RO

AD

WO

RK

Mercedes S 350 in the real world, Old Peugeot acrossEurope, Fashionista’s Fiat in its natural habitat, a pair of Jolly

Jaguars, my first trip to watch the DTM, and a Citroen. Allphotographed and written about by

Chris Haining

Third Edition

What Lies WithinROADWORK

03

page 01 roadwork

0919 245

5157

7

Chris HainingSalesman, Designer,Driver, Writer, Customer,Photographer, TriviaMerchant and all round tallbloke. He is responsible forROADWORK

ROADWORK is my occasional automotivejournal. It’s about cars, looking at them, drivingthem, but most importantly how they make mefeel.

In this issue my home for eight days isa fifteen year old Peugeot, I visit Brands Hatchfor the first time and analyse cars as disperateas Mercedes S Class and Fiat 500. But, mostimportantly, I relish every minute.

If you are reading this as a download, pleaseclick on the images to be taken to each story

Please click on myface to find outmore about me, orto browse my C.V

introducing

roadwork page 02

2539

7177

page 03 roadwork

S: Still AClass Act?

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

Once the default choice in theuber-luxury sector, Mercedes

now faces tough newopposition from Jaguar, Audi,

and BMW.I spend an evening to

determine whether the S-Classstill has what it takes to

impress.

I had developed a migraine. We arrivedin Brooklands at about half past six,slightly tardy but not unacceptably so,and first on my mind was getting backto that Tesco we had passed to buysome Ibuprofen.

I'm playing chauffeur for theevening, ferrying my passenger to aspecial event for the great and thegood of Mercedes-Benz's highestranks. We travel tonight in his personalS-Class, as I type this paragraph I'm inthe driving seat watching Bladerunneron the dashboard display while heprobably knocks back Bollinger andquails eggs at the expense of theGermans.

The migraine stems fromthree factors. Firstly, a fair chunk of thejourney was on the M25, a road thatgives me a violent allergic reactionwhenever I go near it. Secondly, my

Driven

roadwork page 04

I

passenger is my boss's bosses boss, the ChiefExecutive of the company. What is the protocolfor this situation? Do I act normally and engage inpleasant conversation? Maybe I should make aneffort to impress him, dazzle him with myintellect, wit and repartee? It's all very wellthinking about that now but I'm already halfwaythrough the evening and the damage is probablyalready done.

My third reason for a headache is that,for whatever reason, tonight I just can't seem todrive smoothly and I'm pretty sure it's a problemwith the relationship between myself and the car.The Mercedes S-Class has never really beentoppled from a position as the unquestionedluxury car champion of the world, rippling withtechnological muscle and an extraordinarilycomfy place to sit. So why am I having thisproblem?

The answer, I think, is that with a VIPcargo I can't drive for myself and myself only. Mynatural driving attitude is to let a car breathe, tomove with it and allow it to flow, and to do so

tonight would be at the expense of passengercomfort. I am having to put aside my needs as adriver and temper my driving style in favour ofsmoothness and, frankly, I'm not doing it very well.

I know this three-litre diesel is not a hugeengine for a fair old bunch of car, and you have toknow where the power is to make the most of it.You drive it on the torque, the seven-speedgearbox slurring the changes expertly and youdon't really miss the power. It's only when the revneedle redlines flails uselessly above fourthousand when I get too ambitious with my rightfoot that I wish for the linearity of a big V8 petrol,or maybe another litre of diesel under the bonnet.

It's the same with the handling. The S-Class is pretty wieldy as luxo-barges go, not asovertly sporting as the current rash of stretched-supercars but still pretty tidy. I quite enjoyencouraging an S to party every now and again, infact I know a lot more about driving them hardthan at more ministerial speeds. As a result Iseem to lurch from lane to lane and wallowaround roundabouts despite the efforts of that

page 05 roadwork

talented chassis. I'm also making a right pigs ear ofbraking, I'm trying to feather the brakes to a haltwithout catapulting my passenger into the windscreen,but I just can't seem to judge it right, I see his foot divefor an imaginary pedal on more than one occasion.

So, I can't steer very well, my throttle controlis patchy and my braking undisciplined. I'm not offeringa very smooth journey so far, and the problem isfurther exacerbated by the jumbo 20” wheels thisparticular car is shod with. Fashion is the culprit,everything in the Mercedes range has to look like anAMG these days whether it's appropriate or not. It'sjust tragic that the much vaunted incredible ridequality doesn't seem to be there any more, indeedwhen we first moved off I thought the Airmaticsuspension was set to sport mode. It wasn’t.

After four hours sat outside Mercedes-Benzworld at Brooklands, eating crisps, Danish pastriesand other blood-pressure boosting tasties, mypassenger returned. His evening of politely addressingother senior management figures and laughing atcorporate in-jokes had clearly taken their toll and heelected to sit in the back for the journey home wherehe could have a little nap. From M25 junction ten torural Suffolk neither of us spoke, he slumbered and Iconcentrated on driving properly. This time, with mebeing a little more progressive with the controls, the

“.....tempering my drivingstyle in favour of smooth-ness and, frankly, I'm not

doing it very well.”

Driven

roadwork page 06

S-Class was a car transformed. My gripes about the ride quality

evaporated, once at speed the car seemsto find its feet and settle down other thanfor an occasional minor tremor frompotholes. I could detect a backgroundchatter from the undulating concrete roadsurface channelled through faintlyridiculous 275 section rubber, but you canonly hear it because this big diesel saloonexhibits virtually no mechanical noisewhatsoever.

It’s eerie. License preservationdictates my top speed this evening toremain sensible, but with cruise set at 80all the executive jet clichés are valid. Whilethe S350CDi can be made to acceleratequite rapidly, it is at the expense of somedecorum and can't offer the kind of hushdemanded by a snoozing Chief Executive.Instead it's best to massage the throttleand accumulate momentum more gently,once up to comfortably illegal velocities youreally are in Lear or Gulfstream territory.Here, road defects feel like gentleturbulence and tyre noise a distant jetroar.

I'm up front enjoying this from thecockpit where the ambient lighting batheseverything outside my peripheral visionwith a soft orange glow. If a few moreoption boxes had been ticked I couldbenefit from the full avionics suite; night-vision, radar cruise control, lane departurewarning and driver alertness monitoringare all available. Without any of thisgarnish the drivers environment is stillexemplary though, and the faux-analoguespeedometer and info screen balancesinformation and clarity to perfection.

On a moonlit motorway lessercars scatter as the S-Class looms up in therear-view mirror, with its can't-believe-it's-not-daylight xenons and slightly gauche LED

page 07 roadwork

running lights. Being overtaken by one of thesethings, especially in long wheelbase format, is quitean experience. It takes a period of time for all five anda half meters of Mercedes to pass you and it leavesits signature burnt into your retinas for some time,so overbearing are the all-new LED taillamps. InObsidian Black metallic and with those big wheels ourcar looked well and truly sinister, maybe cars weredarting out of the way lest they anger the Mafiahitman lurking therein. It's a lot of fun and my earliermigraine is now a distant memory.

Once back onto his crunchy gravel drive I bidmy passenger farewell and slump back into a“normal” car. It feels like leaving the Ritz and steppinginto a Travelodge. A headache is once again visibleon the horizon as my engine booms annoyingly, andthe steering feels flimsy and cheap. And this is a fiveyear old Audi A4, which is a very nice car indeed. Itspeaks volumes about the impact the big Benz hadon me in seven hours that my standards have been

raised so high. I begin to dread the spending theremainder of my driving career in low-order cars andremind myself to become wealthy and successful.

Objectively, I have little doubt that the S-Class, all things weighed up, was the best car I'veever driven. The fact that “rival” cars from Audi andBMW don't even try to directly compete is quitetelling, the Munich car concentrates on driverfulfilment and the machine from Ingolstadt appealsto a much narrower, more image-led demographic.Neither of those, though, are much good at being anS-Class, a fact not lost on the thousands ofprofessional drivers who insist on Mercedes. Thisgeneration is now five years old and its eventualreplacement promises to redefine the standard ofthe class once more, as well as giving Porsche,Bentley and Aston-Martin something to fret about.

Tonight though, with me at the helm, wecertainly established that the car was a lot morecapable than its driver.

Driven

roadwork page 08

Words and Pictures by: Chris Hainingpage 09 roadwork

What is it like to spend eight days driving, eatingand sleeping in a fourteen year-old Peugeot?Chris Haining found out, so you don’t have to.

Adventure

roadwork page 10

Part One

PostcardsPeugeotfrom a

We had eaten on the ferry, payingthe earth for the usual trucker-friendly blend of grease,carbohydrates and potato, and Ienjoyed it immensely but reallydidn’t need that second slice offried bread. A substantialbreakfast, we thought, wasessential to see us through untilthe end of the days driving todaysobjective being to get through asmuch of central France as wecould in as little time as possible.

