Goodwood Festival of Speed 2026: The Greatest Driveway in the World

Level of Challenge

★★★★★

Moderate challenge

I spent my entire Saturday walking up and down somebody’s driveway.

On the face of it, that doesn’t sound very impressive, until I tell you that I covered more than seventeen kilometres doing it. Then you begin to suspect that this isn’t just anybody’s driveway.

On Saturday 11 July I travelled to the Goodwood Festival of Speed as accredited media for Go Anyway. The event takes place in the grounds of Goodwood House in West Sussex, where the Duke of Richmond’s driveway is transformed into one of the most famous hill climb courses in the world: 1.16 miles of tarmac that begins on a line of century-old bricks gifted by the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, sweeps past the famous flint wall and climbs away into the woods. When the then Lord March held the first Festival in 1993, he expected a couple of thousand visitors. Twenty-five thousand turned up. It has been growing ever since, and this year’s edition, themed The Rivals: Epic Racing Duels, ran for four sold-out days from 9 to 12 July.

Describing the Festival of Speed as a hill climb is a bit like describing Glastonbury as a field with a stage in it. Technically true, and completely misleading. Goodwood is a celebration of engineering, craftsmanship, history, innovation and, above all, people. Whether your passion is Formula One, rallying, classic cars, motorbikes or simply watching talented people obsess over making things better, something here will capture your imagination.

For me, though, Goodwood has always represented something slightly different. It is one of the biggest accessibility challenges I willingly choose to take on, and this year, for the first time, I took it on with a press pass in my pocket.

I should be honest about what that pass did and didn’t do. For most of the day nobody treated me any differently, and I was never swept past a queue or ushered anywhere special. It isn’t a magic lanyard. What it changed was me. Go Anyway is built on a simple philosophy: turn up, ask the question, and accept whatever answer comes back. The accreditation gave me the confidence to actually do that, again and again, at stands I would previously have admired from a polite distance. That confidence would end up shaping almost every memorable moment of the day.

Getting There

The day began at Chichester station, where my train arrived at 8.07am and I simply followed the growing crowd towards the shuttle buses. Thousands of people were heading to exactly the same place, which makes navigation refreshingly straightforward.

With plenty of buses running there was no waiting around for one to fill, and I was at Goodwood by 8.48am. The return worked just as smoothly. I arrived at the shuttle stop at 4.56pm to find no queue at all, somebody was once again on hand to help me to a seat, and I was back at the station by 5.29pm, in comfortable time for the 5.39 train. Compared with previous visits, the assistance at the station was a marked step up.

Through the Gates

Walking through the entrance is a moment I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Before I’d had a chance to take in my surroundings, an engine burst into life somewhere in the distance. Not the sanitised sound of a car leaving a dealership; this was mechanical theatre, raw and alive, echoing across the estate before dissolving into cheers from somewhere up the hill. I smiled immediately. I knew this was going to be a special day.

Then, as I reached the main avenue, the hill climb revealed itself, stretching away through the trees before climbing towards the flint wall. For a few moments I simply stood there, feeling something that rarely happens any more. Anticipation. I wasn’t visiting another event. I was spending the day inside one of motorsport’s most famous landmarks.

An Assault on Every Sense

Trying to describe Goodwood to somebody who has never been is surprisingly difficult, because people tend to imagine a traditional motor show: rows of static cars, brochures, polite admiration of polished bodywork. Goodwood couldn’t be further from that image. This place assaults every sense you possess. The air smells of hot brakes, fuel, cut grass, expensive leather, barbecue smoke and the dust thrown up by thousands upon thousands of feet. Engines fire without warning, crowds surge towards whatever has just woken up, helicopters pass overhead, and the commentary drifts across the estate until it is drowned out by a Formula One engine screaming up the hill. One moment a century-old racer rumbles past. The next it’s a Le Mans Hypercar, then a World Rally Championship car, then an electric prototype that arrives almost silently and disappears just as fast.

