Zig and Zag

One Caterham, 48 hours of freedom and a full tank of petrol, but what to do? The dilemma of how to spend my first free weekend in ages isn’t an entirely unpleasant one, granted. In the end I make the decision to head down to some friends holding a barbeque in Bournemouth. The trip is about 130 miles – mostly on the motorway – so it seems the ideal chance to try out the car’s touring capabilities.

To give myself a fleeting chance of avoiding the weekend exodus I set off at around 7am. There are already a reasonable number of people on the M25, but I appear to be the only one driving a stripped out ex-racer with no roof, an unpadded plastic seat and a competition gearbox of deafeningly low ratios. Funny that. In order to make things a little more bearable I’ve packed an MP3 player and a pair of powerful in-ear headphones that just about manage to make themselves heard over the engine. Although the Caterham emits a very pleasant racy bark under acceleration, the constant mechanical blare of a 5,000rpm cruise (in 6th!) rapidly becomes wearing. Unservoed brakes and a competition clutch make traffic somewhat fatiguing, while slightly dubious ergonomics make it very difficult to rest your legs in a comfortable position when cruising. Not surprisingly, the motorway isn’t proving to be the Seven’s forte.

As the A31 emerges from the New Forest I turn off to investigate a tip off I’d been given about a good driving road en-route. The B3347 from Ringwood to Christchurch is said to be something of a biker’s favourite, which is usually a good sign, but to be honest I don’t find much to recommend it for those on four wheels. There’s one nice set of S-bends, but they fall inside a 40mph limit and you have to contend with traffic for much of the rest of the route, even at 9am on a Saturday. And, while half of Dorset seem to be bumbling along the B3347, those I'm due to meet have yet to surface, so it seems like the perfect opportunity to satisfy a long held curiosity.

There’s a section of the B3081, better known as Zig Zag Hill, which is officially the twistiest road in Britain. It packs seven tight bends into a little over half a mile, but does this actually make it a worthwhile driving road in the real world or just a curiosity for the map makers and statisticians? To find out, I first have to get there. The ‘Zig Zag’ part of the route is close to the village of Cann Common, some 20 miles to the west of the road’s start, but fortunately even the busy opening section of the B3081 is an improvement on the previous road. Once past Verwood, the traffic starts to thin out and there are some nice little sections as the road threads its way through the impossibly lush setting of the Dorset/Wiltshire border. There are still a few slower cars around, but the Caterham comes into its element here, nipping past traffic with ease thanks to its tiny dimensions and impressive power-to-weight ratio.

As the road tightens up even the Seven finds itself marooned behind a slow moving horse transporter. I pull in to the side to let a biker past, but he can’t find a gap big enough to get past the truck either. Finally the road clears, the bike takes off and the gap is just big enough for the Caterham to follow. The trees thin out and the long sweeping corners give the road a slightly unexpected moorland feel. It’s ideal bike territory and our newfound companion edges ahead under acceleration, while we claw back some ground in the car through the corners. It’s good fun, but eventually discretion kicks in and I ease off to watch the two-wheeled silhouette disappear over the horizon.

Soon the landscape changes again as we approach the top of the hill and descend towards the famous Zig Zags. It only takes one corner for you to realise that the hill lives up to its reputation. It feels like an alpine pass that's been compressed, with a series of tight switchbacks crammed into a small space under the trees. The road may be narrow, but it's not so tiny that you can't have some fun if you're sensible, particularly in something the size of a Caterham.

Heel and toeing my way down into the hairpins, peering round for a clear view of the road ahead and then slingshotting down to the next corner I start to grin manically. Before long the bike creeps back into view and we howl along the final section in unison.

Rather pleased with the result of my investigation, I turn round and head back up the hill. The ascent is, predictably, a hillclimb waiting to be staged and I’d love the chance to really attack it. Even on open roads, the Caterham just feels so right here, threading its way up a course that would leave something like an M3 struggling for space and render most hot hatches bloated and underpowered. It’s a superb drive and perhaps the best on-road experience I’ve had in the car so far.

After retracing my steps along the moorland section I take the local roads into Bournemouth and park up. Silly as this may sound it’s the first time the car’s been left out over night, so I assemble the tarpaulin I’d bought to keep any unexpected rain out and set about laying it up. In truth this highlights the biggest obstacle to ever using it every day as far as I’m concerned – even Seven owners who have a full hood report mixed luck at actually keeping the water out, and the flimsy canvas cover, held on with poppers, must look rather inviting to those of a criminal persuasion.

