2008

Around this time, people across the country will be reflecting on what they achieved in 2008. It's a yearly ritual I'm often a bit reluctant to carry out, for fear that I haven't really moved on much in the last twelve months. But not this year.

Skipping back, almost to the beginning of January, I found myself on a desolate, wind swept, ex-RAF base on the eastern tip of Essex. I'd gone there, in place of my day job at Ford, to write an article on the Piper GTR track day car. The wind was icy cold, but I couldn't care less. I was about to step into a mid-engined sports racer for the first time, write one of my first 'proper' articles and experiment with my new digital SLR. Life was good.

The following month was dominated by the arrival of the TVR. It was the first time I'd really gone out and searched the country for a pristine example of anything. The long, loud, top-down drive back from Humberside set the tone for disrupting the peace of the countryside and, the best part of a year later, I remain utterly chuffed with the purchase.

There was a brief return to normality before things went into overdrive in the spring. In May I attended my first work placement at MSN Cars in London. The following month I had the great pleasure of revisiting them for the Lotus Elise versus Honda S2000 twin test, not to mention attending Autocar's drift school at Silverstone and acquiring my own garage (to secrete yet more cars in) with the new house. The pace didn't slacken for July and August either, which saw me attend further work placements at Evo and Autocar, carry out my first proper road test with the mighty AMS Murtaya and apply for my first fulltime job in journalism.

And so, in September, between road tripping around South Wales and making my first pilgrimage to the Nurburgring, I made the switch from automotive engineering to writing. It's since led me to Modenna, Maranello, Cologne and Florida to name a few. As predicted, it has entailed at least twice as many working hours and rather less than half as much pay, but you know what? I'm hooked.

If this sounds self-indulgent (even more than usual...) then that's because it is. I've marked too many New Year's Eves with the dull realisation that I haven't moved on in any meaningful way, but this time I feel justifiably proud of what I've achieved: Nought to journalist in sixty weeks... here's to maintaining that momentum.

Thunder in The Tunnels

A 'small informal' TVR gathering comes to the streets of London

It's 4:30am on a dark, murky November morning and the roads are slick with their winter sheen of perma-damp. Normally I'd enjoy the idea of deserted tarmac, but right now, I'm just desperately trying to wake up on my way to meet the rest of the Hertfordshire contingent en route to the Thunder in The Tunnels TVR run.

A cereal bar and a healthy dose of caffeine at our South Mimms rendezvous does the trick and I'm soon part of the thunderous convoy into making its way into the capital. The general damp has given way to a full on downpour, but to my surprise the S3 remains bone dry inside and really rather civilised. There's plenty of time to check for leaks as an accident on the A12 - fortunately not one of us - holds up our arrival. As a result, once we're moving again and nearing the start point, there are already cars roaring past in the other direction. A group of us elect to perform a hasty u-turn and join the main part of the run.

For a while there’s nothing other than flame-spitting TVRs flying left right and centre in the dark, otherwise-deserted streets. There’s a sense of mischief about it – like Satan’s little minions let out for a night to wreak havoc. Confusion reigns and after a couple of runs through the Limehouse Link and Rotherhithe tunnels, we come round a corner to join a stationary bunch of TVRs regrouping. As one of the cars at the front starts to move I elect to join him, but rapidly it dawns on me that no one is following.

Maybe the guy I've chosen to follow isn’t on the correct route – for that matter, maybe he’s decided to go home for some reason? Still, having zero knowledge of central London I elect to tag along. We stooge round for a while before pulling over and (after brief introductions) hazard a guess at where we’re actually supposed to be heading. A few minutes later, driving down an equally unfamiliar road, we spot (or rather, hear) a silver Sagaris up ahead as it darts into a side turning. Upon approach the turning just looks wrong – narrow and well-concealed, it seems more like the entrance to a car park, but sure enough it's another tunnel there's half a dozen TVRs parked up inside.

I get out to stretch my legs, take a few photographs and meet some of the other tunnel runners – during which time the main group of cars shows up with a thunderous roar. First comes David Hughes, the organiser, in his bellowing supercharged Chimera 500, complete with flags and banners. Following him, a stream of Cerberas, T350Cs and Wedges come past, with an ear splitting burst of acceleration, followed by sheets of flame popping out the exhaust on overrun.