I found myself, along withmy girlfriend Nicola, in Calaishaving already been travelling forover four hours. We had taken itupon ourselves to go on a bit of aholiday, not, of course, by plane tosomewhere exotic, but by car,exploring two and a half thousandmiles of Europe. Last year, myselfand a friend had proven that fourthousand miles could bedispatched by car in a singleweek, and rather than beingscared off by such a daftendeavour, Nicola wanted a piece

of the action.Higher stakes this time

though. We would be travellingfor the next eight days in a 1995Peugeot 306, Nicolas daily driver.And we had no particular reasonto choose this as our favouredtransport, other than that weowned it and it should beeconomical. But the main threatto our success was that, for thelast 18 months, the Peugeot hadbeen maintained solely by yourstruly. And it had suffered a recentproblem with overheating.

Better still, on the way toDover this morning a peculiarnoise had issued from under thebonnet. A strange, grinding noisewhich had apparently reared itshead before and then gone awaymonths ago, but which soundedrather ominous at the beginningof such a lengthy road trip. Thistime, after a stop at a motorwayservice station to stock up onRed-Bull and Pro-Plus, the noisehad disappeared again. It left us

wondering whether it was seriousand would it knock our trip into acocked hat? Needless to say,other than acknowledging that ithad gone quiet, neither of usmentioned it again, possiblypreferring to pretend it neverhappened.

My recent driving historyhas left me rather sheltered andspoilt. My working day sees medriving posh new cars day in, dayout. I am insulated from the worldby advanced sound-deadening,Harmon-Kardon sound and flushglazing. The 306 is just fourteenyears old, but in that time therehave been two automotivegeneration shifts, the 307 and308, and they have each built (ordetracted from on some points)on the development of theirforebears. I was intrigued toknow, in real world driving, howdifferent would the old car befrom todays cutting edge, andcould it really be called progress?Would this whole episode be one

page 11 roadwork

I’d want to put behind me, or maybe therewould be a lesson somewhere for me tolearn?

We had come equipped with a 12vcoolbox, one of those peltier effect jobs whichkeep its contents either incubated or slightlychilled, and it was empty thus far except someSpreadable Anchor butter. So it needed fillingwith comestibles for the Journey, and I onlyknew the confirmed existence of onesupermarket in the whole of Europe. This wasthe Carrefour in the Citie-Europe complexoutside Calais, favourite of coach-drivers andcorner-shop proprietors across the UK.A brief flurry of efficiency before departure hadseen me remember to bring a leaflet I had forCitie-Europe, which had on it the addressdetails of the complex, so we stood somechance of finding it. Which led us to the firstoccurrence of a theme which was to repeatitself throughout the trip, namely, how to useour Sat-Nav system.

We had bought a Garmin system tooffer us navigational support over and abovethat afforded by our Jumbo AA Road Atlas ofEurope, a shrewd move we both agreed. Butwhen faced with the mysterious address ofCitie-Europe, neither of us could figure out howto enter it into the system. Postcode? Whichbit of the address is the postcode? Destinationnot found? Bugger.

Fortunately, my vague recollectionssaved the day, and it turned out to be on themain road between Calais and Boulogne,which happened to be where we were headedanyway. We visited the hypermarket, stockedup with yoghurts, bread, bottled water andsweets (to supplement the crisps we alreadyhad, Pom-bear and Tesco Value) and bracedourselves for attacking the spine of France.

To demolish as many miles as wecould we would need to use fast roads, and inFrance this invariably means tolls. Wemaintained a comfortable cruise of between60 and 70 and stopped occasionally to doleout a handful of Euros at the Paeges. We wereby now navigating using the map, but with theGarmin set up to keep us in roughly the rightdirection. We wanted to avoid Paris as it would probablyabsorb more than its fair share of our drivingtime, so we headed first in the direction of LeMans, then Chartres, then Orleans, thenClermont Ferrand, where we would join thefinal autoroute of the day, the magnificent

Adventure

roadwork page 12

A75. The early stages of the trip disappeared with little drama,the only hilarity being when the two-way adaptor we had to supplyvolts to the Garmin and the fridge, got hot, and melted. It hadbeen cack from the beginning; a big, bulky affair that only justfitted into the cars awkwardly placed lighter socket, and whichlost electrical contact with even the slightest movement.

It melted less than 3 hours into the trip, leaving us havingto alternate between running the fridge (to preseve our newlyacquired yoghurts) and having GPS. We figured that the Yoghurtwas the most important and so dismissed the Garmin fromduties, after having shown itself of some worth, guiding us safelythrough the more industrial areas of Orleans.

It was when we elected to abandon the autoroutes,whose tolls were already eating away into our Euro reserves, toperhaps start to see a bit of French scenery, that we had our firstinteraction with French society. Driving cautiously on unfamiliarroads, from one identical French peasant village to the next, allbrown plastered houses, closed shutters and little or no sign oflife, I saw in the middle distance what looked like a trials-bike rider,all black leather. I saw his bike, too, and that he was waving me tothe roadside. Maybe there had been an accident and he neededour help?

That would be no, then. Instead, a man with glasses andan amusing hat invited me to pull over, produce my documentsand sit in a van for a little chat. It was les Rozzers. His English wasa damn sight better than my French, I nonetheless attempted butmy Franglais wasn’t particularly well received, and he didn’tawardme any leniency for trying. The fine for 80kmh in a 50kmhzone was 90 Euros, and I gained a point on my French drivinglicense, something I never knew I possessed.

Once back in the car, I was annoyed. Stupid of me, surelythere had been signs advising that there was a 50 km/h limit,surely I could have seen the speed gun and slowed in time. Butbecause I hadn’t been intentionally driving fast, this neveroccurred to me. We were never likely to experience the upperlimits of anything much in a 1.4 litre 306, but this was alwaysintended to be a nice, sedate trip. It was a shame that the spectreof the Gendarmes constantly on the look out for errant speedingeengleeshs would render relaxation a little less easy.

With Nicola at the helm we pressed on, thinking it wouldstill be wise to bypass a chunk of toll and stick to the back roadsas far as Clermont-Ferrand while daylight remained. We werestruck by a wizard wheeze, our yoghurt having by now reachedabsolute zero, to set the Garmin to keep us from straying ontomotorways. For a while all seemed to be going well when,suddenly. it announced “prepare to turn left”, the left in questionappearing to be a tiny residential street, so we ignored it.Displeased, it went on to demand we again turn left, this timeonto something that looked like a farm track. Mile after mile wegave blatant disregard to the Garmin, with its preposterousrouting suggestions, which served not only to aggravate, but alsoto instil fear and confusion into my poor girlfriend.

Nicola had never driven on the right, and tends not to goon really long drives very often. One reason for our somewhat

page 13 roadwork

roadwork page 14

leftfield choice of transportationwas that it was Nicolas own car,and she felt comfortable driving it.But she could have really donewithout the unease brought on bythe Garmin barking out silly ideas,and me saying “No, ignore it!”. Thesolution, in the middle of Clermont-Ferrand, and after a particularlyludicrous instruction from theGarmin, was for it to be switchedoff, and me to take over driving fora bit. Nicola had done the lastcouple of hours, it was now pitchdark, and I would start the nightshift and drive as far as I couldbefore fatigue killed me for thenight.

The N75 is a fantasticroad, made even better by theadded mystery of night. I have nodoubt at all that the scenery itthreads through is astonishing, butI didn’t get to see any of it. I recallthough huge numbers of roadsideeateries and illuminated hoardingslining the tarmac as it sinuouslyflows from valley to crest. In placesthe gradients were deceptively

steep, and unless I kept 75mphplus in the bank my speed wouldsoon dwindle on the ascent and adownshift would be necessary,along with joining the trucks in thecrawler lane.

I was enjoying the car,though. I loved that it felt like I wasdoing all the work, and I loved thatyou could hear exactly what wasgoing on under the bonnet, feel thegears meshing, the clutch biting.The steering, devoid of anyhydraulic input, was just a linkagefrom biceps to wheels. For the firsttime in a long while, I wasparticipating in the sport ofmomentum management, taking

overtaking opportunities wherevergravity and traffic allowed, usingthe throttle gently and never, evertouching the brakes. To me, this isthe essence of driving. Mygirlfriend could see how much fun Iwas having at thoroughly legalspeeds.

It is such a shame thatthe cars of today, irrespective ofprice, mostly deny you thesesimple tactile pleasures. I look atthe driver of a newish MercedesC-Class as he spears past; he’snot driving, he’s steering but hiscar is doing everything else forhim. I feel we have the moral

victory of the roads as we draw toa halt at a service area outsideSeverac-Le-Chateau.

Here, BP were to playhosts for us for our first night ofEuropean sleep. Night had trulytaken over and the pro-plus hadlong since worn off, it was wise tostop now lest fatigue andgrumpiness get the better of us.Our accommodation for tonightand the next seven, if all else wet

“.... a man with glasses

and an amusing hat invitedme to pull over and

produce my documents...”

Adventure

to plan, was the car. This meant a bit ofreorganisation to make the most of themeagre interior space, the coolbox, mapsand belongings were all assigned newhomes for the night and the seats werereclined to give some semblance of bed-ness. The morning would tell whether theplan was going to work, if we would make itthrough the week without a major re-think.

It had been a day not withoutdrama, and a little misadventure. But thecar seemed to be in fine form, the earlierquestions seemed to have answeredthemselves for now, and better still, wewere having fun. Burt now, sleeping bagsdeployed, and on the edge ofunconsciousness, we closed our tired eyesand slid contentedly into a deep, chilly,slumber.