On the whole, the Caterham has coped well with its first long distance trip. Okay, it wasn’t much fun on the motorway, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it could have been and the open road experience more than made up for it. With a suitably masochistic outlook, a strong set of calf muscles and a good pair of headphones you can overlook the Seven’s lack of creature comforts, even in the most basic ex-racing model. What you can’t do is keep it safe and secure outside in, say, a dodgy area of London. With that in mind, the solution seems clear – I need to move to a nicer location. The foot of Zig Zag Hill perhaps.

A bug's life

"Come and see this car," beckoned my girlfriend as she appeared in the flat this afternoon. It was an odd request for several reasons; principally because she tends to treat cars with a level of disinterest normally reserved for me flicking through a shoe catalogue. Something about this particular example had clearly caught her attention though.

A friend had given her a lift in what turned out to be a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle. It was sporting a slight patina, with the odd scratch and dent that only added to its appeal (as befits a trusty workhorse that brought every day transport to millions).

I know the phrase 'character' is banded about too frequently in automotive circles, and often used as a euphemism for something less flattering, but the humble little bug really did have it by the bucket load. I was busy mumbling my appreciation when the owner thrust the keys forward and asked if I'd like to have a go. Under the circumstances it would have been rude not to.

After a couple of stabs of the throttle to prime its carburettor, the horizontally opposed 4 chuntered into life and settled to a percussive idle. The first tentative steps were all surprisingly easy. The clutch was light and progressive, the gearshift was actually better than you might expect given it's a 40 year old mechanism operating something at the other end of the car and, to my amazement, the brakes were both well servoed and reasonably effective.

Predictably, the performance wasn't spectacular by modern standards, but there was something very engaging about the way the ancient 1500cc engine went its about business. The same could be said for the dynamics. The steering was extremely light around the straight-ahead, feeling a little floaty under normal circumstances, but it weighted up markedly under lock, requiring a degree of effort at manoeuvring speeds. The only really issue came from the gearbox, which seemed to be losing its synchromesh on second, but, to be honest, double de-clutching on the way back only added to the retro experience.

So does this mean I'm a Vee Dub convert? Well, yes and no. I'm not sure I'd want to forego the conveniences of a modern run-around for one. And, engaging as it was, I wasn't sufficiently smitten to want to swap the Caterham for one as a toy. But, if money was no object - after half a dozen assorted Astons, the odd Ferrari and various other types of exotica - there might just be a space for the bug in my fantasy garage.

(Photo: VW/Newspress)

Florida Part 2: Day of Thunder

Go to the southern states of America and few things are holier than NASCAR. It's up there with republicanism, country music and God. So, not something to be taken lightly. Or is it? Stepping onto the bus to Daytona International Speedway our guide decides to introduce us naïve Europeans to the world of stock car racing with a DVD. To my amazement, it's Talladega Nights; a gloriously silly and borderline-slanderous send up of NASCAR, complete with all the usual redneck cliches and side helping of homoeroticism.

While you might expect someone condoning such heresy to be dragged from the bus and ritually disembowled by an angry crowd of hillbillies, you can't help feeling our guide is actually pretty safe. Not least, because she's Alana France; part of the clan that owns Daytona, along with no less than eight other US circuits and indeed NASCAR itself. In fact it was Bill France (grandfather of her ex-husband) who started the whole thing off, when he began racing on the beach at Daytona in 1936.

Alana shows us through the speedway's museum, which is packed with stock cars of virtually every era, along with some less predictable exhibits. This year's Daytona 500 winner, still streaked with engine oil and victory champagne takes pride of place in one hall, while Malcolm Campbell's 1935 Bluebird V record breaker dominates the view in the next. Perhaps the most surprising addition is Richard 'The King' Petty's personal transport that the NASCAR legend used to drive around the paddock. Think you can guess what it is? Go on – take a shot – a big blue Plymouth Superbird perhaps? Maybe a Corvette of some description? Nope, America's greatest racing icon used to cruise round in a Mini Cooper Van little bigger than he is. It's even right hand drive.

