It is, beyond all shadow of doubt, the finest spectacle in the British sporting calendar. Forget Wimbledon. Forget the Grand Prix. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the World Championship of mowing the lawn very, very quickly.

Each year, somewhere in the countryside (where sheep normally outnumber humans), more than 40 teams converge. Not for a garden show, not for a convention about compost, but to thrash lawnmowers around a field until sunrise.

Forty teams lined up this year. The madness began at 7 o’clock on Saturday evening and finished at 7 o’clock Sunday morning. That’s twelve solid hours of bouncing across a field on machines originally designed for taking the top off your lawn.

It doesn’t begin politely either. No, in the finest Le Mans tradition, the drivers sprint to their machines, leap aboard, and set off in a frenzy of mechanical chaos and flying clods of grass. Imagine the charge of the Light Brigade, but with strimmers.

Conditions were, as the commentators like to say, “good.” Which is to say the ground had baked harder than concrete, thanks to something the British press insisted was a “heatwave.”

The format mirrors proper endurance racing. Pit stops, driver changes, the works. Except, of course, the blades are removed. Because while this is Britain, and therefore safety is considered frightfully important.

Each team fields three drivers, and you can have as many pit crew as you like. Most people bring their mates, their neighbours, and possibly the local pub landlord.

And the winners? Bullseye Racing. They completed 420 laps of the 1.4 km circuit. Do the maths, and you’ll realise they covered more ground than most mowers will in their entire, lawful lifetime. Which just goes to show: if it’s got an engine, the British will find a way to race it.