Italian Road Trip
Discussion
I hope this is OK in the General Motorsport forum - it's a short tale of two people driving to Italy and back for their holiday. The ultimate destination is Mugello for the MotoGP. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Part 1:
They say the best ideas always come about over a drink – and so the cliché is proven when some semi-inebriated route-planning on the overnight ferry from Hull brings to light that the legendary VLN race series is in action at the Nürburgring tomorrow. We have three hours from disembarking the boat at Rotterdam until the lights go out and 100 snarling GT and touring cars are unleashed around the full Nordsliefe. Can we make it?
At the risk of immediately removing all suspense from the scenario, ‘no’ is the short answer, for even with sections of derestricted autobahn and 480bhp on tap, progress is slow. We finally reach Adenau about an hour into the race, dump the car at Aldi, buy some basic lunch provisions and head for the trackside.
This is the final warm-up for most of the teams before the Nürburgring 24 Hours just two weeks later. A clashing Blancpain race at Silverstone means a couple of the notable pro GT3 teams aren’t at full strength but it’s still a fine field with the big German marques carrying star squads. Behind the GT3 headliners are hordes of local heroes in a dizzying array of machinery from humble Peugeot 306 GTI-6 through to rumbling Ford GT.
Our decision to park at Adenau means we pop out at the legendary Breidscheid Bridge. The cars approach downhill at flat chat then hard on the brakes before turning into the first left-hander over the bridge totally blind. There’s no run-off on either side of the track and the margin for error is, like so much of the North Loop, pretty much non-existent. In spite of that, every single driver is pushing like hell. There are plenty of locked wheels and nerve-jangling understeer and over steer moments.
This is the first time I’ve witnessed racing proper around this crazy place and it’s a compelling spectacle. Previous visits have yielded only track days and manufacturer test days, which are great in their own right but there’s nothing like competitive lappery to illustrate the true challenge of any track.
Having sated ourselves on giant bags of the best local crisps, we wander against the traffic further up the hill into Adenau Forest. This illustrates the extent of the elevation change, just in a short section of this vast track. We can see less than one kilometre of Tarmac, yet there’s as much topographical interest as an entire lap of my beloved Oulton Park. It really is quite a place.
Wehrseifen is an extremely tight hairpin, which the drivers drop into from a narrow right-hander. It’s possible to get extremely close to the cars but it’s single-file only so one doesn’t expect the late braking heroics of Breidscheid here. The acceleration out of Wehrseifen, though, is absolute and there’s a wonderful sense of undisturbed momentum as the bruising BMW M6s and lone Bentley Continental GT3 pummel their way downhill with utter conviction. You’re never more than a couple of metres from the action offering a sense of total engagement with the drivers; you feel their concentration.
We arrive at the trackside with just over two and a half hours of the race remaining. With no data reception on our phones and no commentary over any kind of PA, we decide it’s worth exploring a bit more of the track and head up to Brunnchen. The roads around the circuit are superb and worth exploring in their own right. There are interesting vehicles everywhere and, out here in the countryside, there’s little restriction in where you go and what you do. In fact, entry to the general admission spectator areas is free…gratis, nada. Never let it be said the Germans are anything other than refreshingly liberal when it comes to this kind of thing.
The car park at Brunnchen is rammed full of exotic metal, most of it rear-engined and built in Stuttgart. Luckily my old 911 seems to fit in OK, though we spot no other British registrations around the track. There’s a good crowd here, with a concessions stand doing a fine trade in the local beer and a smattering of tents for those spectators wishing to make a weekend of it. With the race taking place on a Saturday afternoon, there’s ample opportunity for a good knees-up in the evening before staggering home on Sunday, ready to recommence the working week
Once again we walk against the direction of travel for the cars, only this time we’re on the outfield and plodding through dense woodland; it’s a little like the Brands Hatch Grand Prix Loop in atmosphere. There’s catch fencing lining the track but there are openings for photographers to poke their lenses through for unobstructed snaps – a welcome inclusion which mirrors the approach at near-by Spa Francorchamps.
This is another fiendishly tricky section of track with Eschbach, a blind, rising right-hand bend being the highlight. The Aston Martin Vantage GT8 gets it wrong here, spinning benignly without meeting the unyielding barriers. It’s a close call, though. The Wippermann section leading towards Eschbach is equally compelling, with all drivers taking huge chunks of kerb in a bit to maintain apex speed. In fact, there’s something about this track which – paradoxically, given its utterly unforgiving margins – seems to have drivers visibly driving harder than just about anywhere else in my experience. Perhaps it’s because of the proximity of the spectator areas, or because the elevation changes make the cars’ dynamics seem more expressive. Whatever it is, there’s true joy to be had in the simple pleasure of watching these mighty machines and awesome drivers relishing the chance to range themselves against the most daunting and challenging race circuit in the world. It’s absolutely magical.
Naturally, given the total radio silence, we have no idea what’s happening in the race. It transpires that BMW has taken a 1-2-3 with its new M6 GT3 behemoth. The lead duo passes us line astern on the final tour, though we’ve no idea until later of the significance of their proximity in achieving an almost photo finish. As with all contemporary GT racing, there’s an element of politicking at VLN. With balance of performance playing such a critical role in the relative competitiveness of the various cars, performing at just the right level is vital. BMW jumped too soon and the M6 was to prove unable to challenge Meredes-Benz at the 24 Hours a fortnight later after the imposition of the latest BoP restrictions. Resounding VLN victory will have been little consolation by comparison. Loyal BMW lieutenant Jörg Müller shared the VLN victory with young former DTM champ Marco Wittmann and Jesse Krohn, with the #39 car just four tenths of a second in arrears.
Attending the VLN was very much a last-minute decision and a proposed visit to the Porsche museum in Stuttgart was cancelled in order to permit the opportunity to watch some pukka racing. Unfortunately, our next overnight stop is Tübingen, several hours to the south and we don’t get motoring until way past 4pm. We’re going to need those derestricted autobahns if we’re to get to our hotel in time for dinner.
It’s at this stage that the plan starts to unravel. Our conveyance for this trip is my newly-purchased Porsche 911 Turbo. We need fuel and the big flat-six in the 911 is utterly incapable of frugal motoring so there’s no chance of stretching out our remaining range. We head for the nearest fuel station en route, only to find there’s no super unleaded on tap. This isn’t insurmountable but the car is designed to run on the strong stuff and can apparently lose up to 50bhp when consuming 95 octane. We might need those horses if we’re to reach our destination in time for any refreshment before bed.
I pour 20 Euros’ worth of fuel into the car and we head towards the autobahn where we can find some high octane fuel to brim the tank. I’m somewhat alarmed to note that the fuel gauge hasn’t moved an inch. By now we’re on the road again but I’m pretty concerned; have we just been ripped off and received no fuel or is the gauge at fault? I’ve so much faith in the Porsche’s engineering that I can’t countenance a failing there. We therefore head towards the next nearest fuel station (according to Waze). We find it closed – and it looks to have been so for some years. This is getting pretty desperate so we decide to head back to Adenau where we know there’s a filling station selling super unleaded. It’s a few miles in the wrong direction but at least it guarantees our onward passage.
It’s at this stage that things take a turn for the farcical. While pursuing the sat nav, we find ourselves in a tiny village where the road simply ends. There are a couple of barriers and from there the surface has been dug up. We’re stuck. I end up adopting my best schoolboy German to try and ascertain where we can get fuel at this time in the evening. Eventually we have an answer and can continue but short-shift in every gear and carry every possible ounce of momentum wherever possible. We coast into a petrol station fifteen minutes later where I can brim the tank. It transpires that the offending 20 Euros’ worth of fuel is well and truly in the tank and that the Porsche’s fuel gauge is so elitist that it simply won’t register such a tiny value of fuel. Lesson learned: not only is the mighty 911 is fallible, it’s also decidedly snobby.
Our onward journey to Tübingen is uneventful, save for the enormous speeds we’re able to maintain during the derestricted sections. This is my first European trip since buying the 911 and that Mezger engine is absolutely epic, ripping around to big speeds from any engine speed in any gear. We peak at 164 mph which represents the fastest speed I’ve yet attained on public roads. The only issue which is slightly arresting progress is a distracting vibration above 130mph. It’s hard to place but I decide it might be the wheel balancing on the rears as the steering is pretty much chatter-free. It’s certainly noticeable, though, and I decide not to spend too much time above 130mph in order to keep things comfortable for the car’s occupants and in order to prevent the possibility of causing any potential damage. It’s a bit of a blow but nothing too upsetting and the awesome thrust above 100mph never gets boring. It might not dance along moorland roads like a Lotus but the 911 is an absolute bruiser on the big, wide roads of Continental Europe, devouring everything in its wake. What a machine.
We eventually reach Tübingen just as dusk gives way to night. It’s getting dark and apparently we have few options for dinner but it’s a long time since we munched those Aldi crisps at the Nürburgring so we take our chances and head out. But not before finding miniatures of Jägermeister in the hotel minibar. God, I love Germany.
Tübingen is a charming, old university town, blessed with an abundance of the kind of chocolate shop architecture I find totally bewitching. The buildings in the town centre are tall, with scores of miniature windows crammed into every inch of the gables. Gothic script decorates many of the buildings and the streets are paved with traditional block sets. It might almost seem pastiche – like an Alton Towers vision of a German town – but it’s authentic and friendly. We hunt down the last restaurant in town whose kitchen is still open and settle down with delicious steins of the local brew and big plates of regional food. It’s hearty stuff and perfect after a long day on the road. In spite of the distance covered, we feel fairly fresh and well up for the next day’s hop to Switzerland – country number three already.
We use Sunday as an opportunity to check out the sights of Tübingen, delighting in those quaint streets and historic castle. Almost a thousand years old, the castle has been subsumed into the university which means it has been pretty well preserved for a number of years. As with all medieval castles, it sits atop a hill, offering fine views of the terracotta roofs all around. Further down, in the town centre, there’s an open stream running past the buildings, with little timber drawbridges offering citizens access to their homes. It really is a lovely town, with a charm all of its own.
Sadly we can’t linger as we have to get to Weggis, on the shores of Lake Lucerne in Switzerland. First, though, we need to navigate our way out of Tübingen and that proves less than straightforward. Our hotel is very central, accessed via a narrow one-way cobbled street. This is quite charming but is to prove our downfall.
We are most of the way down the one-way street when we find ourselves nose-to-nose with a furniture delivery van completing a drop-off. While most cars are able to work their way around the offending wagon by mounting the kerb, sadly the low splitter on the Porsche means this is impossible and we’re stuck. Negotiating with the German removals men proves futile (let us hope this isn’t a portent of our Brexit future) and we’ve no alternative but to reverse half a kilometre back to our starting point at the hotel. By this time we’ve attracted quite a crowd and it’s entirely evident that I look a bit of a wally.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and so we take the decision to mount the two left wheels onto the kerb at its lowest point. This is a full 500 metres from the obstructive van and so begins the pain-staking process of nosing the car along the street – half on the pavement and half on the road. It’s as farcical a moment as we experienced the day before when the road stopped. Children scatter and I narrowly avoid several hundred parked bicycles.
Naturally, rather than moving their van, the removals men have downed their sofas and are now stood at the kerbside, savouring the spectacle of an idiotic Brit edging his stupid sports car along the pavement. It feels both triumphant and simultaneously futile when I gently bring all four wheels back down onto the road and we can continue our journey. Judging by the gesticulations from most of the locals, I think they found it quite amusing and I can’t help but chuckle throughout the whole, farcical process. It’s not something I’m keen to repeat, though. It’s just the fillip I need when we stumble upon a petrol station stocking 102 octane fuel delivered by pumps decorated with the DTM logo. All is well in the world once more.
The journey down into Switzerland is relatively short – and mercifully uneventful. We’re in the car for about three hours and are able to savour the crisp, fresh air and vast vistas for which Switzerland is so famous. The highlight of the trip is a period during which we convoy through Germany with a similar 997 Turbo and find ourselves wandering into some deeply silly speeds together. This car is wearing Swiss plates so it’s quite possible the owner potters up to Germany from time-to-time just to exercise his car away from the Draconian Swiss traffic police.
We chose Weggis because of its relative proximity to the historic town of Lucerne and the incredible views from Hotel Alpenblick, our home for the night. Blessed with secure underground parking and the most panoramic location imaginable, it does much to recommend itself.