Unlike a traditional show, the exhibits here aren’t simply things to look at. They move, they breathe, they make noise, and in some cases you can feel them through the ground. For someone with limited sight, that changes everything. Cars stop being objects and become experiences. I can hear the difference between a naturally aspirated V12 and a turbocharged racing engine. I can feel the vibration as something extraordinary launches off the start line. Very few events anywhere are immersive in that way, and it is exactly why I keep coming back.

The Worst They Can Say Is No

There’s an old saying that you should never meet your heroes. At Goodwood, I discovered you should always ask if you can get a little closer to them.

One of my first attempts was at Lanzante, whose display was reserved for customers. When I asked whether I could have a closer look, they politely explained that I couldn’t, and that was absolutely fine. Nobody made me feel unwelcome. I thanked them, admired their fantastic cars from outside the barrier and carried on. If anything, that brief exchange gave me more confidence, because it reminded me that asking isn’t something to be embarrassed about. Sometimes the answer is yes, sometimes it isn’t, and either way life carries on.

The difference came with the manufacturers who said yes.

The first was Pagani, whose stands feel more like art galleries than exhibition spaces, every detail meticulously curated. As I approached the entrance I showed my press accreditation, and the member of staff at the door smiled, opened the barrier and invited me inside. It was the one moment all day when the pass itself visibly opened a door, and it represented far more than a small gesture. For the first time I wasn’t looking in from the outside. Standing beside those extraordinary machines and studying the interiors through the open doors was genuinely unforgettable. Photographs don’t prepare you for the detail packed into every surface; every switch, every exposed piece of carbon fibre, every machined aluminium component feels as though somebody has obsessed over it for weeks. It reminded me that Goodwood isn’t really about speed at all. It’s about craftsmanship.

Then came McLaren, who welcomed me behind the barriers of their Formula One display. Not a replica or a show shell: the actual MCL60, the car McLaren raced through the 2023 season, which Lando Norris himself would drive up the hill that very day as part of his world championship celebrations. A few feet away stood the Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championship trophies, and beyond them the MCL-HY, McLaren’s endurance racer, still deep in its test programme ahead of the 2027 World Endurance Championship and making its first ever Goodwood appearance. These weren’t exhibits. They were pieces of living history, and history still being written.

Koenigsegg were equally generous, letting me get right up to the Sadair’s Spear, a hypercar built in just thirty examples and, since last summer, the fastest road-legal production car ever to climb this very hill. The proportions don’t seem real and the engineering seems impossible; every surface appears sculpted by airflow rather than styling. These are cars that spend most of their lives behind velvet ropes or inside private collections, and this one was close enough to touch. I took a selfie next to it, because some moments demand one. Zenvo welcomed me too, taking the time to walk me around rare machines that most enthusiasts will only ever meet in YouTube videos and magazine photographs.

What struck me everywhere wasn’t exclusivity. It was enthusiasm. Nobody rushed me and nobody made me feel I was inconveniencing them. People simply wanted to talk about the machines they had helped create.

The People Behind the Machines

The Porsche Problem

Every manufacturer brings something impressive to Goodwood. Porsche seemed to bring everything. Their display blended decades of history with the very latest technology, historic racing cars standing alongside brand-new road cars in a timeline you could physically walk through. Then I wandered towards the Porsche Club parking area behind it and genuinely couldn’t believe what I found. Calling it a car park feels almost insulting. Hundreds upon hundreds of Porsches filled the space: classic 356s, air-cooled 911s, modern GT3s, rare RS models, every generation and every colour. There were enough Porsches parked on the grass to stage an entire show of their own, and at Goodwood they were simply the background scenery. That probably tells you everything you need to know about the scale of this place.

Sounds You Don’t Expect

The Formula One paddock quickly became a favourite haunt, and not because I could see the cars particularly well. It was the anticipation. You’d be mid-conversation when an engine fired somewhere nearby, and instantly the atmosphere changed: heads turned, conversations stopped, and the crowd flowed towards the sound like iron filings drawn to a magnet. There is something uniquely thrilling about hearing a Formula One car before you know exactly where it is. For a few seconds you simply listen. Then you follow your ears.