Sunday, 4th October, 2009.Severac-Le-Chateau to Marseilles

We had been travelling deep intothe night, and had finally reached our limitsat a BP service station near Severac-le-Chateau. The service areas in Europe offera legitimate place to spend the night onlong journeys, they are usually rich withheavy trucks, the sort with curtains and TVaerials, and rest is essential when travelling

page 15 roadwork

the long distances offered by theinterior of France. The question ofwhether we would survive our firstnight had been answered, but wewere thankful that we had comeequipped with blankets and warmclothes. It had been a cold night,but you never notice the cold untilyou wake up, and then find itimpossible to sleep again.

When we did finally getup, we were made fully aware thatwe were definitely, properly, nolonger in England. What we sawthrough our condensation heavywindscreen was a proper view ofrural France. The whole hillsidevillage of Severac-le-Chateau waspresented in front of us, completewith castle at its peak and lookinglike a haven to all the possibleFrench stereotypes. We were

tempted to visit and look for signsof a beret-toting unshaven man ina blue striped jersey with a stringof onions around his neck, astridea rickety old bike with a basket fullof baguettes. We made do insteadwith using the facilities at theservice station and grabbing someleaflets from the excellent touristinformation desk, noting how, sofar, European service stationswere better than English ones inevery single way.

We found ourselves in aregion known as Aveyron, famousfor lending its name to a certainBugatti, which is appropriate whenyou take the roads inconsideration. They. Are. Superb.

One notable feature, ofcourse, is the Milau Viaduct, amagnificent and world reknown

structure that piggybacks the A75over the Milau Valley, a span whichprevents an otherwise 45 milejourney. It was my second visithere, and it still causes shortageof breath when I see it, even on TV,but to see it and to hear it isanother matter. After visiting thethoroughly superb visitor centre,which even provided theoccasional word of English if youlooked hard enough, Nicola drovethe Peugeot over the worldshighest motorway bridge deck (ata thousand feet, Canary WharfsOne Canada Square would easily fitbeneath) while I excitedly squirtedthe video camera around. Probablyunwatchable, but it felt necessaryat the time.

To be honest, the roadfrom Clermont Ferand to

Adventure

roadwork page 16

Montelimar didn’t really need embellishment with sucha grand structure, but it acted as an extraordinarydressing atop an already inspirational salad. Carving itsway through sandstone landscapes, bridge and tunneltakes you from one scintillating panorama to the next.The autumn colours dance from the palette all yearround while the foliage scrolls through the traditionalseasonal spectrum. It was no surprise whatsoever thatI totally missed our turnoff. I was proving a terrible co-pilot, my concentration quite rightly being stolen by oursurroundings.

Acknowledging my failings, I turned to theGarmin to lead us safely into Marseilles, our next portof call. The AA Atlas of France provided a (nearlyuseless) street plan of the town, with only a handful ofstreet names, and I dialled one in which looked to bepretty much where we wanted to end up. And herebegan a battle of wills between Global PositioningTechnology and us.

At first I was very obedient, following the roadsthat it suggested, until I got fed up with the autorouteand opted for the coastal road into Marseille. After theroads we had been on this morning, the flat landscapeand cohorts of trees and vines, all perfectly aligned,were a marked contrast. Our first sighting of theMediterranean was a somewhat industrialised andslightly unlovely one, and I handed control back over tothe Garmin.

There was a brief flurry of excitement whenmy phone rang, it was my long-suffering best mateexpressing difficulty in getting hold of Glastonburytickets for Nicola and I. Bank account numberschanged hands and cheers went up when all was well,at which point we were slap bang in the middle of atraffic strewn Marseille.

page 17 roadwork

As if to punish mydisobedience, the Garmin took it uponitself to send us down all manner ofside streets barely wide enough for abicycle, let alone a car. Door mirrorswere in great peril as the streetswound around the city centre, and alltoo often we were sent the wrong wayin one way traffic, or onto streetswhich had long been pedestrianizedwith no vehicular access.

After one daft instruction twomany, I sacked the Garmin and tookmatters into my own hands. Our enddestination (the marina) was actuallywithin visual range, and we wereheaded the wrong way. So, skilfullyavoiding the trams, and one heartstopping near J-turn later, we werehome and dry. We found a hugelyexpensive place to park securely, andsighed with relief.

Poor Nicola, though, was nota well girl. The combination ofheadache, heat and constant evasivedriving action had aggravated hersomewhat, and it was all she could doto stand and walk. It didn’t help thatour initial impression of Marseille hadbeen lukewarm at best. Certainly wefelt it necessary to be protective of ourpossessions, and I caught my Nikonbeing eyed up on a couple of

occasions. We didn’t make it any further

than the marina. We took it nice andeasy, a few holiday snaps and that wasthat. I’ll gloss over how Nicola waswhen we got back to the car, but shewas feeling much better when westopped on the promenade to watchthe sun setting over theMediterranean for the first time. Afterthe dramas of the day we had greatcause for relaxation and made plans tohead for our rest stop for the night, aservice area on the city’s outskirts.

Unfortunately for my preciouscargo, the last section of driving for theday was unexpectedly arduous, theroad we took out of Marseille havingmany sharp turns and manic drivers.Such was the tailgating I suffered that Iwas forced to keep speed up, andNicola suffered rather more lateral Gthan I wanted to expose her to. After acouple of mercy stops we finally madeit to the rest area, which wassubstantially less pleasant than theprevious night, and had a go at eatingsome fine food in the guise ofAlphabetti Spaghetti. I lapped mine upon an empty stomach, not sure ifNicolas went down quite as well.

It certainly came up wellagain, though.

Adventure

roadwork page 18

Snails Toast?

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

Eccentric cars for eccentricpeople. Citroen were glad toshed that image, or so they

thought. How nice after yearsof design dullness to havesome of the old madness

back..

Chicken Tikka Masala is an oft-debatedfoodtuff. Wikipedia tells us that, in asurvey of 48 outlets producing aversion of the dish, the only ingredientthey had in common was Chicken. Italso proves they didn’t visit the ChineseI went to once in Coventry, where I’msure every dish had mammal contentof some kind. More relevantly, though,it means that Chiken Tikka Masala is aconcept, rather than an actual recipe.It is also the closest that a great manypeople come to getting a taste of India,it’s a curry and curries are Indian,right?

Authenticity is a difficult thingto market. I will tread lightly on thesubject of curries as I know less aboutthem than I do about Quasars, butwhat I do know, or I’ve been toldanyway, is that there are hundreds of

page 19 roadwork

On

Driven

roadwork page 20

curries out there in Asia which simply would notbe palatable to our homogenized, bland Europeantastes. As a result of this, your Indian Restauranton Ruislip High Street will be only too happy to sellyou any one of a great list of Westernised currieswhich have proven popular over the years, andthe customers will keep flocking back. No doubtthe “proper” stuff is available too, but you have toknow what to ask for.

There are loads of foods out there whichdon’t sell just because they’re too weird forworldwide exceptance. How about the French,with Escargot? In my 29 years my tastes havebroadened considerably, but I still couldn’t bringmyself to eat snails, regardless of the doubtlesslyorgasmic taste experience they offer. I’mprobably missing out on one of the all-time greatculinary sensations; the feeling of a fresh, lightlysautéed mollusc as it disintegrates on my tongue.They are typically cooked with garlic or parsleybutter, I say thank Christ for that, anything todisguise the reality of eating a bloody snail.

So, suppose we accept that Escargot is

delicious. How to market this to a greatunwashed who feel daring when we order oursteak cooked medium-rare? Well, the tasteseems to be fine, it’s probably the texture thatthrows up the biggest challenge. How aboutsnails on toast? Take the essence of Escargot,reduce it to a spread (or pate, if you like) andspread it thinly on a slice of granary. Bingo, thebest of both worlds, French eccentricity and goodold British stodge is a convenient, underwhelming package.

This is, essentially, what Citroën havebeen up to recently with their cars. Formerly amarque so bizarre in their visions of how carsshould be, you’d think their design team washeaded by Salvador Dali and Andre Breton.Rotating speedometers were commonplace,styling was retrofuturist by todays standards, andall-encompassing hydropneumatic systems wereprevalent. The cars, where irksome in someareas, were beloved by a great many enlightenedsouls who revered their technology, ride comfortand fuel efficiency.

page 21 roadwork

Mnay tears have been wept over theyears as Citroën spiralled down in a near-fatalwhirlwind of conformity, ending with the releaseof cars as anodyne as the Citroën Xsara andvarious re-badged people carriers. Thecraziness had gone, hippy old Citroën was on acome-down, and shaved off its dreadlocks andplaits with the view to going into business as aresponsible adult. They had sold out, man. Theyhad changed.

And by and large, it didn’t work.Citroën were nothing without their identity, andin many ways lay in the shadows of their Frenchcompatriots. They were beginning to beperceived as a budget, family oriented brand,and their sales figures were kept buoyant bynever-ending cashback deals. It seemed thatyou could pick a Citroën up for as near asdammit half price, just by clipping out a couponfrom the paper.