Quizzing the staff in the hotel, we decide that the ferry to Lucerne will provide perhaps the most civilised means of reaching our dinner and it doesn’t disappoint – offering a different perspective on the dramatic mountainous backdrop on the far side of the lake. A few spots of rain from broken clouds don’t dampen the experience and the sun casts strong beams through the
s in the clouds’ cover.
After the gentle pace of Tübingen and the oasis of Hotel Alpenblick, it’s a bit of a shock to find ourselves cast into a busy tourist town and we find comfort in heading to the nearest fondue restaurant to eat as the locals eat. With its silent ‘P’, the Pfistern sounds like rather a dubious establishment but it is in fact rather good, and not at all salacious. The fondue is voluminous enough to feed the Swiss army and we snare a table on the balcony, overlooking the famous Lucerne footbridge which opened in 1333. It’s a huge tourist trap but very pretty and it looks spectacular as the sun sets and it starts to glow in the dark.
We try retiring to a local hostelry and the hospitality is excellent but Switzerland is so ludicrously expensive that every pint of pilsner tastes bitter to this Yorkshireman. Labouring under dire warnings about the expense of a taxi, we hit public transport and, in spite of a language barrier rendered more troublesome by mild inebriation, manage to make it back to Hotel Alpenblick without incident.
We have only one night here and our next destination is Tremezzo on the shore of Lake Como but we find time to explore in the morning. Weggis was cited by Mark Twain as the most beautiful place on earth and looking out across the water to the distant mountain ranges, it’s possible to savour the view exactly as he would’ve done. The town itself is not particularly meritorious but it’s pleasant and provides a lovely base for exploring the Swiss Alps. It’s easy to see how one might return regularly, simply for relaxation and rejuvenation, especially during the snowy months for those who enjoy winter sports.
Links:
VLN race results: http://vln.de/ergebnisse/2016-05-14r.html
Hotel Hospiz, Tübingen: http://www.hotel-hospiz.de/
Hotel Alpenblick, Weggis: http://en.alpenblick-weggis.ch
Part 1:
They say the best ideas always come about over a drink – and so the cliché is proven when some semi-inebriated route-planning on the overnight ferry from Hull brings to light that the legendary VLN race series is in action at the Nürburgring tomorrow. We have three hours from disembarking the boat at Rotterdam until the lights go out and 100 snarling GT and touring cars are unleashed around the full Nordsliefe. Can we make it?
At the risk of immediately removing all suspense from the scenario, ‘no’ is the short answer, for even with sections of derestricted autobahn and 480bhp on tap, progress is slow. We finally reach Adenau about an hour into the race, dump the car at Aldi, buy some basic lunch provisions and head for the trackside.
This is the final warm-up for most of the teams before the Nürburgring 24 Hours just two weeks later. A clashing Blancpain race at Silverstone means a couple of the notable pro GT3 teams aren’t at full strength but it’s still a fine field with the big German marques carrying star squads. Behind the GT3 headliners are hordes of local heroes in a dizzying array of machinery from humble Peugeot 306 GTI-6 through to rumbling Ford GT.
Our decision to park at Adenau means we pop out at the legendary Breidscheid Bridge. The cars approach downhill at flat chat then hard on the brakes before turning into the first left-hander over the bridge totally blind. There’s no run-off on either side of the track and the margin for error is, like so much of the North Loop, pretty much non-existent. In spite of that, every single driver is pushing like hell. There are plenty of locked wheels and nerve-jangling understeer and over steer moments.
This is the first time I’ve witnessed racing proper around this crazy place and it’s a compelling spectacle. Previous visits have yielded only track days and manufacturer test days, which are great in their own right but there’s nothing like competitive lappery to illustrate the true challenge of any track.
Having sated ourselves on giant bags of the best local crisps, we wander against the traffic further up the hill into Adenau Forest. This illustrates the extent of the elevation change, just in a short section of this vast track. We can see less than one kilometre of Tarmac, yet there’s as much topographical interest as an entire lap of my beloved Oulton Park. It really is quite a place.
Wehrseifen is an extremely tight hairpin, which the drivers drop into from a narrow right-hander. It’s possible to get extremely close to the cars but it’s single-file only so one doesn’t expect the late braking heroics of Breidscheid here. The acceleration out of Wehrseifen, though, is absolute and there’s a wonderful sense of undisturbed momentum as the bruising BMW M6s and lone Bentley Continental GT3 pummel their way downhill with utter conviction. You’re never more than a couple of metres from the action offering a sense of total engagement with the drivers; you feel their concentration.
We arrive at the trackside with just over two and a half hours of the race remaining. With no data reception on our phones and no commentary over any kind of PA, we decide it’s worth exploring a bit more of the track and head up to Brunnchen. The roads around the circuit are superb and worth exploring in their own right. There are interesting vehicles everywhere and, out here in the countryside, there’s little restriction in where you go and what you do. In fact, entry to the general admission spectator areas is free…gratis, nada. Never let it be said the Germans are anything other than refreshingly liberal when it comes to this kind of thing.
The car park at Brunnchen is rammed full of exotic metal, most of it rear-engined and built in Stuttgart. Luckily my old 911 seems to fit in OK, though we spot no other British registrations around the track. There’s a good crowd here, with a concessions stand doing a fine trade in the local beer and a smattering of tents for those spectators wishing to make a weekend of it. With the race taking place on a Saturday afternoon, there’s ample opportunity for a good knees-up in the evening before staggering home on Sunday, ready to recommence the working week
Once again we walk against the direction of travel for the cars, only this time we’re on the outfield and plodding through dense woodland; it’s a little like the Brands Hatch Grand Prix Loop in atmosphere. There’s catch fencing lining the track but there are openings for photographers to poke their lenses through for unobstructed snaps – a welcome inclusion which mirrors the approach at near-by Spa Francorchamps.
This is another fiendishly tricky section of track with Eschbach, a blind, rising right-hand bend being the highlight. The Aston Martin Vantage GT8 gets it wrong here, spinning benignly without meeting the unyielding barriers. It’s a close call, though. The Wippermann section leading towards Eschbach is equally compelling, with all drivers taking huge chunks of kerb in a bit to maintain apex speed. In fact, there’s something about this track which – paradoxically, given its utterly unforgiving margins – seems to have drivers visibly driving harder than just about anywhere else in my experience. Perhaps it’s because of the proximity of the spectator areas, or because the elevation changes make the cars’ dynamics seem more expressive. Whatever it is, there’s true joy to be had in the simple pleasure of watching these mighty machines and awesome drivers relishing the chance to range themselves against the most daunting and challenging race circuit in the world. It’s absolutely magical.
Naturally, given the total radio silence, we have no idea what’s happening in the race. It transpires that BMW has taken a 1-2-3 with its new M6 GT3 behemoth. The lead duo passes us line astern on the final tour, though we’ve no idea until later of the significance of their proximity in achieving an almost photo finish. As with all contemporary GT racing, there’s an element of politicking at VLN. With balance of performance playing such a critical role in the relative competitiveness of the various cars, performing at just the right level is vital. BMW jumped too soon and the M6 was to prove unable to challenge Meredes-Benz at the 24 Hours a fortnight later after the imposition of the latest BoP restrictions. Resounding VLN victory will have been little consolation by comparison. Loyal BMW lieutenant Jörg Müller shared the VLN victory with young former DTM champ Marco Wittmann and Jesse Krohn, with the #39 car just four tenths of a second in arrears.
Attending the VLN was very much a last-minute decision and a proposed visit to the Porsche museum in Stuttgart was cancelled in order to permit the opportunity to watch some pukka racing. Unfortunately, our next overnight stop is Tübingen, several hours to the south and we don’t get motoring until way past 4pm. We’re going to need those derestricted autobahns if we’re to get to our hotel in time for dinner.
It’s at this stage that the plan starts to unravel. Our conveyance for this trip is my newly-purchased Porsche 911 Turbo. We need fuel and the big flat-six in the 911 is utterly incapable of frugal motoring so there’s no chance of stretching out our remaining range. We head for the nearest fuel station en route, only to find there’s no super unleaded on tap. This isn’t insurmountable but the car is designed to run on the strong stuff and can apparently lose up to 50bhp when consuming 95 octane. We might need those horses if we’re to reach our destination in time for any refreshment before bed.
I pour 20 Euros’ worth of fuel into the car and we head towards the autobahn where we can find some high octane fuel to brim the tank. I’m somewhat alarmed to note that the fuel gauge hasn’t moved an inch. By now we’re on the road again but I’m pretty concerned; have we just been ripped off and received no fuel or is the gauge at fault? I’ve so much faith in the Porsche’s engineering that I can’t countenance a failing there. We therefore head towards the next nearest fuel station (according to Waze). We find it closed – and it looks to have been so for some years. This is getting pretty desperate so we decide to head back to Adenau where we know there’s a filling station selling super unleaded. It’s a few miles in the wrong direction but at least it guarantees our onward passage.
It’s at this stage that things take a turn for the farcical. While pursuing the sat nav, we find ourselves in a tiny village where the road simply ends. There are a couple of barriers and from there the surface has been dug up. We’re stuck. I end up adopting my best schoolboy German to try and ascertain where we can get fuel at this time in the evening. Eventually we have an answer and can continue but short-shift in every gear and carry every possible ounce of momentum wherever possible. We coast into a petrol station fifteen minutes later where I can brim the tank. It transpires that the offending 20 Euros’ worth of fuel is well and truly in the tank and that the Porsche’s fuel gauge is so elitist that it simply won’t register such a tiny value of fuel. Lesson learned: not only is the mighty 911 is fallible, it’s also decidedly snobby.
Our onward journey to Tübingen is uneventful, save for the enormous speeds we’re able to maintain during the derestricted sections. This is my first European trip since buying the 911 and that Mezger engine is absolutely epic, ripping around to big speeds from any engine speed in any gear. We peak at 164 mph which represents the fastest speed I’ve yet attained on public roads. The only issue which is slightly arresting progress is a distracting vibration above 130mph. It’s hard to place but I decide it might be the wheel balancing on the rears as the steering is pretty much chatter-free. It’s certainly noticeable, though, and I decide not to spend too much time above 130mph in order to keep things comfortable for the car’s occupants and in order to prevent the possibility of causing any potential damage. It’s a bit of a blow but nothing too upsetting and the awesome thrust above 100mph never gets boring. It might not dance along moorland roads like a Lotus but the 911 is an absolute bruiser on the big, wide roads of Continental Europe, devouring everything in its wake. What a machine.
We eventually reach Tübingen just as dusk gives way to night. It’s getting dark and apparently we have few options for dinner but it’s a long time since we munched those Aldi crisps at the Nürburgring so we take our chances and head out. But not before finding miniatures of Jägermeister in the hotel minibar. God, I love Germany.
Tübingen is a charming, old university town, blessed with an abundance of the kind of chocolate shop architecture I find totally bewitching. The buildings in the town centre are tall, with scores of miniature windows crammed into every inch of the gables. Gothic script decorates many of the buildings and the streets are paved with traditional block sets. It might almost seem pastiche – like an Alton Towers vision of a German town – but it’s authentic and friendly. We hunt down the last restaurant in town whose kitchen is still open and settle down with delicious steins of the local brew and big plates of regional food. It’s hearty stuff and perfect after a long day on the road. In spite of the distance covered, we feel fairly fresh and well up for the next day’s hop to Switzerland – country number three already.
We use Sunday as an opportunity to check out the sights of Tübingen, delighting in those quaint streets and historic castle. Almost a thousand years old, the castle has been subsumed into the university which means it has been pretty well preserved for a number of years. As with all medieval castles, it sits atop a hill, offering fine views of the terracotta roofs all around. Further down, in the town centre, there’s an open stream running past the buildings, with little timber drawbridges offering citizens access to their homes. It really is a lovely town, with a charm all of its own.
Sadly we can’t linger as we have to get to Weggis, on the shores of Lake Lucerne in Switzerland. First, though, we need to navigate our way out of Tübingen and that proves less than straightforward. Our hotel is very central, accessed via a narrow one-way cobbled street. This is quite charming but is to prove our downfall.
