King Arthur's Court in a New Vermont Yankee

British born himself, Chris Francis and his wife Lyn first visited Stowe in 1983. They loved it here for all that it is--friendly townsfolk and awesome beauty--and decided to roll the dice on becoming innkeepers because, "[It] was better to try and fail than look back and ask what if?" The decision was taken over lunch one day and they quickly bought and transformed a seen-better-times ski lodge into Ye Olde England Inne, an establishment known worldwide for its elegance, sophisticated cuisine and top-notch service.

When celebrities come to Stowe, they often stay at the inne, among them members of the Royal Family, who might be in attendance today, although not noticeably. Today everyone is on equal footing. Distinctive blood lines and heraldic distinctions are checked at the gate. Those in attendance are a patchwork congregation of the devout, British and not, who share an ingrained passion that rubs incessantly for moments like this when nothing else matters.

Given his bearing at the epicenter of this spectacle, it's clear that Francis is something of a celebrity in his own right. His is a name that's common to the industry in which his success has been meteoric, and he's obviously a titan in the genre in which he's immersed himself today--on both sides of the pond.

His essence is powerful, driven and focused on whatever happens to command his attention at the moment, but he's completely unassuming, very approachable and charming, with a quick and impish wit.

And his influence is undeniably considerable, especially with this multitude. Every year in mid- to late-September, Francis enthusiastically invites one and all to the British Invasion. It's a conclave at which all types of British-made motorcars and motorcycles sit proudly spit-shined in the shadows of mountains yielding their green to fall colors.

Thousands of Invaders arrive in staggered fashion, some on time, others late, but they all come for one thing: four, intense days in which cars are heartthrobs, camaraderie is flush and life is better than good.

At the Heart of the Show

As we wander about, the cars' owners talk animatedly about their pastime. They buy rare parts from each other, trade items of interest and swap interesting stories of the road. Their devotion goes well beyond hobby, passing over the border of obsession and settling somewhere between that and what satisfies the primal itch for perfection. And these cars are perfect; immaculate, impossibly well-maintained and glistening examples of an ardent but innocent lust for British brands.

Bentleys, Aston Martins, Jaguars, Spitfires, MGs, Land Rovers and the proudest of the proud, the stately Rolls Royce, persistently beckon Invaders to "have a look under the bonnet." It's amply evident that their owners have invested small fortunes in something they consider sacred, and these owners are eager to preach, as we admire what makes them proud.

The automobiles here are the products of a British tradition that dates back to 1922. The history of automaking in Great Britain is a bird's nest of corporate intrigue; mergers, acquisitions and name changes. But from that apparent mayhem have emerged many classical cars that have given the world untold hours of pleasure.

As we meander from car to car, admiring, wishing and dreaming, the buzz around us is unmistakable English and French, but the words are alien, untaught at Berlitz. The Fiat Tipo 509A, Airline Saloon and the SS-90, Bill Lyons, William Walmsley, XJ-6, XJ-12 and XKE. Wait. There. Recognition. It snags us, and we're hurled back to the late 1960's, when British motorcars were all the rage in the mainstream here.

The memory of a swift trip down Interstate 95 in Connecticut cascades into consciousness. It's a fond one, dusted off after years of cerebral shelf-sitting. A great friend was at the wheel of a darkly maroon Jaguar XKE. The top was down and we were laughing and shouting over the rushing wind and "Jumpin' Jack Flash," which pulsed thickly from the radio. It was her father's car, but he'd grudgingly given her permission to drive it every now and then, but not above the speed limit and "no damn way" at night.

If you've been in one you know that many British cars don't roll, they sail, and that XKE felt very much like a sloop running before the wind, her mainsail full to starboard and nothing but blue sky and crystal water ahead.

The memory and moment are epiphanic. Suddenly, we get it. The British Invasion isn't about cars and a good time alone. It's about a gathering of the enlightened. It's about tapping into a root that empowers our collective souls to admire a technology and quality that is unique to Great Britain. It's about an ageless culture and a way of life. And, as if Merlin himself has waved his wand, we're seized by awe, and for a while--a regrettably short while--those of us of British heritage return to the "Old Country" to bathe in its essence. We're strangely and magically "home."

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