After the museum tour a tram ride takes us through to the infield. While the commentary unfolds, there's some real life drama on the banking as sports cars and prototypes flash past in testing for the famous 24 hour race held in January. What we're really waiting for, however, is the point they go for lunch, because as the racers leave the track it's our turn. A pair of Chevrolet Impala SS road cars whisk the waiting journos onto the banking. As we reach turn one, our driver, Mike, slows the Chevy right down. “How slow do you reckon we can go before it rolls over?” he asks, only half joking. While I've been on enough banked tracks to know we're quite safe, there's banked and there's banked. At 31 degrees Daytona is seriously steep and, as we come to a complete rest, clinging to the banking, it's not hard to see how Mike takes in less suspecting visitors with the routine. It feels like we're perched on a mountain side.

We build speed again, with the SS' V8 purring away in auto mode and the air conditioning on. It's quite a sedate experience in most respects, but attacking the corners with a little more speed takes some degree of mental recalibration. The lateral force generated isn't massively high, but the sensation of being forced into base of your seat as well as the side, while the horizon tilts at an unnatural angle and the barriers blur past is an alien one. Our ride tops out at a little over the ton, which is exciting enough – it must be a brutal experience in a Sprint Cup car reaching nearly twice that.

300C: A US odyssey

It's said that alligators sometimes wander into peoples' back gardens in this part of Florida. You really can head out to the pool and find half a ton of armoured reptile basking in it. Yet even here the greatest threat to a pale skinned Brit seems to be that of spontaneous combustion. It’s mid December, but still the temperature is a thoroughly toasty 85 degrees and the humidity is up to nearly 60 percent.

So what drags me away from the temperate climes of London? Well, in between sampling the banked curves of Daytona and plying my wares at the world's largest racing trade show – more on those later – I'm here to experience a little bit of American car culture. In truth, it's been something of an impromptu affair – with a day to spare before the show I approach the local car hire firm for something suitable. The result was a gleaming black 2008 Chrysler 300C. And a map. The plan is to get out of the tourist Mecca of Orlando, which lies to the east of the Florida peninsula, and head west to the town of Clearwater on the Gulf of Mexico; sort of a mini coast-to-coast.

Out in the car park, the big Chrysler does a fine job of filling even a US space. At sixteen and a half feet long it's bigger than a Bentley Continental GT. It screams Americana too, with a comically high shoulder line, a brash authoritarian presence and a front end seemingly modelled on JR Ewing's grin. It's much the same inside, with wide open spaces and a bold, simple layout.

The 3.5-litre V6 starts with a slightly muted thrum and the 300C creeps forward obligingly once the 5-speed auto 'box is placed in drive. We whisk out the car park and onto International Drive with the transmission quietly slurring away. The sheer size of the thing would render it unwieldy in the UK. Fortunately, you sit quite high with a good view of its extremities as the long bonnet sweeps round corners. It does feel somewhat like captaining a boat at times, but cruising the wide palm tree lined boulevards of downtown Orlando the 300C feels perfectly at home.

Soon I locate the interstate, and with it my first chance to open the car up. To be honest it seems to be a bit startled by the process. I'd love the 5.7-litre V8 in the higher spec 300s, but my work was cut out just trying to find something American and the V6 is a bit of a pale imitation. It's actually a very revvy engine, with a useful power band extending up to 7,000rpm, but torque isn't really on the agenda. Cruising slowly this isn't a problem; the auto 'box shifts up at the earliest possible moment and you're left wafting quietly around, but put your foot down and the torque converter throws a hissy fit. After a moment's confusion it begrudgingly kicks down two gears and begins screaming away without any significant increase in speed. It's almost as if the gearbox is slipping. Yet with a more delicate approach it can be coaxed into performing quite well. The acceleration is hardly alarming (it's rated at 8.6 seconds to 60mph), but it does feel nicely sustained as the big Chrysler pushes its way through the air. The soundtrack isn't bad either; quite refined, but with a muscular edge that almost suggests an extra pair of cylinders might be lurking under the bonnet.

After a couple of miles I start to drop into the routine of US motorway travel. Barring the flat, sub tropical landscape, much is the same as the UK. It's 3 lanes wide, people have a healthy disdain for the speed limit (which ranges from 55mph to 75 and even includes minimum speeds in some sections) and the layout is all fairly intuitive. What's even worse than the UK is lane discipline. It simply does not exist, and drivers seem to pick a lane completely irrespective of their speed. Occasionally one of them wakes up and promptly undertakes the car in front, but there's little real order. It never feels aggressive or overwrought and, with relatively low traffic densities, the whole thing more or less seems to work. In fact they're so chilled out that several times I witness a car in one of the outside lanes wander until it actually puts two wheels on the dirt. Fortunately the trucks appear to be somewhat more carefully guided. They're big out here; really big. If one was to stray off the road it's likely it could run over several small towns before the driver's attention was even diverted from his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape.