We are most of the way down the one-way street when we find ourselves nose-to-nose with a furniture delivery van completing a drop-off. While most cars are able to work their way around the offending wagon by mounting the kerb, sadly the low splitter on the Porsche means this is impossible and we’re stuck. Negotiating with the German removals men proves futile (let us hope this isn’t a portent of our Brexit future) and we’ve no alternative but to reverse half a kilometre back to our starting point at the hotel. By this time we’ve attracted quite a crowd and it’s entirely evident that I look a bit of a wally.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and so we take the decision to mount the two left wheels onto the kerb at its lowest point. This is a full 500 metres from the obstructive van and so begins the pain-staking process of nosing the car along the street – half on the pavement and half on the road. It’s as farcical a moment as we experienced the day before when the road stopped. Children scatter and I narrowly avoid several hundred parked bicycles.
Naturally, rather than moving their van, the removals men have downed their sofas and are now stood at the kerbside, savouring the spectacle of an idiotic Brit edging his stupid sports car along the pavement. It feels both triumphant and simultaneously futile when I gently bring all four wheels back down onto the road and we can continue our journey. Judging by the gesticulations from most of the locals, I think they found it quite amusing and I can’t help but chuckle throughout the whole, farcical process. It’s not something I’m keen to repeat, though. It’s just the fillip I need when we stumble upon a petrol station stocking 102 octane fuel delivered by pumps decorated with the DTM logo. All is well in the world once more.
The journey down into Switzerland is relatively short – and mercifully uneventful. We’re in the car for about three hours and are able to savour the crisp, fresh air and vast vistas for which Switzerland is so famous. The highlight of the trip is a period during which we convoy through Germany with a similar 997 Turbo and find ourselves wandering into some deeply silly speeds together. This car is wearing Swiss plates so it’s quite possible the owner potters up to Germany from time-to-time just to exercise his car away from the Draconian Swiss traffic police.
We chose Weggis because of its relative proximity to the historic town of Lucerne and the incredible views from Hotel Alpenblick, our home for the night. Blessed with secure underground parking and the most panoramic location imaginable, it does much to recommend itself.
Quizzing the staff in the hotel, we decide that the ferry to Lucerne will provide perhaps the most civilised means of reaching our dinner and it doesn’t disappoint – offering a different perspective on the dramatic mountainous backdrop on the far side of the lake. A few spots of rain from broken clouds don’t dampen the experience and the sun casts strong beams through the
s in the clouds’ cover.After the gentle pace of Tübingen and the oasis of Hotel Alpenblick, it’s a bit of a shock to find ourselves cast into a busy tourist town and we find comfort in heading to the nearest fondue restaurant to eat as the locals eat. With its silent ‘P’, the Pfistern sounds like rather a dubious establishment but it is in fact rather good, and not at all salacious. The fondue is voluminous enough to feed the Swiss army and we snare a table on the balcony, overlooking the famous Lucerne footbridge which opened in 1333. It’s a huge tourist trap but very pretty and it looks spectacular as the sun sets and it starts to glow in the dark.
We try retiring to a local hostelry and the hospitality is excellent but Switzerland is so ludicrously expensive that every pint of pilsner tastes bitter to this Yorkshireman. Labouring under dire warnings about the expense of a taxi, we hit public transport and, in spite of a language barrier rendered more troublesome by mild inebriation, manage to make it back to Hotel Alpenblick without incident.
We have only one night here and our next destination is Tremezzo on the shore of Lake Como but we find time to explore in the morning. Weggis was cited by Mark Twain as the most beautiful place on earth and looking out across the water to the distant mountain ranges, it’s possible to savour the view exactly as he would’ve done. The town itself is not particularly meritorious but it’s pleasant and provides a lovely base for exploring the Swiss Alps. It’s easy to see how one might return regularly, simply for relaxation and rejuvenation, especially during the snowy months for those who enjoy winter sports.
Links:
VLN race results: http://vln.de/ergebnisse/2016-05-14r.html
Hotel Hospiz, Tübingen: http://www.hotel-hospiz.de/
Hotel Alpenblick, Weggis: http://en.alpenblick-weggis.ch
Edited by chevronb37 on Saturday 9th July 16:13
Part 2:
It’s a wrench to drag ourselves away from Weggis with its blissful isolation and cleansing atmosphere but we have progress to make and our next stop is glamorous Lake Como. I finally relinquish control of the wheel and Mrs Motorcardiaries is given the opportunity to experience some Swiss motoring. The early driving is along easy, winding roads along the lakeside, with the usual views of the water framed by high mountains. To our left are jagged rock formations interspersed with high, green fields. Soon we’re ducking between tunnels and we must ease through a hundred of them over the course of the day; some long and illuminated, others just short sections of concrete; open-sided and cantilevered above our heads. I take the opportunity to savour the views and indulge in a bit of car-spotting, with a number of interesting motors heading towards us, including a fabulous two-seat racing bodied Riley special of the sort so beloved of our Continental cousins.
Soon we are cruising along broad two-lane highways through the mountains. We’re surrounded by snow-tipped peaks and dense forest, with the road ploughing on through the centre of the wilderness. Each turn of the wheel brings yet another breath-taking view. It seems hard to believe this is simply a conventional motorway linking one urban sprawl to the next.
Sadly, several of the most dramatic of the Swiss Alpine passes are closed for another few weeks due to snow but we locate one which looks fun and, like the best of the passes, links nowhere very significant with somewhere else not very significant. The Passo del Lucomagno isn’t far from the St Bernadino but doesn’t share the latter’s fearsome reputation.
We start at the south end of the pass at Biasca, where the road initially rises in a series of hairpins before levelling out. From there, it’s a really pleasant hour’s run up to Disentis. The climb is never dramatic in the Stelvio sense of the word but one suddenly finds oneself up above the tree line, with nothing but broken rocks and snow for company. There are some fantastic stretches through verdant valleys, the landscape punctuated by isolated timber houses. At one stage I’m alarmed to find the road has been dug up and we’re forced to trek our way across loose stone. In spite of my extreme paranoia, it presents the perfect opportunity to gloat over the capability of the 911’s four wheel drive system.
The Lucomagno is a fabulous road and one you can really drive. It doesn’t present a huge amount of jeopardy – unlike, say, the Furka – but it’s fast, open and remarkably devoid of other traffic. It’s an effort to keep the Porsche on a leash and the way it piles on speed through third and fourth gears makes open sections occasionally a battle of self-control. We are also afforded the chance for some full-noise tunnel running. With the windows and sunroof open, the enclosure offered by harsh, concrete tunnels reveals the Mezger’s racing origins. At this level of proximity, all turbo whooshiness is lost to pure, sawtooth bark. Hard acceleration in second gear reveals an anger and savagery which is lost in usual motoring, where that character is smothered by the calming effect of those big turbos. It reveals a new, raw side to the otherwise decorous 911 – and perhaps shows that it isn’t so far removed from its GT3 brethren.
Sadly, we can’t play on the passes all day and need to continue making progress south into Italy. The motorways make for easy passage. We stop periodically for pit stops and among the highlights is a service area dropped into the most incredible Alpine location, mountains towering over us in all directions. It’s a treat to find ourselves filling up next to a gloriously orange Alfa Romeo Montreal – pure ‘70s psychadelia.
It’s actually hard to tell when we finally cross into Italy, but you’re very aware of how ‘Italian’ the motoring is once you hit Como. Everything appears to be orchestrated by chaos theory and blind hope. It may not be a match for rush hour in Delhi but it feels awfully busy after a couple of days of wonderful, open roads. The narrow little lane along the water’s edge passing through tiny, rustic villages on the lake’s western shoreline does little for my nerves. Coaches occupy both lanes of the carriageway, with suicidal locals overtaking irrespective of visibility, speed limit or suitability of vehicle. It’s a relief to finally reach our home for the next four nights and ditch the car for a couple of days.
Hotel Darsena at Tremezzo offers balconies directly over the lake, affording unfettered views of Bellagio on the opposite shore and the chance to watch fish swimming directly below one’s feet. Close your eyes and picture Lake Como – this is pretty much the postcard experience. We’re enormously fortunate.
Como is famous for its spectacular vistas, glamorous villas, charming towns and fine gastronomy. We do our best to take advantage of all these attributes, taking to our feet and shuttling across the water on the ferry. It’s worth remembering the time of the last ferry, though, as we nearly find ourselves stranded on the wrong side of the lake one evening after some daytime over-indulgence in a Bellagio bar.
The jewel in Como’s crown – for us at least – is Villa Balbianello. Located on an arboreal peninsula half an hour’s walk out of Lenno, it’s a small, magical villa set in the most beautiful grounds. Its unique location affords perfect views in all directions, with the architecture of the house (and wider grounds) set out specifically to maximise any opportunity to expand one’s horizons out across the lake. Even the trees are pruned to ensure they don’t grow too tall and obstruct the windows.
Villa Carlotta, the most famous in the area, is slightly disappointing by comparison. A vast, white symbol of wealth and status, its gardens are fabulous and feel almost tropical at times. Inside is a tribute to the world’s greatest artworks but it’s displayed in huge, cold marble rooms and never feels intimate or personal like Balbinello. Interesting but nothing like as special as its neighbour.
All this culture is becoming rather oppressing, though, and I desperately need some automotive action to keep my vacational interest levels up. By useful coincidence, the Mille Miglia is kicking off in Brescia and a wet day is in prospect. Sit inside reading and staring at the rain or embrace it and watch some old cars? Each of us takes a different stance but soon we are tramping our way along the autostrada towards Parma, ready to dive left and head towards the little town of Valeggio sul Mincio, where the Mille has a control point.
Drizzle in Tremezzo has turned to a deluge further south and the driving is less than fun. I (rather stupidly, it transpires) have elected to take a slightly longer route, cutting out Brescia and the Mille route, reasoning that it promises to be utterly chaotic. This means a four-hour drive to our destination, with at least one of those hours traversing old cart tracks, topped with a few millimetres of threadbare macadam surface dressing. I’m not sure Mrs Motorcardiaries will ever forgive me, nor the poor Porsche which isn’t blessed with the world’s most yielding suspension set-up.
Still, eventually we land in Valeggio sul Mincio and the street party is in full swing, with several roads closed to allow the Mille competitors clear passage through the town. In spite of the devilish downpour, there’s a good crowd in attendance, many waving little paper flags featuring the event’s logo.
First cars through are modern Mercedes, soon giving way to a cavallino cavalcade, as scores of Maranello’s finest dodge the puddles through the town’s main square. From the latest 488GTB through to classic Berlinetta Boxers, there’s the full palate of Ferraris – and the owners seem unperturbed by the conditions.
No sooner have the modern red cars sung their way off towards the next control point than the proper competitors start to land. Open pre-war sports cars look like hard work in such dire conditions, offering their occupants no protection from the elements. Spectacles are wiped, brows are mopped and any efforts at waterproofing look forlorn and redundant. Still, there are smiles all round and the next day promises fine sunshine.
If you crave the awesome spectacle of old racing cars slithering around on their treaded tyres, a Mille Miglia control point might lack a certain sparkle. But, if the presence and atmosphere in old cars piques your interest, then this is the event for you. As I stand on the roadside, looking up a narrow Italian town street, I’m struck by the authenticity of the aesthetic. Geriatric locals amble along the pavements as real racing cars hurtle past. There’s real endeavour here, splashing through the puddles in a properly old car with genuine race pedigree. Ignore the theatrics and the occasional celebrity cameos for a second…this is how the Mille Miglia looked during its golden era. It’s properly special.
Mercifully for a soggy Mrs Motorcardiaries but sadly for me, we’re so far from home that we only watch the first half of the 350-strong field file past before having to return to Hotel Darsena. What a treat, though, to see pre-war Alfas, Bugattis, Mercedes, BMWs and Bentleys out and about, battling the open road, the elements and their competitors.
Links:
Hotel Darsena: https://www.ladarsena.it/
Mille Miglia route: https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=1jXfpFlkX...
Mille Miglia entry list: http://www.1000miglia.it/2016-Edition/Provisional-...
It’s a wrench to drag ourselves away from Weggis with its blissful isolation and cleansing atmosphere but we have progress to make and our next stop is glamorous Lake Como. I finally relinquish control of the wheel and Mrs Motorcardiaries is given the opportunity to experience some Swiss motoring. The early driving is along easy, winding roads along the lakeside, with the usual views of the water framed by high mountains. To our left are jagged rock formations interspersed with high, green fields. Soon we’re ducking between tunnels and we must ease through a hundred of them over the course of the day; some long and illuminated, others just short sections of concrete; open-sided and cantilevered above our heads. I take the opportunity to savour the views and indulge in a bit of car-spotting, with a number of interesting motors heading towards us, including a fabulous two-seat racing bodied Riley special of the sort so beloved of our Continental cousins.
