes, the sport of Kings might still involve horses, but this? This is the kingdom of Lords. And they do love a V8.
Author Bio:
Anthony Peacock works as a journalist and is the owner of an international communications agency, all of which has helped take him to more than 80 countries across the world.
Photographs by Gary Harman
Be the first to comment