After looping back for a couple of more runs, David gives the order to move on. By the time I’ve got back in the car most people have already gone and then… silence. I try to start it but the starter motor won’t engage and it occurs to me that leaving the lights on wasn’t the smartest move. After sitting with the lights switched off for a minute and playing with the immobiliser I finally manage to coax the S3 back into life and head off behind an enthusiastically driven T350C that’s making one last run through the tunnel.

I follow it to the next re-grouping point in Battersea park, where bladders are drained and cars are dreweled over. Fortunately the rain has now stopped and the sun has just risen, making it an ideal time to survey the hundred or so TVRs assembled in this automotive art gallery beside the Thames.

The next leg takes us through the city. Again confusion reigns as the traffic lights conspire to separate me from the pack. I make an impromptu U-turn after spotting a Cerbera coming in the opposite direction and fortunately he appears to know where he’s going. We carry on to Whitehall – looping round around Parliament Square and Trafalgar Square. The police seem to be paying rather more attention to the proceedings now, but the good natured (if somewhat spirited) driving is treated with discretion – proof positive that we’re much better off with real coppers than revenue-generating cameras. In fact, I suspect they were largely there for the fun of it.


As the regrouping concludes, the entirety of Pall Mall is filled with TVRs on both sides. It's a fitting climax to our little early morning drive through the capital and a sight to behold. The final part of the run takes us underneath the gloriously echoey A40 elevated section, through West London and on to the famous Ace Cafe. The car park and beyond that, the road, the adjoining roads and every other available scrap of tarmac rapidly fills up with TVRs, while the kitchen goes into overdrive supplying cooked breakfasts and bacon butties to a couple of hundred hungry petrolheads.

Surveying the scene I can't help feeling pride in my six cylinder 'baby TVR'. It acquited itslef very well, both in terms of noise and performance, compared to its V8 bretherin - not to mention a couple of non-TVR interlopers. It performed faultlessly and remained a very pleasant, comfortable place to be in the cold, wet conditions. What's more the event had been great fun and a fine chance to meet some like-minded (and equally mascochistic) fellow enthusiasts. In the end it was more than worth crawling out of bed at such an ungodly hour. I would, however, recommend a can or two of Redbull before setting off next time.

My cars: Mazda Eunos Roadster RS-LTD

I started off this blog looking at some of my previous cars, now we pick up the story at number five - no hairdresser jokes please.

Do you have a defining mental image of any car? I do, at least in the case of the Mazda Eunos Roadster, and it’s the one you see above. It was taken one Sunday evening as I was driving back to Chelmsford from London. I’d already decided to take the fun route across country, but rapidly forgot about my destination altogether and just began driving around the rural north of Essex. It was around 9pm by the time that photo was taken; the countryside was bathed in the last of the warm summer sunshine and I’d been driving for around two hours, completely lost in the experience. Somehow I’d only seen a handful of cars and a few enthusiastically ridden bikes in that time and I’d had a real chance to enjoy the Eunos Roadster.

And it wasn’t any old Eunos either. The car in question was one of just 500 hardcore ‘RS-Limited’ special editions – the most focused factory iteration of the Mk1 Eunos (or indeed MX5 or Miata depending on the market). It came with a raft of genuinely useful performance modifications including extra chassis bracing, a lowered final drive ratio, a lightened flywheel, a Torsen limited slip differential, Bilstein dampers and carbon fibre Recaro seats.

More fundamentally, the Eunos was Japanese giant Mazda’s attempt to recapture the fun factor of a classic British roadster. Legend has it that the design team were given a fleet of MG Midgets, Triumph Spitfires and TRs to drive, inspect and analyse. They are said to have spent hours just listening to recordings of the MG’s characteristic exhaust note in an attempt to recreate it on the new roadster. And, on the whole, you’d have to say they did a pretty good job. The rasp it emitted sounded perfect when bouncing off a passing wall, even if it arguably lacked that final degree of attitude. The engine, meanwhile, felt eager and snappy with a very linear torque curve and excellent responses. What’s more it was mated to one of the nicest mass produced gearboxes around complete with a very positive short-throw action and beautifully stacked ratios.

