British motor racing was a different kind of deal in the 1930s – both more amateur and more aristocratic than it is today, and certainly more dangerous. It tended to involve men who had been to famous public schools, and knew how to handle a shotgun on a Yorkshire moor or a yacht on the Solent.

They had names like Cholmondeley and Featherstonhaugh, unless they were Siamese princes (which they sometimes were). They went to Cambridge but didn’t excel, or they crashed out completely, because they were more interested in driving fast cars while thinking about how to acquire even faster ones. At weekends they raced their MGs, Rileys and ERAs – Maseratis and Bugattis too – up twisting hill climbs in the Malverns, or round the track at Brooklands and Donington Park.

Abroad as well. Some owned aeroplanes. South Africa? No problem. They shipped the cars in advance, then flew down by biplane, swooping low to admire a herd of elephants or find out where they were. Throw in glamorous women, picnics, gallons of champagne, jazz, skiing, a spot of shark fishing … you get the picture. This is an awful lot more fun than Top Gear.

Dick Seaman was one such chap. Perhaps not the most colourful of them, but what he lacked in charisma, he made up for with talent. Meticulous, cool with a hint of ruthlessness, he was among the greatest of the era. He would surely have been the Lewis Hamilton of his day had he not been tragically killed in an accident at the Belgian Grand Prix at the age of 26.

They died in their droves, these men, spinning off the track, into walls and trees, and the crowd, killing them too. Racing went on. It was a lack of health and safety gone mad. Meanwhile, Europe edged closer to a precipice. Germany’s new chancellor, Adolf Hitler, opened the 1933 Berlin motor show with promises of new roads, a people’s car, tax cuts for drivers. And state sponsored motor racing. For the next six years the teams of Auto Union and Mercedes-Benz would dominate international grand prix racing.

It was no accident that Seaman ended up behind the wheel of a Mercedes Silver Arrow. The handsome young Englishman’s talent and ambition made him a perfect fit. But as the decade progressed, the political situation made everything awkward. He met Hitler, shook his hand, attended rallies, gave the salute (even if it was a bashful British version of it). He was doing brilliantly, was going places fast; he loved his life and his beautiful young German bride Erica Popp – how bad could things get? His death, while leading at Spa, on 29 June 1939, came just before war did.

This is a tale for the enthusiast, but by no means exclusively. Yes, there are mentions of plugs and pistons, tappets and timing; but there is also a brilliant Italian mechanic named Giulio working away in Seaman’s Knightsbridge garage, adjusting those tappets to get the engine timing (of a French Delage, this was pre Silver Arrow) just right. If you don’t know what a Delage looks like, look it up and picture these beautiful lethal silver machines hurtling around – and off – the Nürburgring.

Readers of the Guardian, where Richard Williams was chief sports writer for many years (as well as covering music, film, books and just about everything else) and to which he still contributes, will be familiar with the elegance of his prose and the breadth of his interests and expertise. All are on show here. The story is less of a single-seater joy ride focusing only on the track ahead, but more a leisurely parade lap with Williams at the wheel of something more refined. There’s time to savour the sights, a scene, a time, people. Seaman’s mother Lilian – who couldn’t accept her son’s German wife and whose social climbing exploits raise an eyebrow is especially splendid.

As well as English country houses, German house parties and luxury ocean liners, the tour takes in politics and the fascinating interface between sport and world affairs. Why are there no Italian teams at the French Grand Prix in 1936? Punishment for Mussolini’s invasion of Abyssinia, of course.

And the big black cloud looming? Well actually there are two. One is full of the rain that will turn the Spa track into wet death, causing Seaman’s car to spin out of control and strike a tree broadside, before bursting into flames. The other is heavy with hatred, and with death on a far greater scale.

• A Race With Love and Death is publihed by Simon & Schuster (RRP £20). To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com. Free UK p&p over £15.