Not every remarkable noise came from Formula One. At BMW Motorrad they fired up a motorcycle fitted with the company’s enormous 1,802cc Big Boxer, the largest boxer engine BMW has ever built, and it sounded like nothing I have ever heard: deep, mechanical, almost agricultural in the best possible sense. It wasn’t trying to imitate a racing engine. It had a character entirely of its own.

And then there was the sight I never expected: Lightning McQueen, gleaming red and grinning, who ran the hill on all four days of the Festival. You know you’re going to see unusual cars at Goodwood, but the star of Pixar’s Cars still caught me completely off guard, and I laughed out loud. Children gathered around him with exactly the same excitement adults were reserving for Ferraris, and for a few minutes nobody cared about horsepower or lap times. That is one of the joys of this event. It refuses to take itself too seriously.

The Practical Side

Given the sheer scale of the Festival, I was pleased to find accessible toilets at every facility I visited. That might sound like a mundane observation, but at an event this size the standard queues were substantial and the blocks themselves extremely crowded, so the accessible toilets were genuinely welcome. Even better, Goodwood places water refill stations close to the toilet blocks, and on a day of intense heat and dust they weren’t a convenience, they were essential. Bring a reusable bottle. You will be very glad you did.

Getting around is another story altogether. Goodwood is exactly what it should be, a working country estate, which means grass, gravel, dirt tracks, tree roots, dust and plenty of gradient. Pathways are laid through some sections, but much of the site is simply field and woodland, and visitors with mobility or visual impairments need to prepare for that. This year I came armed with something new: an Ambutech Rover tip, a rolling ball cane tip I bought specifically for outdoor events. It isn’t as tactile as my everyday tip, so I wouldn’t choose it around town, but on rough ground it came into its own, rolling smoothly over tracks and grass instead of catching and digging in, particularly on the long climb towards the Forest Rally Stage. It was one of those small purchases that quietly transforms an entire day. Nobody is going to re-lay a country estate for the benefit of one visitor, and nor should they. The kit you carry onto it, though, is entirely within your control.

A Good Problem to Have

Goodwood provides four raised accessible viewing platforms around the course, and in previous years I’ve found them invaluable, claiming a spot at the railing where I could sit and follow the action through my binoculars. This year they didn’t work for me. Every platform I tried, throughout the day, was completely full. The front rows were occupied by wheelchair users, exactly as they should be, with carers and companions standing behind them, which left me standing behind the carers and able to see less than I could from the public viewing banks, where the raised earthworks at least let me look out over the crowd with my remaining vision and binoculars.

For a moment I wondered whether the platforms had failed. Then I realised they hadn’t. They were simply busy, and in many ways that is a wonderful problem for Goodwood to have. It tells me disabled people feel confident coming here, believe they will be welcomed, and are using the facilities exactly as intended. The platforms were serving wheelchair users superbly, giving them a prime view of the hill. It may also be a sign that demand is beginning to outgrow capacity, and perhaps that is something the organisers could look at for future years. But I would far rather see full platforms than empty ones. Accessibility only matters if people actually feel able to use it.

One practical note: not every platform is covered. The platform by the Startline sits under mature trees with a roof over it, and on a scorching day it was a welcome refuge from the sun. The viewing area up by the Forest Rally Stage is a different world: exposed, hot, dusty and uneven underfoot, with the heat radiating back up from the ground. It is spectacular, and it is exhausting. Plan for both.

When the Challenge Isn’t the Event

The biggest accessibility challenge of my day wasn’t outside at all. It came inside Future Lab, the technology exhibition that is normally one of my favourite parts of the Festival. The space is kept deliberately dark so that the illuminated displays stand out, and for someone with limited vision that produces exactly the opposite effect. The exhibits vanished into the darkness, the pathways became difficult to follow, and the crowds seemed to appear from nowhere. I got a little lost in there, and the moment I spotted an exit I took it, without hesitation.