Citroën woke up with a start one day in2004, suddenly realising that they had sold thefamily silverware for a really terrible price. Itwas time to right the wrongs of the last fifteenyears, they had a fresh new platform (sharedwith the Peugeot 308) to use, and were free tostoke up the boilers of that famous Citroën

“.....tears were wept asCitroën spiralled down in anear-fatal whirlwind of

conformity...”

Driven

roadwork page 22

Imagination. The car they created was theC4, adopting the corporate nomenclaturethat had already infiltrated the rest of therange, bringing with it a more professional,businesslike sounding roster.

In my humble opinion, they judgedthe balance between playful Citroëngrotesquery and zeitgest targetingcompetence with almost laser-guidedprecision. Here was a car that lookedindividual, was well equipped andconventional to drive, and felt like itwouldn’t collapse into a pile of very Frenchirregular polygons. The car I have beforeme is a 1.6 C4, the presumptuouslynamed “cachet” special edition. This is an’09 car, and the first C4 I’ve driven for anydistance.

First thing you notice is that thedriving position is identical to its Peugeotstablemate, both cars have a cab-forwardstance resulting in a dashboard top youcould happily hold a snail race on. Unlikethe Pug, though, this is a dash of someindividuality. The major dials are digital andcentrally mounted, they hang there in midair and are translucent, letting daylightshine through. It might surprise theenthusiastic driver that Citroën havechosen to site the rev-counter separately,it is cowled into the hub of the steeringwheel, along with all the warning lights,right in front of your very eyes. And ofcourse, there’s that steering wheel bosswhich remains static when the wheel isturned. A nice bit of theatre, that.

The cabin does nothing toadvance the art of ergonomics, but it isfun, and that’s something that has beensorely lacking in French cars for ageneration. The amusement continueswhen you start the car and perfumecomes wafting from the centre vents,there is a refillable vial into which you canstick whatever odour you desire. WD40 orScrambled Eggs, if you like.

page 23 roadwork

Actually driving the car is a pleasant, ifforgettable experience. It drives very much like thePeugeot 308, goes where you point it with a littlebody roll, the suspension is firmer than gallic cars ofthe past, but combines with soft seat springing tomake for well cushioned progress. I would be veryinterested to try a C4 with a more powerful engine,maybe a diesel, the 1.6 here seems a little lifelessand breathy. All in all, it feels a step above previousCitroën products; all vestiges of the dark days havebeen removed.

What it doesn’t do, though, is upset theclass leaders. OK, it’s not priced like a Golf, it’s noteven priced like a Seat, but If they had just gone thatextra mile on the interior plastics, it could have been.

It is a real shame to think that, because youcan feel that the quality isn’t quite there, the C4seems destined to be another “affordable” familycar mixing it with the Koreans and the Chevrolets.

Thank god the promise the C4 showedwasn’t wasted, the renaissance continued after the

C4 opened the show. The C6 is widely regarded asbeing “on drugs”, fans of the CX, SM and XM rejoicefor its return to concave rear screens andspaceship proportions. Citroën have just launchedthe DS3, the car they see as their MINI and AudiA1 rival. Ambitious, but at launch the novelty factorand perceived quality of the car was good enoughfor the French to pull it off. It would be naïve toassume the same can’t be done with a car onesegment higher in the pecking order, maybe a DS4could find itself pitted against Audi A3 and BMW 1Series?

The escargot reduction on melba toast thatCitroën served up in the shape of the C4 turned outto be more like snail paste on mighty-white. We cansee what they were trying to achieve, and weapplaud their effort, but the ingredients just neededto be prepared with a little more sensitivity. Hereshoping that their next attempt will be automotivefoie gras with sauce perigueux, delicately drizzledwith jus de boeuf.

Driven

roadwork page 24

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

page 25 roadwork

Part Two

Where better to take a fifteen year old Peugeotthan that doyen of high-living, St Tropez?

Chris Haining continues the story

PostcardsPeugeotfrom a

Adventure

roadwork page 26

page 27 roadwork

Considering how the day beforehad ended up, we both sleptsurprisingly well. Tirednessprobably contributed to oursuccess in finding slumber, butlooking at our surroundings thismorning, and hearing the truckstrundle past, we would almostcertainly have struggled to kipunder any other circumstances.

Now properly installed inthe South of France, the nightswere warmer and the sun shonefor longer. There was a differentquality of light on offer as well.Everything somehow looked morecolourful (through these rose-

tinted holidaymakers contact-lenses), no matter how familiarthey were. The turquoise ofNicolas car seemed almostiridescent in the morning sun.

Our breakfast was usuallya basic affair, and today was nodifferent. The butter we had beenkeeping in the coolbox was doingsurprisingly well, it still smelt andtasted as it should do. The bread,too, had remained fresh and tasty,and I finished it off today. Theapples we had picked up afterhitting France had been the realsuccess story, though, particularlysucculent, and providing a distinct

whiff of healthy eating to take theedge off our roasted nut Trackerbars. Actually, we were eating likeroyalty on this trip.

After fresh coffee fromthe cafetiere (oh yes, we had oneof those too!) we set sail for ournext port of call, St Tropez. Lastyear I had stopped there only longenough to see the lights of thebay, and had passed through thetown centre with its restaurantsand pavement cafes only brieflyand at nighttime. More frequentvisitors would probably give StTropez a wide berth and leave it tothe tourists, but we wanted to

make our own minds up.We would take the coastal route and try

and make as much of our time on theMediterranean seafront as we could. Yesterday,as we approached Marseille we had beenreminded that, location aside, it was just anothertown and had all the usual problems associatedwith urban degeneration and overcrowding. Ofcourse, it was in Marseille where Le Corbusier,renown architect, had built his Unit d’habitation,which served as a prototype for high density living.And the legacy was there, with monolithicapartment blocks festooned with graffiti lining theapproaches to the city.

But what we were seeing today wasexactly what we held as our perfect vision of thesouth of France. Yes, the tourist element had hada considerable impact and bars and hotels were inready supply, but the look of the place was still as itshould be. Rocky shorelines give way to sandybeaches; palm trees sway on lazy seaside

promenades. It felt a little peculiar knowing thatthe little 1995 Peugeot 306 that we werethreading through this exotic scenery, would beused for the everyday commute to work in Essexin just a weeks time. Cars are amazing.

We found our paradise just outsideCavallier-Sur-Mer, after musing on what it mightbe like to live here, and the possibility ofreturning for a hotel based vacation. We hadlost sight of the water and the road was a fairway above sea level. It had broad shoulders toallow space for parking, and it seemed thatseveral motorists had the same idea as us,probably because there was access to a cliff-topwalk. So we walked it, and it led to us having big,broad smiles on our faces.

The pathway,shared by us and a few ex-pat looking, retired, sunkissed pensioners,branched off towards the sea, leading downhillunder the shade of some gloriously healthylooking trees, to a rocky peninsular and a

Adventure

roadwork page 28

sheltered beach. There was a family enjoying the littlebeach so we thought better of intruding, but we foundour own space on rocks overhanging the endless,aquamarine sea. The rocks were desert hues, yellowsand reds, with tiny crystals of quartz lending apermanent glow to the landscape. Every surface had athin sheen of natural glitter, and the cloudless sky bathedus with gentle, airy sunshine.

We sat, arms entwined, gazing at this new vista,and time stood still for a moment. We all keep asubconscious log of our favourite places, and this onesuddenly found itself in our top five. I secreted a smallpiece of loose rock into the folds of my jacket pocket forprosperity, to quell some strange desire to not just havevisited a place, but also to own some small part of it.Maybe it’s something I’ll grow out of.

I also cursed my lack of camera skill to properlyrecord the scenery we had become a part of. I triedmanual and automatic modes, too much and too little ofeach exposure and aperture, all in the hope that I’d get afew half decent photos among the several gigabytes I’dtake. I maintain that it really isn’t an easy landscape tophotograph with limited equipment, the constantsunshine and subtle colours lead to some washing outand being nowhere near as spellbinding as an imagethan you remember the real thing.

St Tropez was a little easier to capture. In placeof terracotta rockscapes and rampant cactus was whitefibreglass and glass smooth marina waters. Of course,thousands bemoan how the magic has gone and mutterabout the rot setting in, but if you’ve never been before itremains a fabulous place to visit. As we parked therewere dozens of teams packing up after competing in aninternational Dragon sailing championship, the sleektraditional keelboats seeming quite at home in this mostgenteel community.

A stroll through the marina pretty muchdamned my chance of affording anything; boats less thanthirty feet in length were rarities, and most of these wereprobably tenders to much bigger vessels. Indeed, in themost prestigious area of the harbour there sat quite thebiggest private sailing yacht I’ve ever laid eyes on, allmuscular and black in carbon fibre and white leather.

The harbour did display some signs of thetourists having the upper hand, with T-Shirt mongersrubbing shoulders with vodka bars and an exquisitelooking ice-cream parlour, which, price aside, ratherappealed to us. And then, once you’ve got past theparade of shops you suddenly find yourself on a rockyshoreline and nothing matters any more. There was verylittle that could spoil my day as I sat with my toes inwarm Mediterranean water, watching the billionairesfrolicking on the waves.