Soon we are cruising along broad two-lane highways through the mountains. We’re surrounded by snow-tipped peaks and dense forest, with the road ploughing on through the centre of the wilderness. Each turn of the wheel brings yet another breath-taking view. It seems hard to believe this is simply a conventional motorway linking one urban sprawl to the next.
Sadly, several of the most dramatic of the Swiss Alpine passes are closed for another few weeks due to snow but we locate one which looks fun and, like the best of the passes, links nowhere very significant with somewhere else not very significant. The Passo del Lucomagno isn’t far from the St Bernadino but doesn’t share the latter’s fearsome reputation.
We start at the south end of the pass at Biasca, where the road initially rises in a series of hairpins before levelling out. From there, it’s a really pleasant hour’s run up to Disentis. The climb is never dramatic in the Stelvio sense of the word but one suddenly finds oneself up above the tree line, with nothing but broken rocks and snow for company. There are some fantastic stretches through verdant valleys, the landscape punctuated by isolated timber houses. At one stage I’m alarmed to find the road has been dug up and we’re forced to trek our way across loose stone. In spite of my extreme paranoia, it presents the perfect opportunity to gloat over the capability of the 911’s four wheel drive system.
The Lucomagno is a fabulous road and one you can really drive. It doesn’t present a huge amount of jeopardy – unlike, say, the Furka – but it’s fast, open and remarkably devoid of other traffic. It’s an effort to keep the Porsche on a leash and the way it piles on speed through third and fourth gears makes open sections occasionally a battle of self-control. We are also afforded the chance for some full-noise tunnel running. With the windows and sunroof open, the enclosure offered by harsh, concrete tunnels reveals the Mezger’s racing origins. At this level of proximity, all turbo whooshiness is lost to pure, sawtooth bark. Hard acceleration in second gear reveals an anger and savagery which is lost in usual motoring, where that character is smothered by the calming effect of those big turbos. It reveals a new, raw side to the otherwise decorous 911 – and perhaps shows that it isn’t so far removed from its GT3 brethren.
Sadly, we can’t play on the passes all day and need to continue making progress south into Italy. The motorways make for easy passage. We stop periodically for pit stops and among the highlights is a service area dropped into the most incredible Alpine location, mountains towering over us in all directions. It’s a treat to find ourselves filling up next to a gloriously orange Alfa Romeo Montreal – pure ‘70s psychadelia.
It’s actually hard to tell when we finally cross into Italy, but you’re very aware of how ‘Italian’ the motoring is once you hit Como. Everything appears to be orchestrated by chaos theory and blind hope. It may not be a match for rush hour in Delhi but it feels awfully busy after a couple of days of wonderful, open roads. The narrow little lane along the water’s edge passing through tiny, rustic villages on the lake’s western shoreline does little for my nerves. Coaches occupy both lanes of the carriageway, with suicidal locals overtaking irrespective of visibility, speed limit or suitability of vehicle. It’s a relief to finally reach our home for the next four nights and ditch the car for a couple of days.
Hotel Darsena at Tremezzo offers balconies directly over the lake, affording unfettered views of Bellagio on the opposite shore and the chance to watch fish swimming directly below one’s feet. Close your eyes and picture Lake Como – this is pretty much the postcard experience. We’re enormously fortunate.
Como is famous for its spectacular vistas, glamorous villas, charming towns and fine gastronomy. We do our best to take advantage of all these attributes, taking to our feet and shuttling across the water on the ferry. It’s worth remembering the time of the last ferry, though, as we nearly find ourselves stranded on the wrong side of the lake one evening after some daytime over-indulgence in a Bellagio bar.
The jewel in Como’s crown – for us at least – is Villa Balbianello. Located on an arboreal peninsula half an hour’s walk out of Lenno, it’s a small, magical villa set in the most beautiful grounds. Its unique location affords perfect views in all directions, with the architecture of the house (and wider grounds) set out specifically to maximise any opportunity to expand one’s horizons out across the lake. Even the trees are pruned to ensure they don’t grow too tall and obstruct the windows.
Villa Carlotta, the most famous in the area, is slightly disappointing by comparison. A vast, white symbol of wealth and status, its gardens are fabulous and feel almost tropical at times. Inside is a tribute to the world’s greatest artworks but it’s displayed in huge, cold marble rooms and never feels intimate or personal like Balbinello. Interesting but nothing like as special as its neighbour.
All this culture is becoming rather oppressing, though, and I desperately need some automotive action to keep my vacational interest levels up. By useful coincidence, the Mille Miglia is kicking off in Brescia and a wet day is in prospect. Sit inside reading and staring at the rain or embrace it and watch some old cars? Each of us takes a different stance but soon we are tramping our way along the autostrada towards Parma, ready to dive left and head towards the little town of Valeggio sul Mincio, where the Mille has a control point.
Drizzle in Tremezzo has turned to a deluge further south and the driving is less than fun. I (rather stupidly, it transpires) have elected to take a slightly longer route, cutting out Brescia and the Mille route, reasoning that it promises to be utterly chaotic. This means a four-hour drive to our destination, with at least one of those hours traversing old cart tracks, topped with a few millimetres of threadbare macadam surface dressing. I’m not sure Mrs Motorcardiaries will ever forgive me, nor the poor Porsche which isn’t blessed with the world’s most yielding suspension set-up.
Still, eventually we land in Valeggio sul Mincio and the street party is in full swing, with several roads closed to allow the Mille competitors clear passage through the town. In spite of the devilish downpour, there’s a good crowd in attendance, many waving little paper flags featuring the event’s logo.
First cars through are modern Mercedes, soon giving way to a cavallino cavalcade, as scores of Maranello’s finest dodge the puddles through the town’s main square. From the latest 488GTB through to classic Berlinetta Boxers, there’s the full palate of Ferraris – and the owners seem unperturbed by the conditions.
No sooner have the modern red cars sung their way off towards the next control point than the proper competitors start to land. Open pre-war sports cars look like hard work in such dire conditions, offering their occupants no protection from the elements. Spectacles are wiped, brows are mopped and any efforts at waterproofing look forlorn and redundant. Still, there are smiles all round and the next day promises fine sunshine.
If you crave the awesome spectacle of old racing cars slithering around on their treaded tyres, a Mille Miglia control point might lack a certain sparkle. But, if the presence and atmosphere in old cars piques your interest, then this is the event for you. As I stand on the roadside, looking up a narrow Italian town street, I’m struck by the authenticity of the aesthetic. Geriatric locals amble along the pavements as real racing cars hurtle past. There’s real endeavour here, splashing through the puddles in a properly old car with genuine race pedigree. Ignore the theatrics and the occasional celebrity cameos for a second…this is how the Mille Miglia looked during its golden era. It’s properly special.
Mercifully for a soggy Mrs Motorcardiaries but sadly for me, we’re so far from home that we only watch the first half of the 350-strong field file past before having to return to Hotel Darsena. What a treat, though, to see pre-war Alfas, Bugattis, Mercedes, BMWs and Bentleys out and about, battling the open road, the elements and their competitors.
Links:
Hotel Darsena: https://www.ladarsena.it/
Mille Miglia route: https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=1jXfpFlkX...
Mille Miglia entry list: http://www.1000miglia.it/2016-Edition/Provisional-...
Bloody Marvelous!!
Having driven to Italy 4 times now for family holidays I can fully appreciate your tale - more please!!
We have been over the Gottard pass, the St Berdino pass and the Frejus pass - forget the tunnels!
I would recommend this to anyone with a good car - it is a huge part of the holiday for me.
Cool thread.
I think I saw your car parked up in Brescia. (The Parking garage under main square) We were there with our 1971 Alfa Giulia.
Funnily enough we drove to Lake Como on Thursday evening. Lucky for me the weather was a lot nicer on Friday as my Mrs. would've killed me otherwise.
I think I saw your car parked up in Brescia. (The Parking garage under main square) We were there with our 1971 Alfa Giulia.
Funnily enough we drove to Lake Como on Thursday evening. Lucky for me the weather was a lot nicer on Friday as my Mrs. would've killed me otherwise.
Only a year or so since I last updated the thread! I have managed to write up parts three and four this year. Sorry for tardy responses, chaps!
Part 3.
Friday dawns clear once more and we’re back on the road. We have a leisurely four-hour drive south to Florence and we’ve planned a number of diversions to add some spice to an otherwise fairly uninspiring journey. It’s somewhat troubling to leave Lake Como behind; not due to its otherworldly beauty – though that is undeniable – but because the Concorso d'Eleganza Villa d'Este is taking place mere kilometres from our base. Mercifully, scruffs like us are not permitted entry until Saturday but the presence of special cars in the vicinity, yet just out of reach, is traumatic.
Given the mania around the MotoGP at Mugello, we elect to avoid the legendary Futa and Raticosa passes this time and instead head to the epicentre of the Italian supercar industry: Modena. Those legendary roads can wait until next time.
Our first stop is Sant Agata and the Lamborghini museum. The local roads offer their fair share of interesting machinery and we spot an undisguised Maserati Levante out testing. We never seem to be far from an old Porsche or a 90s Ferrari. The countryside is agricultural and lacking much character or visual stimulation: it’s not unpleasant but it’s slightly barren and rather flat.
We almost totally fail to explore Sant Agata, stumbling upon the Lamborghini factory almost immediately and electing not to proceed any further. Our brief glimpse suggests an anonymous industrial town, yet one which is home to one of history’s most emotive car makers.
The factory is modest but stylish and doesn’t seem huge, but then this is still boutique manufacturing; Audi may own the company but the parent company is producing models on an altogether different scale. The museum has recently been refurbished and is small but fascinating. Spread over two floors, most of the company’s production models are represented, alongside examples of some of the most exceptional prototypes and low-volume specials.
The place is pretty bustling for a Friday lunchtime – apparently Mille Miglia week brings with it a steady stream of customers. That is reflected in the car park which bulges with British –registered 911s, as well as a recent Lotus Exige and gorgeous Ferrari F355. We make sure to leave our little Mille Miglia flag on the rear shelf – just in case anyone should doubt our credentials. Well, it is a water-cooled 911, after all.
The opening exhibit in the museum is an example of the hulking LM002 – the V12 monster which found favour among the dunes of the Emirates. It remains a most pugnacious-looking device – utterly belligerent in its expression and wilfully ugly. In this age of stretched Hummers advertising strip joints in every provincial UK town, one might expect the LM002’s visual impact to have reduced with time. Not a bit of it: it remains defiantly horrid.
Elsewhere, the lunacy of Lamborghini’s recent design direction is laid bare. The Sesto Elemento appears tiny for a V10-powered supercar; the Venano takes that design language into hyperspace and the Urus points towards an SUV future. By comparison the vast Estoque four-door saloon appears positively elegant and remarkably discrete. To these eyes, it’s the most coherent effort of the last few years and a useful riposte to the smooth-but-conventional Tesla which serves as the Lamborghini’s ultimate counterpoint.
Best of all, though, are the greats from the marque’s past. The Miura SV and LP400 ‘Periscopo’ Countach stand out for their exquisite detailing and perfect proportions. Both cars look small, delicate, lithe and remarkably modest when compared to Lamborghini’s brash contemporary offerings. The Countach in particular, those crazy 80s wings and flares not yet imagined, is a thing of absolute wonder. One cannot imagine what it must’ve been like to see – and of course hear – Bob Wallace howling around the Modenese flatlands aboard a Perisopo during the early 1970s.
In spite of its wonderful museum, Sant Agata is pretty low-key and doesn’t imbue one with any sense of great history. We need to find the region’s soul.
Several years ago, I was told of a museum hidden in an obscure corner of the countryside which belonged to a chap who was big in football stickers. During the pre-internet age, apparently finding the place was the devil’s own work but in 2016, we simply typed it into Waze on my iPhone and were directed to the gates. While the romance of getting lost amid the Italian countryside may have been absent, we were guaranteed maximum car-worshiping time.
The Collezione Umberto Panini is a staggering private collection situated on a cheese farm (called Hombre) belonging to the Panini family. While Umberto himself passed away in 2013, his family has retained his cars, housed in an outbuilding on the farm, bereft of fanfare but oozing soul. Bingo!