In the cold and frequently damp climes of the UK, the original Japanese-market tyres on my imported Eunos tended to dominate the handling somewhat. In the dry it frankly felt a little over-tyred on occasions, when the modest 140hp struggled to alter the balance of its impressive grip reserves. However, at the slightest hint of moisture, it became a very different story. The Teflon-smooth Bridgestones would conspire with the car’s trick differential to produce hilarious levels of oversteer at minimal speeds and throttle openings. This leads to my second defining memory of the Eunos – applying opposite lock with one hand, half asleep, coming out of the T-junction near my house on wet mornings.


While it was great fun and eminently controllable, the Mazda’s wayward manner could also be a pain in day-to-day driving. The wet-weather grip reserves were so low that you had very little safety margin at normal traffic speeds. Much of this would probably have been remedied by some more suitable tyres, but I was never entirely convinced that there weren’t a few more fundamental problems – at least with this particular example. In addition to the grip levels, and very much contrary to their reputation, the steering was curiously lacking in feedback, there was noticeable scuttle shake and the brakes offered little in the way of feel or stopping power.

Yet, given the right setup modifications, the Eunos would doubtlessly have proved an ideal every day sports car. To bolster its case it came with bulletproof reliability, a surprisingly ample boot and one of the few genuinely watertight convertible hoods I’ve ever come across. And recently I’ve found myself contemplating getting a decent example for daily transport (and possibly a supercharger to go with it).

Back then, however, there was always a nagging thought in my mind. Mazda truly had created a modern Japanese take on the 1960s British sports car and, in most quantifiable respects, they’d improved on it. But had they gone a step too far? The plastic-laden dashboard sometimes felt a little soulless; and the (admittedly competent) engine a tiny bit clinical. I couldn’t help thinking that some of the character of those cars which inspired it had gone at the same time as their oil leaks, their cold start problems and their dubious hoods. Perhaps it was with this in mind that the car I eventually replaced it with was an old school kit car powered by a 1960s Fiat powerplant… Needless to say, I rapidly came to appreciate the value of Japanese efficiency.

On the road again

My first trip with the magazine takes me right into the heart of Italian supercar country...


People sometimes question the car as a means of long distance transport, and you know what? They’re right. If you want to get from London to Italy by the following morning, nothing beats a plane. However, when it deposits you 300km away from your destination and well into the hours of darkness, things start to become complicated, as I found out on my trip to Modena.

I’d love to say something more glamorous was involved, but in fact, the transport that myself, one of my colleagues and a very large case full of exhibition equipment had to pile into was a 1200cc Fiat Grande Punto. Our collective knowledge of Italian geography was non-existent and our faith in the sat nav was about to prove misguided.

After a brief trip onto the autostrade that we assumed would take us all the way, a computerised voice directed us into the outskirts of Milan. I wobbled away at the helm trying to reconcile unlit roads, driving on the right and late-night fatigue. However, it soon became apparent that my driving was the least of our worries.

The first rule of driving in Italy is… there are no rules. In the entire trip I only saw one vehicle indicate and, even in the dead of night, lights were an option. So, it seems were speed limits – at one point I went to slow down as we were approaching a police car rather faster than the law allowed and the local drivers just kept streaming past. Overtaking was also somewhat of an art with Puntos and Pandas darting into the slightest gap left by the car in front.

We drove on, following the Tom Tom’s increasingly baffling instructions. Once clear of Milan all we could really tell was that the surrounding countryside was very flat. The route took us through a mixture of tree-lined rural roads, run down villages and dubious looking industrial areas. In my naivety it took a while to twig what all the groups of young women standing by the road were. Virtually the only people we saw in the next 250km were prostitutes – it seemed to be an interesting take on Catholicism.

The following day after a short, restless sleep we met up with our two bosses and went to set up the exhibition. That completed we headed off onto the road again and up to Maranello. We had been due to meet a friend in Ferrari Formula One team, but an end-of-season rush had put paid to that plan. Instead we took a tour of the Galleria Ferrari and drooled at decades of F1 cars, along with 288 GTOs, F40s and the new California.

That night we were invited to a dinner held by the organisers of the show at what was reputedly Enzo Ferrari’s favourite restaurant. Along with my colleagues from the magazine sat a well-known Nascar engine designer, an AMA Superbike rider and a former F1 driver turned IRL racer. It already felt a little strange, but the night was about to take an altogether more surreal turn.