Needing refreshment on the road out of StTropez, we guiltily sank our first McDonalds of the trip, in

page 29 roadwork

a shopping complex in Cassis, where werestocked on bread and posted our hastilywritten postcards. Well, five of them, I hadmistakenly asked for one too few stamps in myappalling franglais. We then proceededthrough the affluent looking town of Frejus andtook the very pretty scenic route towards theautoroutes, and eventually Italy.

There were three kinds of drivingtoday, slow and gentle as we took in the sightsof the Mediterranean, slow and precarious aswe negotiated hillside passes out of Frejus,with its vertical drops and no provision forcrash barriers. And now, for the first time onthe trip, fast and mesmerising.

The autoroute from Cannes, alongthe coast towards Genoa, marks another entryin my favourite roads list. It is, for the mostpart, several hundred feet off the ground, andit is made up almost entirely of bridges andtunnels, often carrying it over entire towns. Asan engineering feat it is pretty staggering, andto drive on it, especially after dark, is a veryspecial driving experience. I’m not alone in mythinking, we saw countless Maseratis and aFerrari Testarossa all having serious fun onthe Autoroute, becoming the Autostrada oncewe penetrated Italy.

In the dark it felt like a hyper-realisticvideo game, made more so with thesurprisingly tight radiuses of several corners.We were driving in rain for a period, andconcentration was required (even at Peugeot306 speeds) to avoid having a Playstation stylewipeout, but the roads became a lot more

roadwork page 30

Adventure

ordinary as we slipped deeper intoItaly, and gradually adrenaline gaveway to fatigue. It was a relaxingend to a fantastic day of driving.

Eventually, about 30 milesfrom Milan, after shelling out yetmore Euros at toll booths, and nowreally, properly tired, we pulled offthe Autostrada and to our homefor the night. It was the car park ofan Autogrill service area, whichwas a real period piece, spanningthe entire road on an overbridge. Itmust have dated from the ‘60sand you could imagine the carpark bristling with baby Fiats.Today it is slightly faded but stillgave excellent service, as asquadron of parked lorriestestified.

What we foundastonishing, as we sat there ateleven at night, was how quiet theroad was. This was a motorwayclose to Milan, and there were onlyone or two cars per minute in

either direction. Sleep, it seemed,wouldn’t be a problem. In factcounting lorries would serve mewell as unconsciousness gatheredme up in its warm hands.

Next day.

Sleeping in service stations, whilenot especially glamorous, has withit certain advantages. There isusually some sort of shop, in whichyou can buy crap to eat or drink,there may well be a restaurant soyou need not live, as we intended,on tinned ravioli and apples, andthe toilets are usually severalsteps up from doing the necessaryin a bush or a plastic bottle.

The Autogrill near Milanhelped us to remain civilised thismorning. We woke up toincreased traffic and a sun tryingto battle its way through thick greycloud. The building itself stood as agreat 1960s cathedral to a

golden age of Italian motoring, andexploring it offered us somewhereto pee and a shop full of tat. Therewas also a grill, of course, and wehad to work hard to avoid thetemptation to eat hot meat thismorning. It wasn’t easy, but wedecided that a Tracker bar andCherry Coke would save us timeand money, and we could getmoving.

We were aiming to get toLake Como this morning and itwas Nicolas stint behind thewheel. This meant she had to dealwith Milan traffic in the rush hour,and she coped with it ratherbetter than I did. Navigating, whiletricky, was the easy part. Thechallenge came from the Milanesedrivers who have the shortesttempers and worst manners Ihave ever encountered whiledriving. This was especially true ofvan drivers or anyone in aMercedes, and at one point, after

page 31 roadwork

Adventure

roadwork page 32

page 33 roadwork

“.... as the altitude increased itbecame obvious that some of the82 horsepower had bolted...”

Adventure

roadwork page 34

a spectacular piece of queuebarging Nicola had to swat my handaway from the horn button. Andquite rightly too, for all the good itwould have done us.

From what we saw of it,Milan was a lot like Birmingham. Aring-road is never the mostflattering perspective to view a townfrom, and the buildings surroundingthe city were not the best possibleadvertisement for the town. There isa mix of light industrial and high-volume retail, identikit warehousesand low-rise blocks from theseventies, all presented in varyingstates of repair. I can honestly saythat London’s North Circular road isa more attractive place to be. Thecentre of Milan is probably lovely.The Tangenziale Ovest di Milanoisn’t.

There was amusement onoffer from the Garmin, which hadbeen allowed back on duty afterdisgracing itself in Marseille, as itmade a right dogs dinner of theMilanese street names. Some of

them took it around five seconds topronounce and we were . By thetime we had got through all thetraffic and the roadworks Nicolawould have had the right to bereduced to a gibbering wreck. Butno, while a little shaken by theexperience she emerged emotionallyunscathed, and we were able tocontinue to Lake Como.

Where we were set uponby the Lecco Mafia! Pretty soonafter we arrived in the lakefronttown of Lecco in became apparentthat Nigerian immigrants wereoperating some sort of cartel on carparking. Every pay ‘n display machinehad a Nigerian ‘attendant’ by it, whowould stroll over to you after youhad parked and escort you to themachine. After ‘assisting’ you toremove the ticket from the machine,you are then expected to buysomething (of literally no value) fromthem. In our case we gave them twoEuros for a pair of woven bracelets.They would use intimidation tacticsto get your money, and who’s to

know what would happen if yourefused.

None of this particularlywarmed us to Lecco. We hadchosen to visit as it is probably theleast famous of the big towns onComo, and thus probably the mostunspoilt, but today, as we lookedover the lake towards themountains, without sunshine to liftour spirits we lacked a littleinspiration.

We walked through thetown in search of something thatwould wow us. Lecco seemedpleasant enough, the oldtownhouses typically Italianate andthe expected profusion of townsquare Ristorantes. Nicola laughedat me when ordering a coffee, Iasked if they speak English, they saidyes, and I asked for a cappuccino.Silly sod.

There had been an idea ofus spending the night on thelakefront, but we were increasinglyof the mood to get moving. We werestill a little uneasy about the security

page 35 roadwork

of where we had parked, and thesun seemed like it could breakthrough a little in the direction ofthe mountains, so it seemed like agood time to make a run for ournext objective.

Last year, in my own car,I had tackled the San Bernadinopass, and made quite a big thingof it with Nicola on my return. Thistime, of course we had to do apass of some sort, and whatbetter than the biggie, the PassoDel Stelvio.

The Stelvio pass is worldrenown. Voted Europe’s FinestDriving road by The ThreeComedians on Top Gear, peopleworldwide are familiar withimages of the hairpin bendscoursing their way up the steepvalley sides. And here was ourchance to experience it first handin a proper car. What bettervehicle to tackle Europe’s Finest

Driving Road than a ’95 Peugeot306 1.4?

It was a surprisingly longdrive from Lecco to Stelvio, andtook in loads of fairly remotevillages and farms, and we werenever short of interesting scenery.We could see the architectureturning gradually more Alpine aswe drove, and soon the roadsstarted to get more and moredemanding, and there comes amoment when, suddenly, you knowyou’re on the pass.

We paused at the shell ofa long abandoned building at thebase of the pass, drew a big deepbreath and went for it. With me atthe helm, the poor little Peugeotwas being asked to do things ithad probably never faced before,and the stresses soon started toshow. We noticed a knockingfrom the CV joint that we hadn’theard before, on full right lock

when negotiating a tight bend.There was nothing we could doabout it, other than pressing on.Geographically, at least, we wereon our way home.

I soon settled into arhythm, the bends are prettyevenly spaced and second gearwas fine for most of the inclines. Ifyou take a corner fairly wide, youare set up quite well for the nextand you needn’t twirl the wheelquite so elaborately. The little carwas coping admirably, but as thealtitude increased it becameobvious that some of the 82horsepower had bolted. First gearwas becoming necessary for anincreasing number of corners,and a slight element of fearstarted to materialise whenever astanding start was required. Butafter about half an hour of ascentwe came to a parking area andwere instantly rewarded for our

Adventure

roadwork page 36

efforts.Spread out below us was the Technicolor, real-

time version of the view we had seen so many times.You could almost see tripod footprints for thethousands of people who had sampled this vantagepoint, but that made it no less worthwhile. The line of theroad we had been following was so complex it wasvirtually impossible to trace by eye, yet for all its heightthe drops were surprisingly tame. There were fewer ofthe Italian Job style vertical drops than I had expected,and the mild October meant no snow. But still, theappreciable drop in temperature and lack of vegetationat this altitude reminds you of your achievement.

The driveable limit was a few minutes driveaway, and when we reached it the Peugeot breathed asigh of relief and was bought a Stelvio Pass Sticker as areward, which it would wear with pride from now on. Itwas getting on for 5 o’clock, and the souvenir shopswere closing for the day. So we took photos, drank in thesilence and readied ourselves for the descent.

I would hazard a guess that we put severalthousand miles of wear and tear on the car on our wayoff the pass. My driving technique had to be altered totry and reduce the strain on the brakes, and the methodI settled on was to let gravity do its stuff and then scruboff the gathered momentum into the bends, this orconstantly drag on the brakes which I’m sure wouldhave reduced the disks and pads to a nasty treaclymess.