Here is the honest part. It wasn’t really Future Lab that failed me. By that point I had walked for miles in relentless heat, and the concentration that large events demand had drained me. Most people see the physical effort of seventeen kilometres. What they don’t see is the cognitive effort that accompanies every one of those steps: every change in surface, every crossing, every decision quietly chipping away at your reserves. Normally I enjoy puzzling out an unfamiliar space. That afternoon I had nothing left in the tank, and the most sensible decision available was to leave. Years ago I might have been disappointed with myself. This time I wasn’t. Knowing when to step away is one of the most useful skills I have ever picked up. The venue sets one half of what is possible on any given day. Your own reserves set the other half, and reading them honestly is worth more than pushing on out of stubbornness.

Finding My Way Back

One of my favourite places at Goodwood has always been the top of the hill, and getting there is an experience in itself. The route climbs through the woods with the hill climb running alongside you, cars screaming past and their echoes bouncing back off the trees, and then, from somewhere on your right, a different sound arrives. A rally car, flat out through the forest. You hear it long before you see it: the engine note rising, gravel spitting into the trees, suspension crashing over the ruts, and then in a flash it is gone, leaving hanging dust, the crackle of an exhaust and a smile on your face. Nothing quite prepares you for it. There is something almost mystical about that corner of the estate. It is one of the few places where motorsport still feels slightly wild, a reminder that these machines were never meant to be museum pieces.

When I reached the top I stood for a while listening to Jari-Matti Latvala being interviewed nearby, took a short walk around the rally paddock, captured a few photographs, and then quietly admitted something to myself. My body had arrived but my mind hadn’t. There comes a point where another spectacular car is just another spectacular car, because you have reached saturation. Normally this section would have enthralled me for hours. Instead, I decided to head back down.

Oddly enough, that decision transformed the rest of my day. On the way down I crossed the track and wandered into one of the supercar car parks, and almost immediately everything changed. The noise dropped away, the crowds thinned, and instead of being carried along by thousands of people I found myself strolling between rows of astonishing cars whose owners had simply driven them to Goodwood. A McLaren Senna. An immaculate Audi Quattro. A Lamborghini Sián. It became the world’s greatest Easter egg hunt; you never knew what would be around the next corner.

Standing in that quiet corner of the estate, I realised something that has become central to Go Anyway as it has grown. The biggest barriers I face at large events are often not the physical ones. They are the ones my own mind constructs when I am tired. When I am exhausted, every crowd feels larger than it really is, every unfamiliar route seems more complicated, every decision carries a little more weight. Given a few quiet minutes to breathe, everything changed again. Nothing about Goodwood had altered: the crowds, the heat and the distances were all still there. The only thing that had changed was me. No venue can hand you that recovery. It can only leave room for it, and for all its noise, Goodwood has quiet corners in abundance if you go looking for them.

One Car, One Conversation

Recharged, I made for the Supercar Paddock, which for me is always one of the highlights of the entire Festival. If the manufacturer stands show you what companies want you to see, the Supercar Paddock feels like walking behind the scenes of automotive dreams: machines most people will never encounter in real life, not behind glass, not on rotating platforms, just sitting quietly between runs up the hill. Even after everything I had already experienced, seeing so many extraordinary cars together was almost overwhelming.

A happy accident of timing helped. In previous years I have headed straight there at the start of the day, when it is so crowded you can hardly move. Arriving in the late afternoon instead, I found space to explore properly, and from now on a later visit will be part of the plan rather than an accident.

And somewhere among those cars sat the one I had been hoping to find from the moment I left home. The day before the Festival, a friend asked whether there was a single car I was after, and my answer came instantly: the Gordon Murray Automotive T.50s. I found it, it was everything I hoped it would be and more, and what happened beside it, a chance conversation with one of the engineers who helps build it, became the best interaction of my day and one of the most memorable I have ever had at any event. It deserves far more space than this article can give it, so I am telling that story separately. Sometimes the most remarkable thing you discover at an event isn’t on the official programme at all.