The I4 widens to four lanes as we pass the outskirts of Tampa. It's a bright modern city with a cluster of silver sky scrapers looming against the hazy midday sky. It also marks a brief stint on the I275, a comparatively twisty urban freeway, which gives a bit more insight into the Chrysler’s dynamics. Once again the messages are a little mixed. The steering is quite precise with a pleasingly linear action, but it’s almost completely devoid of feel. The initial turn is distinctly floaty and the whole thing feels a touch under-damped, but the car actually feels surprisingly well balanced once its set up in the turn. Sweeping through the I275’s twists, its body roll is no worse than you’d expect from a large sedan and the car actually feels quite poised. 

The only real shock comes after we turn off and join State Road 60. It begins by heading through a series of traffic lights, one of which decides to turn red just as we approach. There’s no one behind and it’s not that close so I elect to go for the brakes. They felt fine on the interstate with adequate feel and reasonable levels of assistance, but when tasked with something a bit more urgent they fail miserably. The tyres let out a screech and a puff of smoke, but little in the way of actual retardation. We pass the stop light travelling at pretty much the same speed as before and I elect to go for the gas instead. There’s plenty of time to clear the crossing, which is fortunate as the brakes are simply the worst of any modern car I’ve encountered. I suppose it’s good to see the big Chrylser does live up to its ‘yank tank’ image in at least one respect.

The SR60 rapidly blends into the Courtney Campbell Causeway; 9.9 miles of bridges and reclaimed land stretching across Tampa Bay. It leads to the aptly named town of Clearwater. You can drive virtually onto the beach and, as Florida gives way to the Gulf of Mexico, the water is indeed crystal clear. As we pause for a photocall, a steady stream of numbered white 4X4s drive past – presumably watching out for anyone paddling past in a sombrero. The strange foreigner randomly photographing his hire car seems to attract a certain attention too, signalling that it’s perhaps time to move on.

We trundle down a rough concrete track barely wider than the Chrysler. It runs within feet of the waters edge, before rejoining the main road that takes us back towards Tampa. Cruising onward along the I4 you can’t help noticing the sheer number of police cars. There are state troopers, county sheriffs and local police everywhere. At one point we pass a car being pulled over and the officer approaches cautiously, one hand hovering over his gun. Make no mistake, this is still America.

Orlando is beckoning, but we’re not done yet. With about twenty miles to go, we turn off the beaten track onto State Road 532. This is Smokey and The Bandit country; unmistakably Southern with paperbark trees, Florida pines and palm trees dotted along the side of the road. Sure enough, it’s not long before we pass the county mountie, watching intently from a side turning. Even the cruisers still bear a distinct resemblance to those which chased Burt Reynolds.

Our final waypoint, Kissimmee, is different. It feels like someone has turned the contrast up – it has the bluest skies, the greenest grass and the orangiest buildings. To be fair, the Victorian shop fronts and awnings stretching onto the main road actually come in a variety of colours, but all are bright. I don’t know how many ordinary Floridians actually live here, but to an outsider it appears to be a rather utopian vision of small-town America. It’s like Pleasantville. There’s no litter, every blade of grass is immaculately trimmed and every street corner has a bright, breezy cafe cheerfully dishing up the local speciality, key lime pie. Even fly tipping just looks better here. We pass a mid ‘50s Ford Edsel Station Wagon that’s been abandoned in a side street. Although faded and abused, it still bears a sort of retro charm. Somehow it just looks right.

The drive back along Poinciana Boulevard features a rare sight on Florida’s country roads: corners. It’s hardly Zig Zag Hill, but there are a couple of S-Bends that provide a certain amount of childish amusement for me, but apparently considerable concern to the local drivers who slow right down before carefully negotiating these dangerous oddities. If their cars go round corners like the 300C stops it’s probably a wise move.

My first experience of driving Stateside has been an enlightening one. Like America in general, much of it feels strangely familiar, but all with a distinctly US slant. I’d love to do a real coast-to-coast one day or cruise along Pacific Coast Highway, but for now the trip to Clearwater in the big Chrysler will have to do. At least I didn’t expire in the heat.

Driven: TVR 1600M

Blackpool's finest treats us to a blast from the past...