The farm’s concrete access roads are awash with more sports cars as the Mille Miglia followers are evidently treading the same path as us. Entry to the collection is gratis and guests are left mercifully free of officious stewarding – you are permitted to wander and explore to your heart’s content. It’s gutting to see that some nefarious oaf has stolen one car’s bonnet mascot but that hasn’t dissuaded the custodians from allowing their guests proper access to what must rank as the world’s most important collections of Maseratis.
The bulk of the collection lives on the tiled ground floor, with an attractive wrought iron mezzanine wrapped around three sides above. There is more fenestration than one might expect, given the museum’s slightly prosaic location, and the sun is high in the sky which helps to show off the various automotive shapes to their best effect.
The bulk of the museum comprises Maseratis; and they’re all top-drawer, collector-grade cars. Umberto Panini was a staunch supporter of Modena and he ‘rescued’ many of these cars directly from Maserati itself, when it hit troubled times and was forced to sell its private collection. Supposedly Panini paid over the odds but he deemed it a worthy sacrifice to keep the cars in the Modena area.
While there is an attractive selection of road cars, the racing machinery is of greatest interest. Absolute highlight of them all is the Eldorado Special. This unique <em>monoposto</em> was created for Stirling Moss to drive in the Monza Race of Two Worlds, loosely based on the 250F but featuring wilder bodywork, complete with vertical fin behind the driver’s head. Up front, the delicate straight-six was replaced by a big eight cylinder lump, with the vast white body decorated – in a fashion unheard of in Europe at the time – with sponsorship from the Eldorado ice cream company. While liveried specials were big news in the US by the mid-50s, this was cutting edge stuff in continental Europe, still pulling itself out of the Second World War.
It would be futile to list every car but the imposing 6C 34 monoposto leaves a lasting impression, as does the shrink wrapped and indescribably pretty A6G CS/53 sports car. There are multiple Birdcage sports racers and, naturally, a 250F – though this one features a V12. It’s a wonderful selection of extremely special cars and presented in a low-key fashion which brings to mind the sadly disbanded Maranello Rosso at San Marino.
With Maranello in mind, it’s time to continue a little further south – and to the home of Ferrari. I don’t mind admitting bias here: I adore Ferrari; I have done since I was three years old. I worshipped the red cars growing up and the Enzo era of the company still fascinates me. This is my third visit to Maranello and I would defy any red-blooded enthusiast not to get goosebumps as they enter the town. It may occasionally stray almost into Disney territory as a brand but stand outside the factory gates and try to keep the lump from your throat.
Our initial target is the Ristorante Cavallino, directly opposite the famous factory gates. Last time I was here I spotted Luca Badoer prowling the streets. Sadly the Cavallino is closed but you can’t go anywhere in Italy without finding pasta or pizza pretty easily and we’re soon settled nearby with a view of Via Abetone Inferiore, Fiorano just behind us.
There’s a constant drip feed of Ferraris gurgling along in first gear: one third rentals; one third factory cars and the final third awe-struck tourists bringing their cars home in pilgrimage. An Alfa Giulia creeps past quietly, looking production ready and pretty good for a four-door saloon. While we’re lounging in the sun with a coffee, the factory has obviously just swapped shifts as swathes of workers emerge, all proudly wearing their Ferrari polo shirts, complete with Velcro patch on the chest for their name tags; a Ferrari constant for years.
Things take a turn for the bizarre when Mrs Motorcardiaries is invited into the restaurant and proffered an apron to wear. She is asked to stand under a large Ferrari shield and pose for photos. The proprietor is very excited by this – and our presence generally – and proves to be an extremely gracious host. We don’t know whether this is simply because he has just sold us a 20 Euro bottle of balsamic vinegar and is starting to experience a mix of guilt and smugness. Either way, Mrs Motorcardiaries looks smashing in the apron.
Conscious of the time and our impending arrival into rush hour Firenze, we explore briefly on foot, the highlight being a workshop awash with Ferraris old and young. One might easily breeze straight past without noticing Toni Auto but a 250 SWB hiding under a cover at the entrance piques my interest. There’s some serious metal in there and I nose around as unobtrusively as I can. Here is Maranello’s soul. Forget the glossy Galleria and the Californias doing laps in first gear: the passion of craftsmen tending to Colombo V12s has long been, and shall remain, the beating heart of this amazing town.
Links:
https://www.lamborghini.com/en-en/experience/museu...
http://www.paninimotormuseum.it/index.php?lang=2&q...
http://www.toniauto.it/en/
Part 3.
Friday dawns clear once more and we’re back on the road. We have a leisurely four-hour drive south to Florence and we’ve planned a number of diversions to add some spice to an otherwise fairly uninspiring journey. It’s somewhat troubling to leave Lake Como behind; not due to its otherworldly beauty – though that is undeniable – but because the Concorso d'Eleganza Villa d'Este is taking place mere kilometres from our base. Mercifully, scruffs like us are not permitted entry until Saturday but the presence of special cars in the vicinity, yet just out of reach, is traumatic.
Given the mania around the MotoGP at Mugello, we elect to avoid the legendary Futa and Raticosa passes this time and instead head to the epicentre of the Italian supercar industry: Modena. Those legendary roads can wait until next time.
Our first stop is Sant Agata and the Lamborghini museum. The local roads offer their fair share of interesting machinery and we spot an undisguised Maserati Levante out testing. We never seem to be far from an old Porsche or a 90s Ferrari. The countryside is agricultural and lacking much character or visual stimulation: it’s not unpleasant but it’s slightly barren and rather flat.
We almost totally fail to explore Sant Agata, stumbling upon the Lamborghini factory almost immediately and electing not to proceed any further. Our brief glimpse suggests an anonymous industrial town, yet one which is home to one of history’s most emotive car makers.
The factory is modest but stylish and doesn’t seem huge, but then this is still boutique manufacturing; Audi may own the company but the parent company is producing models on an altogether different scale. The museum has recently been refurbished and is small but fascinating. Spread over two floors, most of the company’s production models are represented, alongside examples of some of the most exceptional prototypes and low-volume specials.
The place is pretty bustling for a Friday lunchtime – apparently Mille Miglia week brings with it a steady stream of customers. That is reflected in the car park which bulges with British –registered 911s, as well as a recent Lotus Exige and gorgeous Ferrari F355. We make sure to leave our little Mille Miglia flag on the rear shelf – just in case anyone should doubt our credentials. Well, it is a water-cooled 911, after all.
The opening exhibit in the museum is an example of the hulking LM002 – the V12 monster which found favour among the dunes of the Emirates. It remains a most pugnacious-looking device – utterly belligerent in its expression and wilfully ugly. In this age of stretched Hummers advertising strip joints in every provincial UK town, one might expect the LM002’s visual impact to have reduced with time. Not a bit of it: it remains defiantly horrid.
Elsewhere, the lunacy of Lamborghini’s recent design direction is laid bare. The Sesto Elemento appears tiny for a V10-powered supercar; the Venano takes that design language into hyperspace and the Urus points towards an SUV future. By comparison the vast Estoque four-door saloon appears positively elegant and remarkably discrete. To these eyes, it’s the most coherent effort of the last few years and a useful riposte to the smooth-but-conventional Tesla which serves as the Lamborghini’s ultimate counterpoint.
Best of all, though, are the greats from the marque’s past. The Miura SV and LP400 ‘Periscopo’ Countach stand out for their exquisite detailing and perfect proportions. Both cars look small, delicate, lithe and remarkably modest when compared to Lamborghini’s brash contemporary offerings. The Countach in particular, those crazy 80s wings and flares not yet imagined, is a thing of absolute wonder. One cannot imagine what it must’ve been like to see – and of course hear – Bob Wallace howling around the Modenese flatlands aboard a Perisopo during the early 1970s.
In spite of its wonderful museum, Sant Agata is pretty low-key and doesn’t imbue one with any sense of great history. We need to find the region’s soul.
Several years ago, I was told of a museum hidden in an obscure corner of the countryside which belonged to a chap who was big in football stickers. During the pre-internet age, apparently finding the place was the devil’s own work but in 2016, we simply typed it into Waze on my iPhone and were directed to the gates. While the romance of getting lost amid the Italian countryside may have been absent, we were guaranteed maximum car-worshiping time.
The Collezione Umberto Panini is a staggering private collection situated on a cheese farm (called Hombre) belonging to the Panini family. While Umberto himself passed away in 2013, his family has retained his cars, housed in an outbuilding on the farm, bereft of fanfare but oozing soul. Bingo!
The farm’s concrete access roads are awash with more sports cars as the Mille Miglia followers are evidently treading the same path as us. Entry to the collection is gratis and guests are left mercifully free of officious stewarding – you are permitted to wander and explore to your heart’s content. It’s gutting to see that some nefarious oaf has stolen one car’s bonnet mascot but that hasn’t dissuaded the custodians from allowing their guests proper access to what must rank as the world’s most important collections of Maseratis.
The bulk of the collection lives on the tiled ground floor, with an attractive wrought iron mezzanine wrapped around three sides above. There is more fenestration than one might expect, given the museum’s slightly prosaic location, and the sun is high in the sky which helps to show off the various automotive shapes to their best effect.
The bulk of the museum comprises Maseratis; and they’re all top-drawer, collector-grade cars. Umberto Panini was a staunch supporter of Modena and he ‘rescued’ many of these cars directly from Maserati itself, when it hit troubled times and was forced to sell its private collection. Supposedly Panini paid over the odds but he deemed it a worthy sacrifice to keep the cars in the Modena area.
While there is an attractive selection of road cars, the racing machinery is of greatest interest. Absolute highlight of them all is the Eldorado Special. This unique <em>monoposto</em> was created for Stirling Moss to drive in the Monza Race of Two Worlds, loosely based on the 250F but featuring wilder bodywork, complete with vertical fin behind the driver’s head. Up front, the delicate straight-six was replaced by a big eight cylinder lump, with the vast white body decorated – in a fashion unheard of in Europe at the time – with sponsorship from the Eldorado ice cream company. While liveried specials were big news in the US by the mid-50s, this was cutting edge stuff in continental Europe, still pulling itself out of the Second World War.
It would be futile to list every car but the imposing 6C 34 monoposto leaves a lasting impression, as does the shrink wrapped and indescribably pretty A6G CS/53 sports car. There are multiple Birdcage sports racers and, naturally, a 250F – though this one features a V12. It’s a wonderful selection of extremely special cars and presented in a low-key fashion which brings to mind the sadly disbanded Maranello Rosso at San Marino.
With Maranello in mind, it’s time to continue a little further south – and to the home of Ferrari. I don’t mind admitting bias here: I adore Ferrari; I have done since I was three years old. I worshipped the red cars growing up and the Enzo era of the company still fascinates me. This is my third visit to Maranello and I would defy any red-blooded enthusiast not to get goosebumps as they enter the town. It may occasionally stray almost into Disney territory as a brand but stand outside the factory gates and try to keep the lump from your throat.
Our initial target is the Ristorante Cavallino, directly opposite the famous factory gates. Last time I was here I spotted Luca Badoer prowling the streets. Sadly the Cavallino is closed but you can’t go anywhere in Italy without finding pasta or pizza pretty easily and we’re soon settled nearby with a view of Via Abetone Inferiore, Fiorano just behind us.
There’s a constant drip feed of Ferraris gurgling along in first gear: one third rentals; one third factory cars and the final third awe-struck tourists bringing their cars home in pilgrimage. An Alfa Giulia creeps past quietly, looking production ready and pretty good for a four-door saloon. While we’re lounging in the sun with a coffee, the factory has obviously just swapped shifts as swathes of workers emerge, all proudly wearing their Ferrari polo shirts, complete with Velcro patch on the chest for their name tags; a Ferrari constant for years.
Things take a turn for the bizarre when Mrs Motorcardiaries is invited into the restaurant and proffered an apron to wear. She is asked to stand under a large Ferrari shield and pose for photos. The proprietor is very excited by this – and our presence generally – and proves to be an extremely gracious host. We don’t know whether this is simply because he has just sold us a 20 Euro bottle of balsamic vinegar and is starting to experience a mix of guilt and smugness. Either way, Mrs Motorcardiaries looks smashing in the apron.