So, Was It Accessible?

On the train home I found myself turning over a question I get asked surprisingly often: was it accessible? It is a perfectly reasonable question, and one I find increasingly difficult to answer with a yes or a no, because two statements are both true. Goodwood is challenging. Goodwood is accessible.

The site is enormous. I walked more than seventeen kilometres over grass, gravel and woodland tracks, in heat, dust and, at times, overwhelming crowds. There were moments when I couldn’t see enough to appreciate what was in front of me, and moments when the mental effort of navigating it all ran me dry. And yet it remains one of the most accessible major events I attend. Not because every path is smooth or every viewing spot ideal, but because it gives me enough opportunities to make the day my own. When one viewing point didn’t work, there were others. When I was overwhelmed, there was somewhere quieter to recover. When I wanted to get closer, I could ask. When I needed help, somebody offered it without making me feel like a burden. Accessibility isn’t about removing every challenge. It is about making the challenges manageable, and Goodwood gets that balance remarkably right.

If you are blind or partially sighted and wondering whether the Festival of Speed is worth attempting, my answer is an emphatic yes. Precisely because it engages so many senses, Goodwood can be genuinely accessible if you are willing to take on the challenge, and unlike almost any other motor show, you can get close enough to the cars that any usable vision you have actually counts for something. Go prepared, accept that you won’t see everything in one day, and don’t measure the day by attractions ticked off a list. Measure it by the moments you remember. For me, those were the first engine through the gates, a sea of Porsches pretending to be a car park, a Formula One engine bursting into life a few metres away, Lightning McQueen where I least expected him, the peace of a quiet supercar park, a Bentley craftswoman talking about her stitches, and one unforgettable conversation beside a T.50s.

Wet Weather and Terrain

The estate is grass, gravel and woodland, and while Goodwood lays temporary roadways through the busiest areas, uneven ground is part of the event’s character. This year the challenge was heat and dust; in a wet year it would be mud, and the grass car parks and paths would become hard work for wheels and canes alike. Check the forecast, prepare for either, and build rest into your plan.

What I Would Do Differently

Two lessons come home with me this year. First, the Supercar Paddock rewards patience: I will always visit it later in the day from now on, when the morning crush has passed and you can move between the cars rather than shuffle past them. Second, I will build my recovery stop into the plan rather than stumbling across it. The quiet of that supercar car park rescued my afternoon, and next year I will head for somewhere like it deliberately, before my reserves run out rather than after.

Final Reflection

There is a tendency to assume that disabled people need calm, carefully managed experiences where everything is predictable. Sometimes that is true. Sometimes what we want is exactly the same sense of adventure as everyone else: to hear a Formula One engine before we see it, to get gloriously lost among some of the greatest cars ever built, to finish the day physically exhausted and mentally inspired. Goodwood is unapologetically loud, crowded, dusty, demanding and unpredictable, and that is precisely why I love it.

Every year I debate whether to make the journey, and every year I come home wondering why I ever doubted it. This event is, in many ways, why Go Anyway exists. Not because it proves accessibility is perfect; it isn’t. Because it demonstrates something far more important. Life is not waiting on the other side of accessibility. Life is happening now, in all its noisy, dusty, imperfect glory, and sometimes all it takes to join in is the confidence to ask one more question, walk one more mile or start one more conversation.

I will be back next year. I don’t think there was ever any doubt about that.

Reader Challenge and Invitation

Whatever your Goodwood is, the event you have circled on the calendar and doubted in equal measure, book it. Prepare properly, pace yourself honestly, and give yourself full permission to leave early if you need to. The attempt is the point. Whatever your challenge is, go anyway.

And if you do go, I would genuinely love to hear how you found it: what challenged you, what surprised you, and what stayed with you.

All accessibility details in this article were verified against the organiser’s published information at the time of writing. This reflection is based on my personal experience on the day. Individual experiences may vary, and none of the points raised are intended as a judgement of the event itself, but as an honest account of how I navigated it with my own access needs.