As the meal came to a close, we were ushered out of the restaurant for ‘a surprise’. About 200 yards away from the main building stood what appeared to be barn. Here the owner stopped and proudly explained (via a passing Indy 500 winner acting as interpreter) that this building had once been a famous brothel frequented by none other than Benito Mussolini. He had bought the building in its entirity and transported it brick-by-brick to the new location and recreated the 1930s interior - as a museum apparently.

He showed us around with pride (after all not everyone has a pre-war brothel in their back garden), but something didn’t quite seem right. People started commenting on various things – half empty bottles of (contemporary) mineral water, an equally up to date DVD collection in some of the rooms and a less than pleasant smell. We began to suspect the ‘museum’ offered a very hands-on approach to history.

Having safely made it out of Mussolini’s shag pad we retired to the hotel. In the morning we left early for the first day of the exhibition. In between manning the stand and interviewing our fellow exhibitors for the magazine, I switched on my phone to find a voicemail from the garage I’d left my TVR with. Taking a deep breath I phoned them back agreeing to the quoted price. Maybe next time I should haggle.

The following day we left the exhibition early and entrusted the hire car to our corporate overlords who were making their way back seperately. Our transport back to the airport was a taxi. In most respects this made sense – he would surely know the roads better than us and avoid a repeat of our scenic route over. However, there was a typically Italian approach to booking the cab and it finally turned up an hour and a half later than intended.

To start with all was fine. We made good progress on the A1 autostrade with surprisingly little traffic for a Friday afternoon. Then, approaching the final toll, we came to a grinding halt. Nobody was moving forward as the road funnelled back down to three lanes from the huge width of the tollbooths. There was just a sea of beeping, nudging Fiats jostling for position. After about fifteen minutes even this ceased and people got out and started smoking and chatting. I half expected to see Charlie Croaker and a fleet of Mini Coppers flash past, but he failed to turn up.

Three quarters of an hour later we finally started to move – now seriously behind schedule. With just moments to spare we arrived at the airport scrambled onto the plane. From there the journey back was easy, but sitting on the plane I found myself reflecting on something: I’ve been to Italy several times before, flying to an anonymous concrete airport then taking a coach up into the alps, yet it felt like the first time I’d really seen the country. Without doubt our nocturnal road trip three nights before had been a less efficient means of transport, but it had given us the chance to really travel. The car, it seems, still has its uses.

Tackling the Nurburging

It’s 7am on a crisp September morning and I’m about to catch a lift to Germany, because tomorrow I have an appointment with a Porsche 968 and one of the most famous stretches of tarmac on earth. My transport for today is a grey Seat Leon FR Tdi driven by Dan; an old friend and self-confessed speed freak. Beneath its standard exterior a Revo ECU remap and a few other choice tweaks lie in wait to silence the diesel critics.

With the roads mercifully clear of weekend-traffic we make good time down to the Channel Tunnel, where even the previous weekend’s fire fails to disrupt our progress significantly and we soon emerge into the sunlight at the other end. We head up onto the familiar tarmac of the A16 and, free of the British road system, the pace starts to rise rapidly. There’s a very marked improvement in observation and lane discipline on continental roads, which means speeds that would be reckless in Britain are comparatively relaxed. We cut across the flat plains of Northern Europe with the speedo rarely dropping below three figures. The Seat’s modified powerplant remains impressively civilised despite a GPS-recorded peak of 143mph and a cruising speed of around 120mph. Even driven with such enthusiasm it returns an indicated 31mpg.

As we head off the autobahn onto the B257, the landscape changes dramatically. Within a matter of miles it goes from wide-open farmland to the soaring foothills of the Eiffel Mountains. There’s also an increased feeling of Germanness. Steep roofs and gothic architecture start to lend the villages a Bavarian feel – none more so than our penultimate waypoint of Adenau – and yet it’s the road beyond here that really captures the petrolhead’s imagination. The L92 has a series of fast-flowing, well-sighted bends separated by alpine switchbacks. It’s almost hard to imagine a better driving road. A few miles ahead lies our hotel, The Altes Forsthaus. It was adopted as a local base for the Mercedes Benz racing team shortly after it opened in 1924. Since then, it’s seen the mammoth vintage SSKs, the breathtaking Silver Arrow grand prix cars and the graceful sports racers of the 1950s. And now… us.