Even so, pretty soon the air was thick with therichest essence of Ferodo, and the clutch was startingto do the same as the engine carried out braking dutiesas well. I needed three heads, one to judge clearanceson the vicious, dry stone walls, another to look forwardand judge braking distances, and the third to keep aneye on the engine temperature gauge. I marvelled as anappropriately driven Ferrari F430 Spider went rapidlythe other way, driver (bedecked in Ferrari overalls andcap, probably famous) and female passenger grinninginsanely. The right car for the job, and assumedly theright driver too.

There is no sudden end to the pass, the roadsjust gradually calm down until you’re in a beautifullyframed valley passing through cuckoo clock villages. TheArchitecture was properly Austrian now, and, if anything,the roads had become even more driveable.

I question Top Gears wisdom in crowning theStelvio Pass as Europes Finest Driving Road. There is fartoo much danger, too much traffic, and far too low anaverage speed to hold that rank, in my opinion. To me,fast driving is about flowing from apex to apex, judgingcambers and surprise road features to perfection. Thetopography of Stelvio just doesn’t accommodate this, it’sjust accelerate, brake, corner, accelerate, brake, cornerad infinitum. A lot of fun, and I enjoyed it immensely. But

page 37 roadwork

you wouldn’t design a grand prix circuit that way.The roads which flow through this part

of Austria, however, are amazing. Creamysmooth tarmac, wide, meandering turns andsome genuinely astonishing scenery. This wasmy new favourite driving road; in the world. Andwithout getting too dewy eyed about things, I wasabsolutely stoked about driving it in the companyof my girlfriend, who, it seemed, was enjoying itas much as me.

All too soon we passed by the brightlights of Innsbruk and into Germany. We were insuch a euphoric mood after all this enjoymentthat we probably gave the scenery more creditthan it was realistically due, Innsbruk lookeddelightful at night, and the hills which welcomedus into Southern Germany seemed to cup us in awarm, safe embrace. By this point we werecounting down to stopping for the night, but,such was our enjoyment, we kept extending ourdrive and passed countless rest opportunities,until finally giving in at a service area not farfrom Munich.

And we dined richly at Burger King, a guiltypleasure but oh so welcome.

Sleep came extremely easily that night.

Adventure

roadwork page 38

page 39 roadwork

FashionVictim?Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

Fiats New 500 is surfing the crest of a very fashion-able wave, Does the new Abarth model just add tinsel,

or can it begin a whole new movement?

Driven

roadwork page 40

I’m six foot five and there are certain cars I simplycannot fit inside, a Renault Alpine, for example, and aLotus Exige. Both of these cars have something incommon; they were built for enthusiasts. Theirdrivers would likely put up with a bit of discomfort forthe sheer joy of driving. I know I would, I have grazedknees, bumped heads and pulled muscles to savourthe experience of a Lotus on a winding road.

Small, naturally fun cars can often besurprisingly spacious. I have met numerous freakishlytall folk who cut their driving teeth in original Minis, acar where literally all the space inside was dedicatedto driver and passengers, and where impact safetyand bulky comfort enhancements were alienconcepts. Not just the Mini, though, this was true ofmost small cars, including the Fiat 500. The smallestcar you could still call a practical everydayproposition.

Developed to mobilize an increasinglyaspirational post-war Italian population, the Nouova,or New 500 was inspired partly by the rear-enginedlayout of the Volkswagen Beetle, but smaller and withsomething of a Latin flourish to the styling. It wasimmediately a massive sales success and was justwhat was needed at such growth times, just as wasthe case with Britain and the Mini.

There’s been a Nouova Nouova Fiat 500since 2007, and naturally it has virtually nothing in

page 41 roadwork

common with its namesake. It has the same cutelittle headlamps, the same cute curvy body andeven similarly shaped interior switches. They’veeven concealed the air intakes for the frontmounted engine to emulate the grille-less nose ofthe great original. It looks just like the '57 carwould after a million pies and simultaneouslycontracting gigantism and mumps, because thewhole festival of retro is draped over the beatingheart of a Ford Ka.

We all know this by now, thenew Ka isn’t as fun to drive as the oldone, yada yada yada. Most of us alsoknow that the Fiat, whilst a little moreendearing to steer than the Ford, stillisn’t the most bella example of un autoappassionato.

This car, the 500 Abarth, is Fiats answerto this predicament. In recent years the name ofthe Abarth tuning house has been treated withsome disrespect. Formerly the only name in Fiattuning, and with a long and proud motorsportheritage, the scorpion badge could now be seensmeared liberally along the sides of Fiat Stylos andBravos. The experts in getting the most out ofthat ancient flat-twin 500 engine were reduced to

being a brand applied to showy bolt-onaftermarket tat.

Fortunately, since the launch of the new500 Fiat have suddenly awoken and rememberedthat, since 1971, they’ve owned a fantastic namethat they’ve done very little with. Conveniently, thisrenaissance has coincided with a frenzy ofinterest in the hot-hatch market. Little, quick carsare big business, and the Abarth is very little and

pretty damn nippy.I was filled with glee, joy and

excitement when I heard that I wasto spend time with one. Sureenough, when I arrived to collect itmy eyes were met by a very pert,very purposeful looking car. Maybethe Abarth badges were a little

overdone (I counted fourteen overall, inside andout) but the car hunkered down over its littleCampagnola style alloys and gave all the right “tinybut violent” looks. Inside, the seats were nicelyfigure hugging and there were hints of “drive mefaster” everywhere I looked. I was a little mystified,then, when I drove off in what felt just like anyother small hatch.

The sports exhaust announces the

“....not the mostbella example of

un autoappassionato...”

Driven

roadwork page 42

turbocharged 1.4 litre engine’s intentions from somedistance to anybody interested but, at low revs and intown traffic, it really feels no different to a base 500.Or a Ka, come to mention it. But maybe that's a goodthing? Maybe around town the last thing you need is asnarling monster ready to tear your face off on yourway to Tesco.

Driving around leafy Hammersmith I got soused to all this normalness that, once back on theGreat West Road, the fun and games on offer in therev-counters second and third quadrants came assomething of a surprise, and frankly, a bit of a relief.Give the accelerator a determined prod and the little500 charges forward like a terrier on a postmen-onlydiet. By Big Powerful Car standards the eightishseconds that sixty takes from standstill won't rock theestablishment, but its flexibility and the ability to quicklyovertake the traffic that least expects it are key to theAbarth experience.

As too, though, are a number of features Iwould rather go without, and the first one is the ridequality. Ok, it's rare that you find a proper sports carwith a featherbed ride, and handling is usuallyenhanced when a degree of firmness is dialled into theformula. But here I rather feel they've over-egged thepudding. Not only is the ride (to my posterior at least)excruciatingly uncomfortable, but I actually believe thatI'd have more confidence in corners if the suspensionhad any semblance of give. Those sexy wheels andtyres lend terrific grip on smooth corners, but hit abump mid-bend and the car can be sent scurryingsideways like a drunken spider.

This could actually end up getting you into allkinds of trouble, because of bugbear number two:- Thesteering. Again, most of the great drivers cars havesteering with a bit of weight behind it, racing Go-Kartshave the heaviest, most direct steering and make myshoulders ache like bastards. It is possible, though, tohave power steering that still has feel to it, BMW arerediscovering the art lately after some time in thewilderness, but here in the Abarth Fiat have tried tocreate feel simply by turning down the powerassistance when in Sport Mode, and you can't justconjur feel up from where there is none. All thesensation through the wheel is served by the tyres

page 43 roadwork

and suspension, not the steering itself.As well as toning your arms nicely, Sport

mode also further provokes the engine, allowingmore boost and slightly more top-end torque. Thingis, I can't quite understand why there would be atime that you'd want less torque. It's not as if theengine is so powerful that it has to be reined in foryour safety. How about make it Sports modepermanently, but without the stiff steering that justfeels like the hydraulic pump's knackered?

And finally, no out and out sporting carwould be complete without being intolerably noisyinside, and here is the 500s crowning glory. TheAbarth should never, ever be taken on motorwaysafter a heavy night out, it will lead to anger andmigraines. The exhaust note is entertaininglyflatulent enough to have some novelty, but it is soonjoined by an equal volume of tyre noise and theresultant cacophony leads to listening to the stereobeing a futile endeavour. Worst of all is that, onceon the motorway in your noisy, uncomfortableAbarth you say to yourself “aha, now the car canredeem itself with animal levels of power andspeed”. And then you feel a tidal wave ofdisappointment when you realise that it simply isn'tas quick as you want it to be.

And that pretty much sums the car up forme. Visually and sonically it shouts clues pointing to

a mischievous, highly strung personality, but it justdoesn't have the power to carry it off, let alonejustify that bone-firm suspension. I guess that Fiatsimage-is-all clientele won’t care a jot.

To be fair to Fiat my car is the Abarth lite,there are many packages available for manythousands of quid, all building on the foundation thiscar provides. More power, up to 180hp is available,as is, mind-bogglingly, even firmer suspension.What they can't offer me, though, is the 500 I'dwant.

My 500 would have the Abarth engine, thebase tune will be just fine, but would marry it to thenon-sport steering and have some more pliantsuspension. It would also have a massive injectionof sound deadening to create a quiet environmentin which to enjoy the characterful and well-builtcabin while travelling at speed. My 500 would thenbe a quite superb small vehicle for coveringdistances in. A 500 GT if you will.