There's a bit of a debate raging at the moment as to what extent our traits are inherited. It seems likely that some things are indeed genetic, and perhaps that goes some way to explaining my obsession with cars. You see, my dad is something of a petrolhead. It was his blood red Alfa Romeo Alfetta GTV that defined my earliest memories of the motor car, and the sales brochures for the TVR Tasmin 2+2 he contemplated replacing it with that adorned my bedroom walls as a kid. Before I came along, however, my parents' choice of transport was a 1972 TVR 1600M.

Not wishing to part with his two seat toy, my father squirreled it away in a lock up garage for the next decade or two, until time, money and a grown up family allowed it to be revived in the late '90s. And so, after a thorough restoration, it's perhaps the only pristine one-owner-from new classic TVR that still regularly tackles the muddy lanes of Devon for the weekly shop. It also happens to be a kit car – the last that TVR ever built no less – and so, with the Caterham temporarily out of action, I opted to hitch a lift in the Tiv to this year's Exeter Kit Car Show.


"Do you want to have a go?" my dad enquired part through the drive way back. The offer was too good to refuse, so we promptly pulled into a lay-by and swapped seats.

Threading yourself through the low, narrow doors of the M-Series is something of an event. The leather-lined interior perfectly compliments its 'pocket GT' aesthetics, which you might be forgiven for thinking originated in Modena or Maranello, not windswept Blackpool. The exotic theme is carried over to the driving position, with long arms, comparatively short legs and the steering wheel resting on your knees. You can tell this car was designed before (the much missed and unfeasibly tall) Peter Wheeler took the reigns.

Finding the bite point on the cable-operated clutch takes some degree of practise, but we're rapidly away. One of the first things you notice is the clarity of the steering (unassisted, naturally). It has no discernable play, and every bump and ripple of the Devon lane is perfectly relayed through the chunky leather helm. It's strange, then, this early promise isn't born out in the corners. The front suspension runs very little castor, so the steering resolutely refuses to weight up, giving you little confidence in the remaining grip. It also feels like the adjustable dampers may be set a few notches too low on the front end, which comes across as a tad wayward and disconnected on turn-in.


It's a shame, because the chassis clearly has great potential. Despite dating back to the early seventies (and tracing its roots back beyond) it feels impressively rigid. There's no scuttle shake, no discernable chassis flex, and bumps are absorbed in the suspension, not the structure. It even rides well for a sports car, combining reasonable levels of comfort with relatively little roll. Steering foibles aside, the controls are basically good too. True, the 4 speed gearbox is a little vague, but the brakes combine excellent feel with plentiful stopping power and the throttle has a pleasing action to it.

Squeeze it, however, and the results aren't all you might expect. Although praised for its handling balance (and considered ultimately, by many, better than the 3-litre) the standard 1600cc M-Series wasn't an especially rapid car even in its prime. This one benefits from a somewhat tuned engine, but it's a mixed blessing. The Ford Crossflow lump takes some time to get into its stride, and flooring it in the mid range exposes a rather obtrusive flat spot in the power delivery, which ultimately leaves it feeling slower than it actually is. In reality, the performance is probably approaching warm hatch territory, with a nought to sixty of somewhere around 9 seconds.


The other thing that counts against this TVR is its soundtrack. While it emits a suitably retro burble from the outside, the experience within the cabin is dominated by a civilised, but ultimately rather mechanical noise – it doesn't belch sheets of flame and terrify passing children in the way we've become accustomed to with later models. And yet, driving the M-Series is still a special experience. Partly on a personal level perhaps, but also because it offers a rather romantic glimpse into the past, with its elegant granturismo styling and atmospheric cabin. That said, much of the driving experience still stacks up well today and the car's idiosyncrasies should be easy enough to tweak.

I already have images of an M-Series running revised suspension geometry, modern rubber and – not wishing to do anything by halves – a nice sonorous Alfa Romeo V6 thrown in for good measure. Sadly I'd never have the skill to carry out such work myself, but it seems I'm not the only one who's had the idea. My dad's also been contemplating doing just such a swap on an M-Series restoration project. Fortunately for him, my mechanical ineptitude is one genetic trait that doesn’t come from his side of the family, so it might just happen. Come on Dad, you know it makes sense.