Sometime before 6am the light is turned on and I find Dan standing by the switch already fully dressed. Like a kid at Christmas it turns out he’s been up for hours and got tired of waiting. And so, after hauling myself out of bed, we go out to check the oil in the Leon and then wander down to the circuit entrance. It’s barely dawn, but already a RUF 9ff and Nissan GT-R are burbling into the paddock. This just seems to typify the Nurburgring - a place that oozes petrol from every orifice.

After breakfast we head down to Haus Marvin – a small family run guesthouse, which just happens to own a fleet of high performance hire cars. My choice, the Porsche 968, looks pristine sat outside on the street and with a 10,000 Euro excess on the insurance policy I intend to keep it that way.

As we head back and queue to join the circuit, my pulse starts to quicken. I drive out as the barrier rises and almost immediately face the challenge of simultaneously trying to find my way round and keeping out the way of those who already have. My first impressions are that the circuit actually seems strangely unintimidating in real life. It’s much narrower and twistier than it appears on a computer screen, so driving a standard road car with some degree of self-preservation keeps the speeds reasonably sane in most places. Not that anyone seems to have told the supercar drivers that - various modified 911s buzz past, punctuated by the occasional BMW M5 or Weismann Roadster.

However, within a few laps it ceases to be a source of terror and just a point of mild annoyance. Normal autobahn rules apply and you’re obliged to pull over for faster traffic. Once you’ve slowed down to take a tighter line hugging the right hand curb this can easily spoil several corners. Even worse is overtaking slower traffic, where you have to go past on the left, which (on a clockwise circuit) is more often than not the outside. You also can’t take any of the risks you would do in competitive racing, so teetering around the dirty side of the track can be a nerve-wracking experience.

Fortunately the car isn’t a concern. It feels distinctly similar to my old Porsche 924S, with a few of the flaws ironed out. More to the point, the driving experience is nearly identical to the later 16-valve 944s. It leaves me even more baffled as to why 968 owners don’t just spend half the money on a good 944 S2. That’s not to say it’s a bad car. In fact it’s very good indeed. The free-spinning 3.0-litre four-cylinder engine, although barely powerful enough for a hot hatch by today’s standards, feels eager and responsive. The steering is direct and brilliantly precise with reasonable levels of feedback. Meanwhile the comparatively soft, but brilliantly damped suspension gives the 968 an almost supernatural ability to maintain complete composure; irrespective of what bumps, cambers or crests the Nordschleife chooses to throw at it.

When you do reach the limit it initially gives way to mild, well-telegraphed understeer. Push further and the 968 will tighten its line into a sort of four-wheel drift, but with ‘only’ 220hp combined with chunky aftermarket alloys and no limited-slip differential you can rarely provoke any serious oversteer. Which, on an unfamiliar track, suits me fine.

As the day progresses I start to gain a vague idea of where I’m going. I also start to notice a few stereotypes amongst my fellow ‘ringers. Most of the local drivers are humblingly competent – they hustle their BMWs and Porsches around at great speed and deal courteously with any traffic in front or behind them. But every so often you get one who appears to be out of control. They go past in a flurry of flailing hands and opposite lock, missing you by inches. Occasionally somebody gets it wrong in a big way and the traffic is either yellow flagged or stopped completely as the marshals scoop them up with typically Teutonic efficiency. On one such occasion I drive past a man who is walking away from the remains of his 997 GT3 RS. Going past slowly I can just make out the expression on his face – it’s exactly how I’d look too if I’d just written off a £100,000 supercar.

After this sobering experience I return to the paddock and let the 968 cool down while I ride shotgun with Dan. His Leon continues to impress out here on the track as it did on the autobahn. There’s somewhat more body roll than in the Porsche, but outright grip is very similar and the brakes are noticeably sharper. Even more impressive is the engine, which pulls like a train and responds with the sort of eagerness you wouldn’t usually associate with a diesel. It even sounds quite nice. Yet the soundtrack seems to be the last thing on Dan’s mind as he pilots the Leon with total commitment and considerable skill. I’m enjoying the roller coaster ride and waxing lyrical to this effect until politely reminded that it’s my job to keep quiet and hold the stopwatch. Dan, it seems, is on a mission.