Conscious of the time and our impending arrival into rush hour Firenze, we explore briefly on foot, the highlight being a workshop awash with Ferraris old and young. One might easily breeze straight past without noticing Toni Auto but a 250 SWB hiding under a cover at the entrance piques my interest. There’s some serious metal in there and I nose around as unobtrusively as I can. Here is Maranello’s soul. Forget the glossy Galleria and the Californias doing laps in first gear: the passion of craftsmen tending to Colombo V12s has long been, and shall remain, the beating heart of this amazing town.
Links:
https://www.lamborghini.com/en-en/experience/museu...
http://www.paninimotormuseum.it/index.php?lang=2&q...
http://www.toniauto.it/en/
Part 4.
We hit Florence at rush hour. Doing so as a passenger in my new and rather precious motor doesn’t do much to relax me. Mercifully, after many navigational errors (mine), honked horns (the Florentines’) and a couple of aggressive launches from the traffic lights (Mrs Motorcardiaries’), we finally find ourselves at Hotel Royal. This Fawlty Towers-esque establishment suffers from awkward access, ambivalent staff and a sense of rapidly fading grandeur. Still, there’s a sizeable car park and we’re five minutes’ walk from the bustle of central Firenze.
Saturday involves a typically antisocial race meeting start but a coach transfer to Mugello is welcome and we arrive with the dew still on the ground and the residents slowly awakening from the previous day’s indulgences. This being Italy, we have barely stepped over the threshold before we are able to purchase a top-notch espresso to reanimate dulled synapses.
This place has an atmosphere all of its own. The old sprawling road course has long since given way to a purpose-built circuit but it floats unobtrusively through a beautiful valley, seeming only to change direction at the behest of the terrain. While it may look ridden by chicanes on plan, each of these flik-flaks is in fact a seriously quick sequence, creating a wonderful flow over the full lap.
The grace of the circuit, and its location, juxtaposes spectacularly with a crowd which must rank as the most riotous anywhere in the world. Perhaps the Talladega infield during the 1970s was more hedonistic – and certainly Bathurst in the 80s more menacing – but the sheer lunacy of the spectators is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before.
It starts with the accommodation. Forget the carefully organised campsites you might find at so many circuits; instead you simply deposit your tent / camper van / car / whatever on whichever piece of grass is available. Don’t worry if it’s a steep bank – you’ll be so smashed by the time you get to bed that it won’t matter. The entire site is littered with makeshift beds, many with commanding views of the track itself. It’s certainly democratic if nothing else.
As the sun bakes off the morning dew and the gentle mists clear, the crowd awakens and the madness begins. Motorcycles and ridiculous vehicles bomb around the site access roads at speeds befitting the competitors in the motorcycle grand prix themselves. Often there are many folk to a single contraption – my personal favourite being the two maniacs piloting a motorised wheelbarrow.
As if this frenetic activity isn’t enough to keep you on your toes, then there’s the noise…the aural backdrop to Mugello is the chainsaw. Committed enthusiasts remove the blades then add megaphone exhausts to create highly obnoxious, but ultimately harmless, buzz boxes. Some creative souls have also strapped engines to frames which they periodically start up and rev to oblivion. Set to full rich, these Mad Max motors belch vast tracts of flame, set to a suitably apocalyptic soundtrack.
We follow the course anti-clockwise from the main entrance, at the site’s highest point – reached through its famous archway. It is a magnificent place, with varied and spectacular views from atop steep banks. In among all the mania, it’s comforting to find a food vendor carefully slicing microscopic slivers of the finest <em>prosciutto</em>. Just like the old boys I once saw enjoying a sit-down dinner at the trackside at Monza (replete with tablecloth and bottle of red served in goblets); the Italians can’t help taking their comestibles extremely seriously.
Of course, Mugello is Valentino Rossi’s land. The home fans are devoted to one man, and one man only. His signature yellow merchandise is everywhere. It’s impossible not to get swept up in the spirit of things so naturally I purchase a peerlessly gaudy cap to ingratiate myself with the partisan crowd. Looking like a bona fide Rossi fan, we stroll among the crowds almost incognito – only our pasty skin and lack of chainsaw betraying our Yorkshire roots.
There are DJs playing house music at an ungodly volume and a section of the site is designated ‘Tavullia’, Vale’s home town. We daren’t step into Tavullia but it looks, erm, boisterous. Elsewhere, there is evidence that the antics which decided the 2015 title battle (in the favour of Rossi’s team mate, Jorge Lorenzo) haven’t been forgiven and there are occasional abusive posters. Beware if you’re a Spanish interloper…
Practice has been running throughout the morning and the circuit offers great spectating, if not great photographic opportunities. The long, flowing corners allow the riders to really express themselves. Turn one is a great spot as the motorcycles are forced to shed over 100mph in the braking zone. The riders in the top class are knocking on the door of 220mph with a tow – absolutely bewildering to behold at close quarters. Even the second tier Moto2 ‘bikes are hitting well over 180mph. The big stop into turn one naturally catches out many of the riders but there’s plenty of Tarmac run-off to catch most mistakes.
We hit our grandstand for qualifying and get the full atmosphere for the build-up to Saturday’s main event. We are on the outfield, above the left-right of Borgo San Lorenzo, with a great view of both track and big screen. Just to our right is the so-called Rossi Hill, where the great Italian’s fan club occupies a couple of acres of prime real estate. Woe betide anyone striding in there without the requisite yellow merch.
The big news emerging from the session is that the local hero has done it – Rossi has stolen pole! Twenty years into his grand prix career and once more he proves himself the fastest man in the world. The place erupts: claxons sound, yellow smoke fills the air and the crowds (vocally) salute their hero. We barely note the rest of the order; such is the furore surrounding the pole sitter. This is an extremely special moment – and I’d defy any motorsport lover not to get goosebumps at the emotion on display.
The coach ride back to Florence takes us along some fabulous, winding roads and for twenty glorious minutes, we find ourselves with the entire Mille Miglia field running towards us on the opposite side of the road. In fact, at times it’s running towards us on the same side of the road but gung ho overtaking is what this country is all about.
As if this divine serendipity isn’t joyful enough, the section of the expansive field into which we have bumped includes many of the cars we had missed earlier in the week at Valeggio sul Mincio. Be still my beating heart!
At first, a Mercedes-Benz 300SL ‘Gullwing’ is a treat but after a dozen or more have past, I’m yearning for something else. The amazing incongruity of open-topped Maserati, Ferrari and Porsche sports racers among the regular traffic never loses its buzz. A 250S out on the open roads looks heaven-sent. It’s a magical moment and such a welcome surprise.
Race day delivers another glorious morning in the Tuscan hills. There are dense queues to get in but Rossi’s pole has added a frisson of extra excitement to proceedings – as if it were needed.
Moto3 kicks off proceedings and it’s a demonic battle from beginning to end. So close are the manufacturers and riders that virtually the entire field runs as one. At one stage I count 24 riders in the leading group though it doubtless exceeds that at times. It’s actually impossible to follow with any kind of accuracy as the buzzy juniors swarm every available inch of the track in a fast-circulating pack.
The commentary is as lively and impassioned as you would hope for, given the context of the event. The one constant is South African Brad Binder (“BINDER! BINDER! BINDER!” as he is billed by the energetic commentator) who plays it perfectly to win by less than a tenth of a second. In fact, the top 20 is covered by less than five seconds after almost 40 minutes of racing. It’s a properly breathless start to the day and a real credit to the pups aboard the junior ‘bikes – their judgement and spatial awareness in the heat of battle is remarkable. I’m left to rue the lack of similar discipline from their equivalents on four wheels.
Moto2 is similarly entertaining, with an Italian in with a genuine shout of a win. Lorenzo Baldassarri goes toe-to-toe with reigning champ Johann Zarco from across the border in France. Our wonderful commentators can’t control their excitement as Baldassarri looks set for the win before being pipped by Zarco right at the last. It’s nail-biting stuff but Zarco earned his win good and proper – the guy is a proper fighter and his performances in the top class in 2017 come as no surprise given his imperious form in Moto2.
The crowd is rowdy, with more claxons and more yellow smoke sitting atop the spectator banks. The atmosphere is electric – full of nervous excitement and tension. Surely, with local hearts broken by Baldassarri’s defeat in the support race, this is Valentino Rossi’s race? Not off the line. Team mate Lorenzo puts in the start of his life to bely his (relatively) poor qualifying performance. Lorenzo suffered a terminal engine failure in the morning warm-up and really hasn’t looked a factor all weekend but he’s bristling for the fight on Rossi’s home turf.
The two Yamaha protagonists commence battle, with Marquez hassling Aleix Espargaro immediately behind. Then disaster! On the far side of the circuit, Rossi’s Yamaha motor has exploded in a cloud of white smoke. He will take no further part in proceedings. Local hopes dashed. The atmosphere darkens. In spite of the baking heat and brilliant sun, the vibes are fractious and many punters leave in disgust. Such is their disdain for Marquez and Lorenzo; they’ve no interest in watching these titans go to war.
It’s a really even fight with neither rider holding a decisive advantage. Lorenzo is at his towering best – it’s easy to forget just how good he can be. He snatches the win with a masterful tow out of the final corner of the last lap. No DRS ‘pass flaps’ here, thank you – he simply gets the power down to better effect than his rival and drafts past him at 210mph. Proper stuff from proper riders – Valentino Rossi might be the favoured son but Mugello produced one of the great races of recent times and perhaps the retirement of the king added a theatrical element to proceedings which might otherwise have been lacking.
And so we’re left to reflect on a truly dramatic weekend – a roller coaster of emotions played out at a roller coaster of a circuit. Mugello is just the most stunning facility and certainly among the most picturesque I’ve ever visited. The Rossi factor creates an atmosphere like no other. It simply must be experienced once in a lifetime, though the petulance on display after Rossi’s retirement leaves a slightly bitter taste. He may transcend the sport but he shouldn’t define it.
We find a little time to explore Florence and savour its culinary speciality: bistecca alla Fiorentina. This is a huge slab of seasoned beef, served on the bone and cooked perhaps only momentarily. It’s divine. There are a thousand guide books which might better describe the wonder of Florence but it’s a beautiful city packed full of beautiful people and its proximity to Mugello offers the perfect excuse to explore. Its restrained elegance serves to offer a balanced counterpoint to the lunacy of Mugello on a race weekend.
We hit Florence at rush hour. Doing so as a passenger in my new and rather precious motor doesn’t do much to relax me. Mercifully, after many navigational errors (mine), honked horns (the Florentines’) and a couple of aggressive launches from the traffic lights (Mrs Motorcardiaries’), we finally find ourselves at Hotel Royal. This Fawlty Towers-esque establishment suffers from awkward access, ambivalent staff and a sense of rapidly fading grandeur. Still, there’s a sizeable car park and we’re five minutes’ walk from the bustle of central Firenze.
Saturday involves a typically antisocial race meeting start but a coach transfer to Mugello is welcome and we arrive with the dew still on the ground and the residents slowly awakening from the previous day’s indulgences. This being Italy, we have barely stepped over the threshold before we are able to purchase a top-notch espresso to reanimate dulled synapses.
This place has an atmosphere all of its own. The old sprawling road course has long since given way to a purpose-built circuit but it floats unobtrusively through a beautiful valley, seeming only to change direction at the behest of the terrain. While it may look ridden by chicanes on plan, each of these flik-flaks is in fact a seriously quick sequence, creating a wonderful flow over the full lap.
The grace of the circuit, and its location, juxtaposes spectacularly with a crowd which must rank as the most riotous anywhere in the world. Perhaps the Talladega infield during the 1970s was more hedonistic – and certainly Bathurst in the 80s more menacing – but the sheer lunacy of the spectators is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before.
It starts with the accommodation. Forget the carefully organised campsites you might find at so many circuits; instead you simply deposit your tent / camper van / car / whatever on whichever piece of grass is available. Don’t worry if it’s a steep bank – you’ll be so smashed by the time you get to bed that it won’t matter. The entire site is littered with makeshift beds, many with commanding views of the track itself. It’s certainly democratic if nothing else.
As the sun bakes off the morning dew and the gentle mists clear, the crowd awakens and the madness begins. Motorcycles and ridiculous vehicles bomb around the site access roads at speeds befitting the competitors in the motorcycle grand prix themselves. Often there are many folk to a single contraption – my personal favourite being the two maniacs piloting a motorised wheelbarrow.