I was expecting and hoping for the Abarthto be a properly hardcore car. I was looking forsomething mental, something unhinged. Instead Igot a headache from a car which was far more talkthan it was trousers. Earlier I remarked that I wouldgladly trade a little comfort for some Italian brio. If Imust be masochistic I'd love Fiat to give me a littlemore fun to enjoy while I’m in agony.

roadwork page 44

page 45 roadwork

Indecent ObsessionWords and Pictures by: Chris Haining

The Jaguar S-Type, a retro relic from the late ‘90s, ispositively antique in the light of dynamic European rivals.What possible, rational reason could I have for liking it?

Driven

roadwork page 46

Flaming Hot Monster Munch.Never liked ‘em. I didn’t really likeany spicy food much, to be honest,and yet now if a peppered steakappears on the menu I’ll jump rightat it, and the nice, gentle RoastBeef Monster Munch no longer hitsthe spot.

It’s funny how we suddenlytake a liking to a taste, a sensationor a product that we previouslyheld with disinterest or contempt. Ithappens with music, it happenswith fashion, and it happens withcars. And yesterday evening, ithappened to me with the Jaguar S-

Type.Coming on stream in ’99,

the S-type marked a stepdownmarket for Jaguar, intendedas it was as a both-barrels attackon the BMW 5 Series andMercedes E-Class, modelstraditionally seen as beneath theJaguar XJ’s portion of the market.For the past two decades Jaguarhad been pretty much a two linerange, you had the XJS if youwanted to go fast and the XJ6/12if you wanted to go luxuriously,though with hindsight both carswere equally capable in either role.

In the 1960s the rangehad been broader, the Gangsters’favourite the MK2 ran at the sametime as the limousiney MK VIII, bothsharing that legendary 3.8 straightsix. And all the while the E-Typestood as the sultry temptress atthe sporting end of the range. Windforward to ’99 and the XK8 hadthe E-Type sector covered and theXJ8 was capably filling the shoes ofthe old Mk VIII. If only there was away Jaguar could tempt those witha little less cash to throw around.

Enter stage left a platform,codename DEW98 that Ford had

been developing for US brandLincoln. Eventually this wouldunderpin the Lincoln LS, theFord Thunderbird, and yes, theJaguar S-Type. Available at firstwith Ford based AJ-V6 or ahome brew AJ-V8 engines. Asmaller 2.5, economical dieseland somewhat specialSupercharged variants wouldturn up in due course.

On launch to anexcited public at theBirmingham Motor Show in'98, the S-Type was met byuniversal Oh's, raised eyebrowsand confused shrugs. Abewildered press consideredthat either Jaguar had broughtone of it's heritage fleet to thelaunch “for a laugh” or that theworld and its contents had

been transported back to abygone age. To say that Jaguarhad piled on the retro toucheswas something of anunderstatement, long ofbonnet, short of boot and witha drooping, saggy bottom like,well, like Jags did forty yearsago. And so did Rovers, Singersand Standards. Germany wasstaggered just how far fromthe Zeitgeist the English carhad fallen. Here was a new carfor retired middle classaccountants, not the thrustingcaptains of future industry keyto the BMW heartland.

If the curiouslyVictorian exterior wassurprising, the inside wasperplexing. For the first timesince the XJS in '75 Jag were

trying its luck with a non wood-and-leather interior. Almostuniversally rejected by thepress, Jaguar backtracked andrectified things a few year laterwith an interior very close tothat of the XJ and far more inkeeping with the restrainednature of the rest of the car,

And that pretty muchsummed things up. At a timewhere repro Le Corbusierrecliners were popular, Jaguarhad released a wingback chair.It became a familiar sight onBritish roads, usually driven byelderly types who wanted a carlike the one they had fortyyears ago.

Could it be anycoincidence that I collected thecar in these photos from a

page 47 roadwork

seventy-five year old man? I fear not. This threeyear old example, a 2.7 Diesel Sport model,was being traded for a Mercedes E320 dieseland I was in charge of delivery and collection.Last week I had driven a tired, hundredthousand mile '04 2.5 S-Type, and it hadn'texactly turned me on. I handed the Benz overto its new owner and sat behind the wheel ofthe Jag, and somehow, ten minutes later, myworld was being torn apart.

I think firstly it was the engine thatimpressed me. Previously I had onlyencountered the V6 petrol engines whichdidn't exactly feel special, my ride tonightcontained Jaguars 2.7 V6 diesel, smallish butwith extra whoosh from a pair ofturbochargers. And boy, do they give goodwhoosh. A solid, thumping fist of torque buthardly any commotion in the cabin. This feltgood.

Also good was the ride. Not the floatyover-soft experience I swear I could remember,but something far more controlled. Not hard,just progressive. You can feel that you'removing along an imperfect road surface.

My evening drive was in two stages. Itwas dark when I left my Girlfriends house, backin the Jag and, suddenly, the uninspiringinterior in my mind was replaced by an aircraftcockpit. The dials, their graduations markedsharply in bright green, are patrolled by brightorange needles swinging fluidly about their axis.The touchscreen Sat-Nav had defaulted to theJaguar logo screen, again a feature I wasfamiliar with, but tonight, for some reason, itfelt like it was trying to impress me. And it wasworking.

Gently passing the coast road withjust the occasional burst of midrangeacceleration to wake me up, soon thecountryside welcomed my four ellipsoidheadlamps with a winding road I am on verygood terms with. This is my “testing” road, aplace where I try any car I have feelings for,

“ ....but tonight, for somereason, it felt like it was

trying to impress me. And itwas working....”

Driven

roadwork page 48

just like Us and Them from Dark Side Of TheMoon when I'm trying a new HiFi.

I wasn't on a mission to find thecars limits, I just wanted to see how far itwould go to entertain me. In full auto,waftmatic mode, traction control on, I couldjust stuff this big cat into any corner atseemingly any speed and it would just trackthrough on its P-Zeros. My god, this is aneasy car to drive fast. Good brakes, too, witha split personality allowing them great townperformance when you just dab 'em, butfeeling ready to offer the goods on full-attackmode.

I arrived home facing an emotionalconundrum. I was enjoying the car far morethan I had a healthy reason to. I spent halfan hour taking photos of it in the dark on mydriveway, when I started to enjoy looking atit I knew it was time to go to bed.

Next morning, bright and early itwas time for more driving. My unexpectedjoy in the hands of the S-Type last nightmust have been a blip, I was on anemotional high from visiting my other half,

but this steering wheel feels really good inmy hands. Does it? Chris, snap out of it.Fast corner up ahead, feed it in, yeah, loadsof grip there, where's the apex? Ah, got it.CHRIS! Stop it. Ah bollocks, I like this car.

I really do. I stopped to take a fewdaylight photos for your viewing pleasure;through my viewfinder it no longer lookeddaft and anachronistic, it looked superb. Itlooked exactly like it does what it does,spear a lazy driver rapidly around thecountryside in absolute comfort. On thislater specification it's the details that reallyconsolidate the whole design, those finnedmultispoke wheels and serious Pirellis fill thearches beautifully, the reinstated leaping catand slightly more pert rear lights are theway they should have been from launch. Ok,I'll accept that those are a strange bunch ofproportions in this day and age, but itcertainly doesn't want for personality.

Driving off again and forgetting myseatbelt momentarily, I noticed that thewarning chime sounds like the opening barsof For Your Eyes Only. I love that terrible,

page 49 roadwork

terrible Bond flick and again get theimpression that the S-Type was fed upwith me being scathing about it and wastrying to convince me. Perhaps it was justthe way I had the seat set up, but thecabin felt great today. Sitting low behindthat nicely veneered dash, the matt-chrome surrounded dials in their ownrecess in the woodwork, it all felt verysporting. Very like I wasn't expecting. Theonly jarring note, in daylight, was thatcentral Touchscreen and HVAC stack, thegeneric grey plastic buttonry has no placein a cabin of this class. Oh shit, did I justsay that?

“A cabin of this class”. Oh dearyme, I'm buggered now. I've gone fromyesterdays feeling of the S-Type as a failed,old fashioned design folly, to being a juniorBentley were it not for being a fewmicrons of interior chrome shy. Ponderingthis as I silently dart along the A12. I'mstill confused when I pull up at work andam greeted by one of my colleagues, ahigh flyer in the Mercedes sales army.

He grins, “You love that car, don’tyou?” I look at him for a few seconds, andthen hang my head in shame.

“Yeah, so do I.” He confesses. Heis a man who drives expensive Germancars on a daily basis, a man not afraid tocall a spade appropriately and who isforthright in condemning cars that fail toengage him. Here he is admitting to methat the facelifted S-Type has a way ofgetting under your skin and winning youover. And it has. I'm totally smitten and Imay need to take professional advice onthe matter.

While I'm talking rubbish I'llstretch to say that the S-Type'sreplacement, the XF, has been with us afew years now. On release there wasmuch talk of The Shock Of The New, andcelebration of Jaguar embracing themodern era. To my eyes, now the noveltyhas warn off, the XF is starting to look likea Big Mondeo. I'm actually beginning towonder if the S-Type was launched fifteenyears ahead of it's time, I'm sure that themarket would be cock-a-hoop if a car waslaunched tomorrow with that kind ofindividuality.I must stop typing now, I have the urge fora really hot curry and I never used to likethose, either.