At the end of the lap we head back to sit out another lengthy stoppage, at which point I spot an opportunity. As soon as the announcement comes over the tannoy that the track will soon be reopening I head towards the barrier. With the benefit of an empty road things finally start to come together. Apex follows apex and I feel at one with the 968. After around nine minutes I’m approaching the start line again, but, being on a roll, I decide to queue for the track side barrier instead of pulling into the pits. Once again someone else’s misfortune turns to my advantage. I’m a couple of cars away from the barrier as another stoppage is called and after fifteen minutes lounging in the late summer sunshine the session restarts in a carbon copy of the previous lap.

Immediately behind me a bright red 968 is joining the track and we set off down the straight. The other car seems to have somewhat more straight-line urge, so I pull over and signal to let him past. Going round the first set of real corners at the Hohenrain chicane I find myself catching up slightly. Building on my confidence from the previous lap I’m now able to judge the corner speeds better and the car is on its limit of adhesion virtually from the point I turn in.

Corner after corner, we concertina our way around the ‘Ring. A trio of bikes constitute just about the only traffic up ahead. Here, unlike a conventional road, the greater cornering speeds that cars can achieve hand them an advantage over all but the bravest of bikers. Conversely, the only people to catch us are a handful of the usual banzai 911s that blast past quickly, creating no real little distraction. It’s another perfect lap which sees our two 968s still separated by only a couple of hundred yards as it draws to a close.

Unfortunately my tank is virtually empty and my twelve lap ticket is about to expire, so I peel off towards the paddock. The other driver, meanwhile, gives a friendly wave and continues on to the track side barrier. I can’t deny I’m slightly jealous, but the day is rapidly drawing to a close, I’m completely knackered and the 15 year old Porsche is also starting to feel like it could do with a rest. It has, however, proved the ideal tool for learning the ‘Ring and it is with slight regret that I give the 968 back to its owners at Haus Marvin. I would highly recommend either to anyone contemplating a similar trip.

The journey home the following morning begins well with an enthusiastic crossing of the German B-roads in Dan’s Leon. However, as we join the autobahn the traffic thickens and it’s a trend that continues through into Holland and Belgium until we eventually grind to a halt on the Brussels Ring Road. In total, the journey back takes nearly three hours longer than the outbound trip. We’re not complaining though – it’s more than worth it for those fifteen miles of tarmac in the Eiffel mountains and one thing’s for sure – we’ll be back.

Road Tripping

A fortnight after the trip to York I once again found myself heading to the hills with the Focus, except this time it was South Wales.

Before leaving I called into the dealers (Hutchings Motors in Goff's Oak) for them to have a look at the electrical gremlins. They were all too happy to oblige and within a matter minutes both were fixed for free.

I was very glad of my (newly) fully functional windscreen wipers as the heavens opened shortly after departure, yet it was bright sunshine again by the time I stopped to pick up a friend a few miles away. After packing both the bikes and a considerable amount of associated paraphernalia there was still room to spare.

The M25, at first, lulled us into a false sense of security. It wasn't quite the hellish gridlock I expected from half three on a Friday afternoon. No, that came with the M4. We slogged through eighty miles of stop-start traffic, before it suddenly dissolved around Bristol, only to reappear again at Cardiff. Some time later the moment finally came to turn off the motorway near Port Talbot. I welcomed this for two reasons – firstly we were overdue for some food and, secondly, I knew what was coming next.

The A4107 starts at a rather dodgy looking underpass beneath the M4. From there it snakes through the village of Cwmafan before the much-welcome national speed limit sign plunges you into the Welsh countryside.

The Focus started to come into its element on the smooth dry tarmac as the steep-sided Afan Valley got progressively more alpine. Despite still being hampered by the less-than-ideal front tyres limiting the overall grip, it steers very directly with a good level of feedback and relatively flat cornering. The comically vocal tyres only added to the amusement on the road's impressive variety of corners, while a decent length straight gave even our fully loaded 1.6 the chance to pass a dawdling MPV.