As if this frenetic activity isn’t enough to keep you on your toes, then there’s the noise…the aural backdrop to Mugello is the chainsaw. Committed enthusiasts remove the blades then add megaphone exhausts to create highly obnoxious, but ultimately harmless, buzz boxes. Some creative souls have also strapped engines to frames which they periodically start up and rev to oblivion. Set to full rich, these Mad Max motors belch vast tracts of flame, set to a suitably apocalyptic soundtrack.
We follow the course anti-clockwise from the main entrance, at the site’s highest point – reached through its famous archway. It is a magnificent place, with varied and spectacular views from atop steep banks. In among all the mania, it’s comforting to find a food vendor carefully slicing microscopic slivers of the finest <em>prosciutto</em>. Just like the old boys I once saw enjoying a sit-down dinner at the trackside at Monza (replete with tablecloth and bottle of red served in goblets); the Italians can’t help taking their comestibles extremely seriously.
Of course, Mugello is Valentino Rossi’s land. The home fans are devoted to one man, and one man only. His signature yellow merchandise is everywhere. It’s impossible not to get swept up in the spirit of things so naturally I purchase a peerlessly gaudy cap to ingratiate myself with the partisan crowd. Looking like a bona fide Rossi fan, we stroll among the crowds almost incognito – only our pasty skin and lack of chainsaw betraying our Yorkshire roots.
There are DJs playing house music at an ungodly volume and a section of the site is designated ‘Tavullia’, Vale’s home town. We daren’t step into Tavullia but it looks, erm, boisterous. Elsewhere, there is evidence that the antics which decided the 2015 title battle (in the favour of Rossi’s team mate, Jorge Lorenzo) haven’t been forgiven and there are occasional abusive posters. Beware if you’re a Spanish interloper…
Practice has been running throughout the morning and the circuit offers great spectating, if not great photographic opportunities. The long, flowing corners allow the riders to really express themselves. Turn one is a great spot as the motorcycles are forced to shed over 100mph in the braking zone. The riders in the top class are knocking on the door of 220mph with a tow – absolutely bewildering to behold at close quarters. Even the second tier Moto2 ‘bikes are hitting well over 180mph. The big stop into turn one naturally catches out many of the riders but there’s plenty of Tarmac run-off to catch most mistakes.
We hit our grandstand for qualifying and get the full atmosphere for the build-up to Saturday’s main event. We are on the outfield, above the left-right of Borgo San Lorenzo, with a great view of both track and big screen. Just to our right is the so-called Rossi Hill, where the great Italian’s fan club occupies a couple of acres of prime real estate. Woe betide anyone striding in there without the requisite yellow merch.
The big news emerging from the session is that the local hero has done it – Rossi has stolen pole! Twenty years into his grand prix career and once more he proves himself the fastest man in the world. The place erupts: claxons sound, yellow smoke fills the air and the crowds (vocally) salute their hero. We barely note the rest of the order; such is the furore surrounding the pole sitter. This is an extremely special moment – and I’d defy any motorsport lover not to get goosebumps at the emotion on display.
The coach ride back to Florence takes us along some fabulous, winding roads and for twenty glorious minutes, we find ourselves with the entire Mille Miglia field running towards us on the opposite side of the road. In fact, at times it’s running towards us on the same side of the road but gung ho overtaking is what this country is all about.
As if this divine serendipity isn’t joyful enough, the section of the expansive field into which we have bumped includes many of the cars we had missed earlier in the week at Valeggio sul Mincio. Be still my beating heart!
At first, a Mercedes-Benz 300SL ‘Gullwing’ is a treat but after a dozen or more have past, I’m yearning for something else. The amazing incongruity of open-topped Maserati, Ferrari and Porsche sports racers among the regular traffic never loses its buzz. A 250S out on the open roads looks heaven-sent. It’s a magical moment and such a welcome surprise.
Race day delivers another glorious morning in the Tuscan hills. There are dense queues to get in but Rossi’s pole has added a frisson of extra excitement to proceedings – as if it were needed.
Moto3 kicks off proceedings and it’s a demonic battle from beginning to end. So close are the manufacturers and riders that virtually the entire field runs as one. At one stage I count 24 riders in the leading group though it doubtless exceeds that at times. It’s actually impossible to follow with any kind of accuracy as the buzzy juniors swarm every available inch of the track in a fast-circulating pack.
The commentary is as lively and impassioned as you would hope for, given the context of the event. The one constant is South African Brad Binder (“BINDER! BINDER! BINDER!” as he is billed by the energetic commentator) who plays it perfectly to win by less than a tenth of a second. In fact, the top 20 is covered by less than five seconds after almost 40 minutes of racing. It’s a properly breathless start to the day and a real credit to the pups aboard the junior ‘bikes – their judgement and spatial awareness in the heat of battle is remarkable. I’m left to rue the lack of similar discipline from their equivalents on four wheels.
Moto2 is similarly entertaining, with an Italian in with a genuine shout of a win. Lorenzo Baldassarri goes toe-to-toe with reigning champ Johann Zarco from across the border in France. Our wonderful commentators can’t control their excitement as Baldassarri looks set for the win before being pipped by Zarco right at the last. It’s nail-biting stuff but Zarco earned his win good and proper – the guy is a proper fighter and his performances in the top class in 2017 come as no surprise given his imperious form in Moto2.
The crowd is rowdy, with more claxons and more yellow smoke sitting atop the spectator banks. The atmosphere is electric – full of nervous excitement and tension. Surely, with local hearts broken by Baldassarri’s defeat in the support race, this is Valentino Rossi’s race? Not off the line. Team mate Lorenzo puts in the start of his life to bely his (relatively) poor qualifying performance. Lorenzo suffered a terminal engine failure in the morning warm-up and really hasn’t looked a factor all weekend but he’s bristling for the fight on Rossi’s home turf.
The two Yamaha protagonists commence battle, with Marquez hassling Aleix Espargaro immediately behind. Then disaster! On the far side of the circuit, Rossi’s Yamaha motor has exploded in a cloud of white smoke. He will take no further part in proceedings. Local hopes dashed. The atmosphere darkens. In spite of the baking heat and brilliant sun, the vibes are fractious and many punters leave in disgust. Such is their disdain for Marquez and Lorenzo; they’ve no interest in watching these titans go to war.
It’s a really even fight with neither rider holding a decisive advantage. Lorenzo is at his towering best – it’s easy to forget just how good he can be. He snatches the win with a masterful tow out of the final corner of the last lap. No DRS ‘pass flaps’ here, thank you – he simply gets the power down to better effect than his rival and drafts past him at 210mph. Proper stuff from proper riders – Valentino Rossi might be the favoured son but Mugello produced one of the great races of recent times and perhaps the retirement of the king added a theatrical element to proceedings which might otherwise have been lacking.
And so we’re left to reflect on a truly dramatic weekend – a roller coaster of emotions played out at a roller coaster of a circuit. Mugello is just the most stunning facility and certainly among the most picturesque I’ve ever visited. The Rossi factor creates an atmosphere like no other. It simply must be experienced once in a lifetime, though the petulance on display after Rossi’s retirement leaves a slightly bitter taste. He may transcend the sport but he shouldn’t define it.
We find a little time to explore Florence and savour its culinary speciality: bistecca alla Fiorentina. This is a huge slab of seasoned beef, served on the bone and cooked perhaps only momentarily. It’s divine. There are a thousand guide books which might better describe the wonder of Florence but it’s a beautiful city packed full of beautiful people and its proximity to Mugello offers the perfect excuse to explore. Its restrained elegance serves to offer a balanced counterpoint to the lunacy of Mugello on a race weekend.
Nice write up.
I did some of this last year too ,the Mille Miglia, Mugello GP ,and Sant Agata,which as a town is a dump so spending any time
there aside from Lamborghini is pointless.
I also went to the Panini collection in, I think it was 2008.
I watched the MM cars leaving Brescia on Thursday when the weather was quite wet and then travelled a little south from my
base near Lucca to see them coming north again ,thankfully in much better weather.
I did some of this last year too ,the Mille Miglia, Mugello GP ,and Sant Agata,which as a town is a dump so spending any time
there aside from Lamborghini is pointless.
I also went to the Panini collection in, I think it was 2008.
I watched the MM cars leaving Brescia on Thursday when the weather was quite wet and then travelled a little south from my
base near Lucca to see them coming north again ,thankfully in much better weather.
lucido grigio said:
Nice write up.
I did some of this last year too ,the Mille Miglia, Mugello GP ,and Sant Agata,which as a town is a dump so spending any time
there aside from Lamborghini is pointless.
I also went to the Panini collection in, I think it was 2008.
I watched the MM cars leaving Brescia on Thursday when the weather was quite wet and then travelled a little south from my
base near Lucca to see them coming north again ,thankfully in much better weather.
Great minds think alike! We saw scores of people doing MM tours. Northern Italy was littered with sports cars from dozens of countries! I did some of this last year too ,the Mille Miglia, Mugello GP ,and Sant Agata,which as a town is a dump so spending any time
there aside from Lamborghini is pointless.
I also went to the Panini collection in, I think it was 2008.
I watched the MM cars leaving Brescia on Thursday when the weather was quite wet and then travelled a little south from my
base near Lucca to see them coming north again ,thankfully in much better weather.
K50 DEL said:
Brilliant write-up, thanks for that...
Given me a number of pointers for my trip next year that will take in some of the areas you visited.
Total pleasure. I've done similar trips to Monza and Graz in Austria - let me know if you want me to pass on the links to those trips as well. So many cool places to visit and roads to drive. Given me a number of pointers for my trip next year that will take in some of the areas you visited.
Have an amazing trip!
Those following this journey solely for the racing might do well to look away now, for the balance of our trip sees almost no competition activity.
From Florence, we head further south into Tuscany. We have a couple of nights booked in a gorgeous hilltop hotel about 15 minutes from San Giminiano. Amid a pretty breathless couple of weeks, this represents a chance to relax, catch up on our reading and take a dip in the pool. Our home is Poderi Arcangelo, a small, independent hotel hidden way up a track among the rolling Tuscan hills, surrounded by its own vineyards. This is a pretty spectacular location and feels extremely private. At least it does until we get chatting to a couple who live ten minutes from us in West Yorkshire. Sometimes the world is just too small…
The location is spectacular and nicely positioned for visits to San Giminiano, a UNESCO World Heritage Site of some repute. It is a typical Italian hilltop fortification, but blessed with unnaturally beautiful buildings surrounding a central piazza bustling with tourists. It’s remarkably well preserved and its modern renaissance as a tourist town has been strangely seamless with no cars allowed within the walls.
One morning, it’s a surprise to find the Porsche has managed to clone itself. Well, almost. A convertible 997 Turbo has joined us in the hotel garage (such as it is); this one LHD and hails from Germany. Quite apart from its numerous Porsches, the hotel also makes its own wine and olive oil, among other products. We stash a crate of red and a couple of litres of olive oil in the snout. While that rear engine might make for challenging handling characteristics, it does offer very useful luggage capacity.
As pleasant as Tuscany is – and it is very, very pleasant – we have a long drive to get back home and we have only a couple of overnight stays between us and Rotterdam, almost 1,000 miles away. Our first night is still in Italy – right on the apex of Italy, France and Switzerland at Aosta. As much French seems to be spoken here as Italian and it sits right in the foothills of the highest Alps – with the mighty Matterhorn looming in the distance.
For driving enthusiasts, the area is famous for the St Bernadino passes – Grande and Piccolo. Sadly, like so many of the high passes, both are closed at this time of year but our host for the evening is a car nerd of epic proportions and he joins me for a guide on some less well-known local roads. We drop the windows and enjoy a wonderful 45 minutes searing uphill between hairpins before dropping back down into town with a fraction more circumspection.
If Aosta endeared itself as a result of our genial host and the fine driving, we probably didn’t offer the town and surrounding area sufficient time. We resolve to return another time to visit the famous St Bernard dog kennels and to explore those mountain roads.
From Aosta, it’s a couple of hours north and back into Switzerland, where we are destined for Gruyères. We drone through the Mont Blanc tunnel in the company of an enthusiastic Brit in a Maserati and we occasionally trade blares of noise. Emerging on the Swiss side of the tunnel, we find superb driving. We haven’t contrived a route, preferring just to let Waze direct us and we end up on a wide, winding valley road for mile after mile.