My cars: Sylva Leader 400

Intoxicating and uncompromsing, the Sylva Leader provided a tantalising taste of extreme sports


My girlfriend has a uniquely feminine way of describing cars. It revolves solely around colour, and it’s usually a hugely incomplete method of description, but in the case of my old Sylva Leader she may have been on to something. If you asked anyone to describe the car - even a bonefide petrolhead - the one word that usually came up was yellow. And it was indeed very, very yellow. And fast - as if Noddy and Big Ears had consumed way too much fairy dust one night and decided to try their hand at street racing with a homemade hotrod.

The Sylva certainly was homemade, and boy did it look it. The kit car industry has produced some staggering designs in recent years, but even in 1987 the Leader wasn’t one of its better offerings. The whole thing looked like a giant, slightly misshapen jelly mould, and yet - with it’s low stance and (yellow) roll bar - also strangely purposeful. This combination of the sublime and the ridiculous found many fans in the vicinity, and it never failed to raise a smile, even with typically disapproving audiences such as old ladies and the local constabulary.

The driving experience was always an event. It took several pumps of the throttle to prime the two huge Delhorto carburettors used to feed its 1800cc Lancia heart, but it was worth it. If you were lucky the push button starter on the left hand side of the dash would overcome the engine’s Latin temperament and it would fire with a delicious bark. Prod the throttle and the big carbs would let out a snort, while the side exit exhaust, barely two feet beneath your right ear, emitted a fiery rasp. To this day it remains the best four cylinder soundtrack I’ve ever heard.


On the road its performance was electric. The 150bhp produced by the Italian twin cam might not sound like much, but, with only 650kg to propel, it equated to around 230bhp/ton, which is 911 turbo territory. The brick-like aerodynamics may have blunted its potency at higher speeds, but this was a bit irrelevant for a speccy four eyes like myself, because at around 60mph (with next to no windscreen) my glasses began to take off. Factor in the lack of doors, a hood of any type, any security or anything remotely resembling a boot and the Leader’s everyday credentials began to look shaky.

As a general rule all Sylvas, and most Leaders included, are very fine handling cars, but some DIY suspension mods carried out by a previous owner had left mine with a few unwanted traits. The rock hard rear suspension made the car skittish to say the least, and loss of traction on bumpy roads was a sudden and frequently violent experience. The direct, but surprisingly numb steering, meanwhile, gave little indication of impending doom through its overly weighty helm. It made any of the TVRs I’ve since driven seem a bit, well, safe, but it was undoubtedly exciting and every journey bore a sense of occasion.

Another idiosyncrasy was the car’s braking system. Not only was it un-servoed, which takes some getting used to in this day and age, but it was well overdue for an overhaul. Even if you could summon the gargantuan force needed to operate the hydraulics I’m not convinced they would have done much good. To compound matters, the previous owners’ home engineering periodically reared its ugly head. One hot day the outer part of the throttle cable melted (later discovered to be a bicycle gear cable run perilously close to the exhaust manifold); only to solidify at the extreme end of its travel. Cue a flurry of screaming revs and wheel spin that sent me snaking down a narrow (but mercifully straight) country lane for a few seconds before I brought the clutch in. And, if experiences like that weren’t enough, an unidentified misfire would routinely kick in at high revs, and on occasions the car would simply fail to start altogether.


So does this mean the Leader was a bad car? Well, no, not in the slightest actually. It wasn’t even a particularly bad example. The body and chassis were pristine (if somewhat yellow), the engine performed spectacularly when niggling faults weren’t hampering it, and a damper change and some new rubber would have gone a long way to sorting out the handling. It was a few weekends work away from being a superb track day toy. Sadly, in truth, it was another car that succumbed to my learning curve. At the time I had no garage to work on it and little in the way of tools or practical experience.

The Leader was also a victim of its own appeal. The experience of blasting down country lanes with the glorious twin cam on full song, the hedges accelerating past your ear and the sheer force pulling you back into the seat was intoxicating. I wanted more, but even in pristine condition the Leader would have been a little extreme. What I needed was a car that could deliver the same hit, but also justify itself with fair weather trips to the office and the occasional weekend away. So I did what any sensible young man would do; I bought a TVR.

Northern highlights

I’m not going to pretend my choice of transport for this trip came through anything other than necessity. The Caterham’s current mechanical issues, allied to its lack of a hood, and the fact I would have almost certainly ended up single by the end of the trip had I taken it, compelled me to use the Focus instead. And for those very reasons I find myself cruising up the A1 in the quiet confines of the Ford’s interior.

