Scattering tourists, we cornered hard and up the hill, past new money vulgarities at Versace and into Casino Square. Hopkirk wouldn’t have paused here, and neither did we, especially since a financial contretemps last time we visited. Right, left, right and we were down the narrow streets scything around suicidal moped riders and leather-faced lotharios in Russian registered supercars.\r\n \r\nThe Grand Hotel hairpin has distinctive red and white kerbing outside to help hooning drivers hit the perfect apex. We reluctantly gave way at the Portier traffic island, before thundering into the tunnel. There are few things as joyous as the sight of a Police-manned radar-trap facing the wrong way, and we barely lifted as the MINI screamed past to hit a figure roughly equating to the national speed limit (of Abu Dhabi) and emerged blinking into the daylight. Dr Octane perked up, knowing that the next corner was Tabac, yet we were not here to procure replenishments for his briar and passed on three wheels as the MINI displayed that peculiarity of modern front wheel drive cars cornering at speed. \r\n\r\nAt this spot in 1955, despite wearing his lucky blue helmet, Ascari crashed his Lancia into the harbour. Our speed dropped off and we wound our way round to La Rascasse, the final corner, and the finish. As I wondered how our laptime compared to that of Hopkirk and Liddon’s I was met with an insistent tap on the glass, and was obliged to attend the Police station on Quai Antoine to endure a lengthy and humourless lecture by a pedantic Policeman, with a sub-GCSE grasp of the Queen’s English.\r\n\r\nHopkirk and Liddon, as we now know, had held off the 5.7 litre Falcon in the 1.3 litre Mini for the most famous of wins. Today Hopkirk does tremendous work for charity and is as modest about his achievements as one would expect of a decent chap. His co-driver, Liddon, sadly died in a plane crash in Africa, a thought at the forefront of my mind as Dr Octane and I packed ourselves aboard the budget airline back to Luton.