We end up on the back of a queue of cars moving at slightly under the speed limit. Slightly cautious of the Swiss police’s reputation for Draconian speeding penalties, I elect not to attempt a banzai overtaking move. Suddenly I spy a shock of white hair in the mirror behind me. A lady deep into her 70s has arrived on my tail with tremendous speed. Her mount is a Peugeot 307 and she’s sitting inches from the steering wheel. Before I have time to clock any more detail, she’s dropped a cog and blasted past me; and the three cars in from of me. While approaching a hairpin. Bloody hell.
She makes off into the distance like Sebastian Loeb on the Col du Torini. Well, that just won’t do; I’m on a mountain road in a 911 Turbo and I’m not going to be burnt off by a granny in a shopping wagon. At the next available opportunity I dispatch the three cars in front of me and head after Madame. Unfortunately Madame is a madman and, in spite of a spirited pursuit, I don’t catch her until a village ten minutes later when she is slowed by other traffic. She soon performs another banzai overtake and is gone…never to be seen again.
Gruyères is a quite remarkable place. It sits cradled among mountains, high above vast, verdant plains. The centre of the village – for it feels too small to be called a town – is cobbled and does not welcome vehicles. We park a small way out of the village and walk up to be greeted by a totally unspoilt Swiss vision of quaint perfection.
While famous for its fabulous dairy products, this serene idyll was once the home of H R Giger – an artist with a gruesome vision of dystopia. Best-known for dreaming up the visuals for Alien, he created vast worlds of biomechanical hell. Today his legacy lives on with a museum stuffed full of original work and a remarkable bar sculpted as if it were leftover from Alien.
Gruyères is the most unlikely spot for ghoulish artistry but Giger’s work is fascinating – much of it recognisable from popular culture. among our favourite pieces is one of two original microphone stands Giger designed for Korn singer Jonathan Davies. This was a critical part of the band’s aesthetic when we were impressionable teenagers. Sadly no photos are allowed in the museum but it’s parts dark and sprawling and others light and lofty (quite literally because it spreads up to the loft).
Directly across the road is the bar and it’s an absolute treasure. The theme is all-encompassing, with the whole interior a mass of stylised spinal columns, skulls and biomechanical fantasy. It’s a nightmarish vision but beautifully executed. We stay long enough for Mrs Motorcardiaries to drink some absinthe; which naturally sends her utterly demented. We are almost run out of town after she earnestly tries to converse with some resident chickens. Mercifully we manage to score some locally-produced chocolates and high-tail it to Germany in a hurry. It’s such a charming place, though, and we determine to return for an overnight stay so we can sink a little more absinthe in the sinisterly silly H R Giger bar.
Our final destination is Heidelberg. Like Tubingen, this is a university town – and one with among the finest reputations in Germany. It’s also relatively unspoilt, with dramatic topography, an ancient castle and a proliferation of old buildings lining cobbled streets. It’s postcard-perfect realisation of an old German Rhine town – thought it’s not quite on the Rhine, but instead one of its tributaries.
We are staying high above the centre and use the last morning of our holiday to venture downtown. It’s a long, steep walk but we stop to examine the schloss – an historic castle which has suffered intermittently from preservation and neglect. At one time it was plundered for its stone to build dwellings elsewhere in the town. Our legs don’t thank us for the endless descent to the old town and the river Neckar but at least a funicular railway drags us back up to the car after a wander around the historic streets. It’s a fine and atmospheric town but perhaps not the ultimate tourist destination.
The rest of our day is simply a slog north on the autobahns, back into Holland and ultimately the ferry to Blighty. We encounter some truly biblical weather at one stage, bringing the whole autobahn down to a crawl. The rain is bouncing off the road, rivers forming within seconds. It’s scary.
We call at a service area for sustenance and find a TV showing F1 qualifying so we pause for half an hour and enjoy a bite to eat. As soon as the session finishes, the chap running in charge of the remote immediately switches over. He doesn’t want to miss the start of the Nürburgring 24 Hours. What a guy!
And then, with just a buttock-clenching few minutes as a passenger while Mrs Motorcardiaries samples unlimited autobahn running, we’re back on the ferry and another amazing trip is over. We’ve enjoyed a wonderful mix of roads, excursions, motor racing, sight-seeing and even some brief rest. It’s reaffirmed my belief that the road trip remains the best way to see the world – to meet the locals, find those little places off the beaten track and even make a few friends along the way. We immediately start to plot the next one…USA 2017.
From Florence, we head further south into Tuscany. We have a couple of nights booked in a gorgeous hilltop hotel about 15 minutes from San Giminiano. Amid a pretty breathless couple of weeks, this represents a chance to relax, catch up on our reading and take a dip in the pool. Our home is Poderi Arcangelo, a small, independent hotel hidden way up a track among the rolling Tuscan hills, surrounded by its own vineyards. This is a pretty spectacular location and feels extremely private. At least it does until we get chatting to a couple who live ten minutes from us in West Yorkshire. Sometimes the world is just too small…
The location is spectacular and nicely positioned for visits to San Giminiano, a UNESCO World Heritage Site of some repute. It is a typical Italian hilltop fortification, but blessed with unnaturally beautiful buildings surrounding a central piazza bustling with tourists. It’s remarkably well preserved and its modern renaissance as a tourist town has been strangely seamless with no cars allowed within the walls.
One morning, it’s a surprise to find the Porsche has managed to clone itself. Well, almost. A convertible 997 Turbo has joined us in the hotel garage (such as it is); this one LHD and hails from Germany. Quite apart from its numerous Porsches, the hotel also makes its own wine and olive oil, among other products. We stash a crate of red and a couple of litres of olive oil in the snout. While that rear engine might make for challenging handling characteristics, it does offer very useful luggage capacity.
As pleasant as Tuscany is – and it is very, very pleasant – we have a long drive to get back home and we have only a couple of overnight stays between us and Rotterdam, almost 1,000 miles away. Our first night is still in Italy – right on the apex of Italy, France and Switzerland at Aosta. As much French seems to be spoken here as Italian and it sits right in the foothills of the highest Alps – with the mighty Matterhorn looming in the distance.
For driving enthusiasts, the area is famous for the St Bernadino passes – Grande and Piccolo. Sadly, like so many of the high passes, both are closed at this time of year but our host for the evening is a car nerd of epic proportions and he joins me for a guide on some less well-known local roads. We drop the windows and enjoy a wonderful 45 minutes searing uphill between hairpins before dropping back down into town with a fraction more circumspection.
If Aosta endeared itself as a result of our genial host and the fine driving, we probably didn’t offer the town and surrounding area sufficient time. We resolve to return another time to visit the famous St Bernard dog kennels and to explore those mountain roads.
From Aosta, it’s a couple of hours north and back into Switzerland, where we are destined for Gruyères. We drone through the Mont Blanc tunnel in the company of an enthusiastic Brit in a Maserati and we occasionally trade blares of noise. Emerging on the Swiss side of the tunnel, we find superb driving. We haven’t contrived a route, preferring just to let Waze direct us and we end up on a wide, winding valley road for mile after mile.
We end up on the back of a queue of cars moving at slightly under the speed limit. Slightly cautious of the Swiss police’s reputation for Draconian speeding penalties, I elect not to attempt a banzai overtaking move. Suddenly I spy a shock of white hair in the mirror behind me. A lady deep into her 70s has arrived on my tail with tremendous speed. Her mount is a Peugeot 307 and she’s sitting inches from the steering wheel. Before I have time to clock any more detail, she’s dropped a cog and blasted past me; and the three cars in from of me. While approaching a hairpin. Bloody hell.
She makes off into the distance like Sebastian Loeb on the Col du Torini. Well, that just won’t do; I’m on a mountain road in a 911 Turbo and I’m not going to be burnt off by a granny in a shopping wagon. At the next available opportunity I dispatch the three cars in front of me and head after Madame. Unfortunately Madame is a madman and, in spite of a spirited pursuit, I don’t catch her until a village ten minutes later when she is slowed by other traffic. She soon performs another banzai overtake and is gone…never to be seen again.
Gruyères is a quite remarkable place. It sits cradled among mountains, high above vast, verdant plains. The centre of the village – for it feels too small to be called a town – is cobbled and does not welcome vehicles. We park a small way out of the village and walk up to be greeted by a totally unspoilt Swiss vision of quaint perfection.
While famous for its fabulous dairy products, this serene idyll was once the home of H R Giger – an artist with a gruesome vision of dystopia. Best-known for dreaming up the visuals for Alien, he created vast worlds of biomechanical hell. Today his legacy lives on with a museum stuffed full of original work and a remarkable bar sculpted as if it were leftover from Alien.
Gruyères is the most unlikely spot for ghoulish artistry but Giger’s work is fascinating – much of it recognisable from popular culture. among our favourite pieces is one of two original microphone stands Giger designed for Korn singer Jonathan Davies. This was a critical part of the band’s aesthetic when we were impressionable teenagers. Sadly no photos are allowed in the museum but it’s parts dark and sprawling and others light and lofty (quite literally because it spreads up to the loft).
Directly across the road is the bar and it’s an absolute treasure. The theme is all-encompassing, with the whole interior a mass of stylised spinal columns, skulls and biomechanical fantasy. It’s a nightmarish vision but beautifully executed. We stay long enough for Mrs Motorcardiaries to drink some absinthe; which naturally sends her utterly demented. We are almost run out of town after she earnestly tries to converse with some resident chickens. Mercifully we manage to score some locally-produced chocolates and high-tail it to Germany in a hurry. It’s such a charming place, though, and we determine to return for an overnight stay so we can sink a little more absinthe in the sinisterly silly H R Giger bar.
Our final destination is Heidelberg. Like Tubingen, this is a university town – and one with among the finest reputations in Germany. It’s also relatively unspoilt, with dramatic topography, an ancient castle and a proliferation of old buildings lining cobbled streets. It’s postcard-perfect realisation of an old German Rhine town – thought it’s not quite on the Rhine, but instead one of its tributaries.
We are staying high above the centre and use the last morning of our holiday to venture downtown. It’s a long, steep walk but we stop to examine the schloss – an historic castle which has suffered intermittently from preservation and neglect. At one time it was plundered for its stone to build dwellings elsewhere in the town. Our legs don’t thank us for the endless descent to the old town and the river Neckar but at least a funicular railway drags us back up to the car after a wander around the historic streets. It’s a fine and atmospheric town but perhaps not the ultimate tourist destination.
The rest of our day is simply a slog north on the autobahns, back into Holland and ultimately the ferry to Blighty. We encounter some truly biblical weather at one stage, bringing the whole autobahn down to a crawl. The rain is bouncing off the road, rivers forming within seconds. It’s scary.
We call at a service area for sustenance and find a TV showing F1 qualifying so we pause for half an hour and enjoy a bite to eat. As soon as the session finishes, the chap running in charge of the remote immediately switches over. He doesn’t want to miss the start of the Nürburgring 24 Hours. What a guy!
And then, with just a buttock-clenching few minutes as a passenger while Mrs Motorcardiaries samples unlimited autobahn running, we’re back on the ferry and another amazing trip is over. We’ve enjoyed a wonderful mix of roads, excursions, motor racing, sight-seeing and even some brief rest. It’s reaffirmed my belief that the road trip remains the best way to see the world – to meet the locals, find those little places off the beaten track and even make a few friends along the way. We immediately start to plot the next one…USA 2017.
chevronb37 said:
. We immediately start to plot the next one…USA 2017.
If you genuinely are doing this then I can return the favour you offered earlier.Over the course of the last decade or so I have road tripped for tens of thousands of miles through 47 of the 48 contiguous, happy to share any information you might need.
K50 DEL said:
chevronb37 said:
. We immediately start to plot the next one…USA 2017.
If you genuinely are doing this then I can return the favour you offered earlier.Over the course of the last decade or so I have road tripped for tens of thousands of miles through 47 of the 48 contiguous, happy to share any information you might need.
I'll consult you on the next one :-) Thanks for the kind offer!
chevronb37 said:
K50 DEL said:
chevronb37 said:
. We immediately start to plot the next one…USA 2017.
If you genuinely are doing this then I can return the favour you offered earlier.Over the course of the last decade or so I have road tripped for tens of thousands of miles through 47 of the 48 contiguous, happy to share any information you might need.
I'll consult you on the next one :-) Thanks for the kind offer!
Indy too was good, I wasn't there for the race but did get to kiss the yard of bricks and stand on the podium!
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