At 9 a.m. on Sunday, 31st of August I left my hotel a little after nine and rode the Tube to Paddington. The station was awake rather than crowded—kiosk coffees, suitcase wheels, the low buzz before the city clears its throat. A GWR to Oxford was already boarding. I took a window seat and watched London unhook itself: brick arches, back gardens, allotments; then pylons, hedgerows, open fields. From there, the day branched: Oxford proper, Oxford Parkway—two doors into the same story. I chose Oxford itself, a name that still smells of old paper and wet stone. The town didn’t disappoint. Its quiet isn’t empty; it’s the kind of studious hush that feels like sitting at a desk all day with a good reason. First visit, first certainty: this place has earned its reputation.
A short taxi carried me through soft countryside to Blenheim Palace—ducal seat, UNESCO World Heritage site, and for this week the stage for one of the world’s most polished automotive gatherings: Salon Privé. Even before you pass the gates, the car parks announce the tone. Accreditation happens alongside a rolling sea of exotica—Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, Porsches and, more than anything, McLarens, the people’s supercar of the day.
Salon Privé is a four-day ritual that gathers the world’s collectors, makers, and connoisseurs. Its Concours d’Elegance is one of just eight that feed into the Peninsula Classics Best of the Best Award. This year’s field brought around 70 cars, with more than half arriving from overseas and a healthy dozen from the United States. Outside, transporters lined the approach roads—evidence of the quiet logistics required to make an English lawn look effortless. Alongside the vintage royalty sits a luxury “indoor-meets-outdoor” showcase where modern marques present their newest and dearest. Bentley played both sides elegantly—its Speed Six continuation nodding to heritage while the latest road car stood nearby, a careful graft of past and present.
Wherever wealth congregates, bankers follow: Aviva Private Clients, Edmond de Rothschild, Apollo Capital—because finance is the oxygen that keeps a world like this breathing. The show’s mood was set early by the presence of two secular saints: a Ferrari 250 GTO (last reported sold in 2023 for roughly £43 million / $51 million) and a McLaren F1 currently listed for $23million.
Blenheim’s baroque mass and immaculate lawns made every arrival into theatre. The lawn made the cars packed and looked like they were staged. The day unfolded in four distinct zones. First, the owners’ car parks, an impromptu museum of contemporary supercars—high-octane people-watching with license plates, with the owners seated next to them happy to chat about their prized possessions. Then the Concours, where rarity and provenance take their bow under the judges’ gaze. Among the modern curiosities, a Mercedes-Benz encrusted with 1.3 million Swarovski crystals —a sculpture that happened to start. Nearby, a £2.5 million Bugatti drew a constant orbit, engineering bravado priced accordingly. This 20th edition also introduced the Pavilion, a refined new space for conversation and hospitality. And when afternoon tilted to evening, the rev showcase took over: Bentleys growled, Lamborghinis shrieked, a Koenigsegg’s metallic wail cut clean through the Oxfordshire air. It was a beautiful sight watching the crowd move swiftly to capture the sounds on their cameras.
This was Salon Privé’s 20th edition, a milestone for the Bagley brothers, who have grown the event into a crown jewel of the automotive calendar. Even the rain—punctual, English—couldn’t dilute the excitement. The auction pressed on, umbrellas blooming like a sudden crop, bidders and dreamers undeterred.
The anniversary also came dressed in emerald. A curated Green Collection made “green” literal—Bentley 3L Vanden Plas Le Mans, Bentley Speed Six Continuation (Car Zero), Jaguar C-X75 by CALLUM, Koenigsegg CCR, Porsche Carrera GT in special-order Olive Green, Lamborghini Miura P400S, and a Bugatti Veyron Centenaire in British Racing Green—part beauty pageant, part color study.
What lingers is the balance. Salon Privé deals unabashedly in opulence—Bugatti, Koenigsegg, coachbuilt Bentleys—but its currency is atmosphere: the murmured debate over a bonnet line; the quick handshake of old friends; the wide-eyed stare of a child quietly converting a car’s worth into galaxies. Oxford’s reflective calm tempers the spectacle; Blenheim’s grandeur completes it. Together they make the event feel less like a car show and more like a rite.
At twenty, salon prive feels fully itself: a meeting of culture, engineering, and heritage where even the rain becomes part of the memory. And somewhere between the club tents and the concours ribbons, the 500 K’s long tail caught the light just so a reminder that for all the new noise, tradition still knows how to win.