The familiar journey up to my girlfriend’s parents’ near York turns out to be an uneventful one, barring a spooky atmospheric phenomenon that manifests itself as I pass through Cambridgeshire. As the last rays of the peach coloured sunset creep over the horizon, a dense mist wells up in the fields surrounding the road. It hangs all around, covering the windscreen with a fine film of water vapour and collecting by the hedgerows and hollows like the start of a horror film. There are, however, no ghosts, ghouls or vampires, and by about 11pm I’ve arrived, safely back in the land of the living.

Two days later I head out with my significant other to our base for the next couple of days; the Yorkshire Dales. We approach from the bustling market town of Leyburn, following the sat nav along a spectacular single-track road onto the fells. Not for the last time it turns out to be a route you couldn’t drive at any great speed - thanks to crests, blind corners, errant sheep and the sheer lack of width - but the scenery is breathtaking. The sudden switch from lush farmland to rugged moorland leaves you in no doubt you’ve arrived in the Dales. A few miles further on, the view from our hotel in the tiny hamlet of Low Row is almost equally dramatic, and it promises much to explore.


The following day we head out to the Lake District along the B6270. Initially it’s a meandering country road skirting the villages of the Northern Dales, but the eastern edge thrusts us onto a narrow track, like the previous night's road only more so. The scenery becomes increasingly desolate, and the views ever more expansive. This is big sky country, with a horizon that stretches on for miles, and over one of its numerous crests we cross the border and plunge down into Cumbria.

The roads around The Lakes are predictably congested and we stick to the main routes for ease, but on the way back we stumble across a real gem and arguably the best driving road of the trip: the A684. Sometime after Kendal the traffic peters out and the road darts around a series of devilishly twisty bends and fast sweeping curves. It gives a rare opportunity to exploit the Focus’ innate chassis balance, trail braking into the bends to quell the initial understeer and then pushing the revvy, if somewhat beleaguered engine up through the gears on the way out.

The roller coaster lasts until we get back into the Dales, when an increasing quota of villages and bumbling tourists forces a more leisurely pace. Soon afterwards, however, we turn off onto the infamous Buttertubs Pass.


Heading north out of Hawes the first stretch is classic moorland road - quite straight, reasonably well sighted and fast. As the altitude peaks, the swooping introduction gives way to the famous vertigo-inducing section. Here all that separates you from a fiery death in the valley floor several hundred feet below appears to be a length of green hosepipe suspended between the fence posts. Fortunately we remain on the black stuff, and the final descent into Thwaite is something else. It's narrower, steeper and twistier than the rest of the road, and I reach the end with a considerable grin, a strong smell of warm brakes and a somewhat spongy pedal. In truth it would probably be more fun the other way round (north to south), but that will have to wait for a future trip.

The following day, however, we do head south over the same valley, albeit on the Askrigg Common road that runs parallel to the Buttertubs, a little further east. It’s a familiar story – more scenic route than honing road - but nonetheless spectacular as the road hugs the steep side of the valley and makes its way over the common. Unfortunately there turns out to be a cycle race on, making progress, for us, very sedate. Not so for the competitors, who are hurtling down the 1 in 4 hill towards us, placing all their trust in old fashioned cycle brakes and sticking rigidly to the racing line. While, to me, it looks like fun, I defy anyone who moans about people driving enthusiastically to claim that’s safer!

Afterwards, on a tip-off, we head down the B6255 towards Ingleton. Were it not for swarms of peak-season tourists this road would be one of the highlights, thanks to a great mixture of longish open straights and tight twisty sections. It seems to be very popular with bikers too, but the local constabulary are also in attendance, sporting a very tasty looking Evo IX pursuit car no less.


On the final day - after another pass over Askrigg Common - we head back along the eastern stretch of the A684. Initially it winds its way through a series of quaint stone-clad villages but, as before, it opens up on the periphery into a genuinely credible driving road. It's just a pity that this particular road leads us back to the A1 and, from there, on to London.

Yet the Focus once again performs admirably on the motorway slog. For a sub-premium hatchback, let alone a design that’s over a decade old, it’s remarkably versatile. True, the meagre 1.6-litre engine needs working to overcome its considerable mass on occasions, but even then it remains relatively civilised, with an excellent ride-handling balance and some of the most comfortable leather seats I’ve ever sat in. What’s more, throughout the whole trip it’s averaged comfortably more than it does on my usual suburban commute, so it seems this very ordinary car’s trip into some extraordinary surroundings has categorically done it good.