As we approached the first stop at Cymmer the car was presented with a slightly more unusual challenge. We swung down a series of tight hairpins before climbing up the opposite side of the valley and there – on one of the steepest sections of road I've ever driven up – was the B&B's parking. Conscious of the heat in the brakes after our enthusiastic drive over and aware of a motor-industry colleague who'd watched a development car roll off the edge of a mountain as its brakes cooled, I gingerly parked the car with the handbrake on as high as it would go… and with the wheels pointing straight into the curb… and left in gear. Then I walked away and offered silent thanks to the fact I wasn't in the TVR.

The following day after a brief, but entertaining drive retracing our steps to the forestry centre at Afan Argoed we rode the Penhydd trail. In fact it's such a sublime loop of singletrack that we rode it twice, after which the bikes needed a good clean. We put our rucksacks in the car and headed for the bike wash, except it was at this moment that a slight problem dawned.

The Focus allows you to open the rear hatch while leaving the two front doors locked. Quite why it does this (when you can easily crawl from the boot to the front or vice-versa) I don't know; clearly someone in product design at Ford thought it was a handy feature. However it also makes it particularly easy for the absent minded to lock their keys in the car. And at that precise moment my keys were in my camelback, which in turn, was securely locked in the boot of the car.

Much to everyone's relief my AA membership was still in date and I merely had to sit in the afternoon sunshine being lightly mocked for an hour or so until the van arrived. I know from experience that it's not hard to find someone capable of braking into a car in South Wales, but the professionals fortunately use a much more delicate touch. Having progressively used various devices to prise a gap at the top of the door frame our new friend used a three foot long stick to jab the central locking button and open the doors.

Much obliged and safely on our way, we drove back down the A4107 for one last time. Fortunately the stretch of the M4 that came afterwards as we headed towards our next destination near Cardiff was mercifully clearer on this occasion and we made good time.

Turning off the motorway we headed up a quiet stretch of semi-suburban dual carriageway. With so few people around and an array of roundabouts to play with it proved difficult not to be at least a little juvenile. Once again the Focus' chassis wanted to oblige and once again the Fateo tyres blunted its ability to do so.

It remains throttle-adjustable, but with such an overwhelming rear-bias to the reserves of grip the most it will do is tuck its nose in a little. It's still good fun and a very positive indication of how the car will handle with some better rubber, but boy does it need some.

As we turned off the dual carriageway the rural roads narrowed and dictated a far more cautious pace. We only continued for around a mile and a half, yet our destination felt completely removed from 21st century suburbia. The Rectory Cottage B&B nestles in a truly idyllic spot on the edge of the Brecon Beacons. If the alpine slopes of Cymmer had elements of Tolkien's Rivendell, then that spot with its lush rolling hills must have been The Shire.

Wandering to the local pub for dinner after a long day in the saddle (and the driving seat), I found myself lost in the beauty of the landscape again. It really is a stunning part of the world. To the north, the Brecon Beacons rise like a wall, but to all other sides the verdant farmland seems the complete opposite to the wild and windswept terrain I normally associate with Wales.


The following morning - without a hint of irony - we found ourselves about a dozen miles away on yet another windswept Welsh hillside. This time it was the Twrch trail. Home to a gruelling initial climb, some fantastic cross country singletrack and one of the best descents this side of the Alps.

Awesome as the Cwmcarn trails were, I was still concentrating sufficiently when I got back to the car to avoid a repeat of the previous day's hilarity. So with the keys safely to hand we headed back to England. Fortunately the traffic was flowing far more freely than it had been before and we maintained a reasonable cruising pace for the whole route back.

Under those conditions the Focus once again displayed its versatility. While its defining feature upon release may have been class-leading handling, its natural habitat was always going to be ferrying reps and the occasional family across motorways. It does so in a very civilised manner for a small and relatively inexpensive car. Admittedly the 1.6-litre engine lacks the torque required for truly relaxed motorway cruising, but that really is about the only thing that spoils the Focus' case.

I don't have to wait long for the next road trip – out to the Nurburgring at the weekend – but this time the Focus is staying at home. As for what I'm actually going to be driving, that's yet to be decided.

Autocar Drift School

A few weeks back I went to the Autocar Drift School event at Silverstone. You can find the full story here: http://msnukcars.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!9147D27F85A04C56!2925.entry

However, just for this blog, you can also watch my talent running out in glorious technicolour in the following clips...