Driven

roadwork page 50

page 51 roadwork

NotYour Dads

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

Touring Car racing has been missing from my life forabout a decade. Can a free trip to Brands Hatch

rekindle my long-missing passion?

Motorsport

roadwork page 52

C-Class

Not so long ago my bedroom walls wereplastered with images of Volvos. In an erawhere Kylie Minogue was in her crisp-buttocked element and Nirvana weremarketing misery to an appreciative pre-teenaudience, this sounds tragic. But theseparticular Swedish meatballs were 850Estates and they were dicing with Alfa Romeo156s in the British Touring CarChampionships. This was the early 90’s and Ihad divorced Formula One in favour ofwatching these heavily tuned proper carsswapping paint on the track. The racing wasclose and contact was frequent. But, best ofall, you could kid yourself that the car yourDad drove was somehow related to the oneyou’re watching on TV as it rounds ClarkeCurve one final time before taking thechequered flag.

My Dad had a Ford Mondeo,(slightly) like the one that Paul Radisich drove,and my friends Dad drove a Vauxhall Vectra,(a little bit) like the one John Clelandfrequently crashed. It was a Ford vs Vauxhallbattle between us two, but if your parentswere lucky enough to drive an Audi A4 or aBMW 3 Series you could be in on the fight aswell. In fact virtually every major brand on the

UK market fielded a combatant, evenPeugeot and Renault with the 406 andLaguna. They all had around 300hp and theyall used to fly off the track spectacularly atthe very slightest provocation. To me it wasthe greatest racing series in the world.

Living in my cosy little pubescentbubble I had little concept that the Germansmight have a racing series of their own. Theydid, and it was called the DeutscheTourenwagen Meisterschaft, or DTM. It wasa similar set-up but with only threemanufacturers; Alfa Romeo, Mercedes-Benzand a particularly evil looking Opel Calibra. Infact, because they weren’t limited byconforming to FIAs SuperTouring formula,they were even quicker and more excitingthan the BTCC. These were the Class 1Touring cars. Our boring old UK stuff wasClass 2. The last laugh was mine, though, theseries effectively finished in 1996.

In truth, the future didn’t look brightfor either series. The DTM and then theInternational Touring Car Championship itevolved into eventually imploded in a greedyblizzard of high costs, television rights issuesand poor event attendance. The BTCC, oncethe preserve of mighty Sierra Cosworths and

page 53 roadwork

if you go way back, wide-body Jaguar XJ12C’s,was later full of Seat Leons and Vauxhall Astras.The Magic, for me, was gone.

I owe this story to the German fightingspirit. There was No Way they weren’t going tohave their way and in 2000 a new DTM, theDeutsche Tourenwagen Masters was formed,much freer of restriction and allowingglorious V8 engines. In fact, while theteams were keen on keepingdevelopment costs down, it was still thecase that the cars were allowed to be ascompetitively designed as possible. Thismeant that the chassis were totallyunrelated to the vehicle each team wassupposed to represent, all cars wereRear Wheel Drive regardless of thelayout of the production car.

In 2004 Audi gave up protesting thatthey wanted to use Quattro and finally fielded amonster in the vague shape of an A4, just in timefor Opel to pull out of the ’05 season citing costcutting as their justification. Since then,notwithstanding any rumours that Alfa and BMWcould stage a comeback, that’s the way it hasbeen ever since. Audi has had a run of good form

which has only ended very recently. Currently,Benz are Top Banana.

This is probably why I’m here, I’m on afreebie from MB UK as a thanks for my continuingsupport, or somesuch. MB are ahead in thechampionship for once and they are keen to allowtheir employees to bask in the reflected limelight.

The venue is Brands Hatch, a littlesouth east of London, most DTMraces are held in Germany but theydo occasionally make forays intoother territories and several currentDTM drivers hail from this moist,complacent land.

Brands Hatch’s Indy circuit istiny, among the shortest on the UKcalendar let alone the European

scene. Nevertheless, the facilities grow steadilymore serious and it’s easy capable of playing hostto a world-class event. Todays procedings areheavily suscribed, the Paddock Hill grandstandheaves under the weight of Mercedes-Benzemployees from various corners of the network,and there’s more than a sprinkling of the generalpublic wandering around too. A look towards theinfield parking reveals a high concentration of

“....to me, BTCCwas the

greatest racingseries in the

world..”

motorsport

roadwork page 54

enthusiasts, a late-spec Maserati Karif takes top honoursfor obscure hoonability. Clothes are the other giveawaytowards the make-up of the crowd, rally jackets abound asdoes race replica bikewear. And photographers, so manyof them going equipped with Hubble-telescope lenses toput my puny 18-200mm Nikkor to shame.

The excitement in the air was palpable. There wasa C63 AMG doing hot laps, because he could, aparticularly horny sounding car if ever the was one, butwhen the full cohort of Race-Spec Audis and Mercsrumbled out of the pit lane for their warm-up session thecrowd became eerily hushed.

Listening to a DTM car at full chat is anexperience to savour and, of the two, the Merc is the morevisceral. That knife-edge tuned powerhouse has a splitpersonality, there’s still a vestigial, old-school rumble inthere at low revs, booming across the circuit every timethe driver grabs too high a gear or pulls into the pits. Butwhen on song it revs, and it revs some more until it yellsout a wail to rival or top anything to emerge fromMaranello. And there’s more drama too when the driverlifts off, the overrun is characterised by a percussion soloof bangs and spits as unburned fuel enters the exhaust,the Mercedes spits sheets of flame when changing downthrough the gears.

The Audi and the Mercedes sing a similar tune,but the Mercedes is cranked to eleven, Double live gonzo,Intensity in ten cities, Live at Budokan, all of WayneCampbells finest Album naming quotes are valid. The auralassault comes from all sides, you’re waiting for the nexttime a Merc comes past, screams on the brakes andcoughs down through fourth, third, second and then backon the power to hear that symphonic battle-cry. It’s anangry machine, wheras the Audi is almost absurdlysmooth and subdued. In fact, it’s an interesting parallel tohow the product feels, an Audi is amazingly efficient andcapable motor car, but doesn’t do a great deal to getcarnal with you. Not many Mercs do, either, but an AMGrams its hand so far down your trousers you might step onits wrist.

It’s odd, to look at the two race cars you mightthink things were the other way around. The Mercedes is arelatively sober looking affair except for the aerodynamiccraziness sprouting from all angles. But the Audi is abewitchingly complex thing to look at, the way that the rear

page 55 roadwork

doors have been cut away to create an amazingventuri tunnel channelling hot air from the engine,around the rear wheels to the array of diffusers atthe stern. It’s a design masterpiece and should beawarded the championship for that alone.

From my Grandstand perch I could seemost of the track, but that wasn't going to beenough. A Formula Three race before the main DTMevent gave me ample time for a photo-recce,eventually concentrating my efforts on Hailwood Hill,Druids and Graham Hill Bend. This mornings fun hadbeen lasted just forty minutes, the actual race wouldbe contested over 98 laps. Bruno Spengler (CDN)heads the championship with Gary Paffett (GB) andPaul Di Resta (GB) second and third. It's all to playfor, as they say, when the green lights go out.

The two most photogenic cars are RalfSchumachers chrome Mercedes and MartinTomczycks Red Bull Audi, and it's those two that mycamera makes a bee-line for, but the fun was to behad watching some of the others. From the outset itwas obvious that Di Resta was going to be hard totopple, unless there was some ridiculouscatastrophe he would extend his pole positionlaunch to an overall victory. Certainly, as the racewent on it seemed far less of a contact sport thanthe BTCC ever was.

But sometimes the racing line isn't the

most spectacular thing to watch, for sheerexcitement you have to point your lens at DavidCoulthard in his bright yellow Mercedes. From myposition after Druids bend, just where he would bestanding right on the throttle, I can observe hisheavy-handed and very entertaining technique as hesends the revs soaring ready to climb all over thebrakes into Graham Hill. Bang, crackle, the fullorchestra of dramatic motorsport noises, none ofwhich sound remotely mechanically sympathetic.

I've never made the pilgrimage to Le Mans,never found anyone willing to join me. But for theinterim before that happens, this is a slice of hi-octane heaven. It combines something of theexoticism of Formula One with a little bit of realworld relevance. After an hour of full-on, surroundsound savagery Di Rosta had scored the predictedconvincing win. There were a couple of retirementsand a very second-hand looking Audi after a gravel-trap excursion, but generally everybody stayedconnected with the tarmac. A nice clean, loud,efficient, spine-tingling, safe, mesmerising day ofentertainment.

I never expected the Germans to put thepassion back into Touring Car Racing. Boy, have theymanaged it. I'm almost tempted to put a few posterson my wall. What chance of Volvo having anothercrack at racing?

roadwork page 56

motorsport

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

page 57 roadwork

How would semi-bohemian Gallic flairfeel in the centre of ultra-efficientBavaria? The journey continues.

PostcardsPeugeotfrom a

Part Three

Adventure

roadwork page 58

Part One

page 59 roadwork

Another morning, another amazingview. Through the morning haze wecould make out the purplish hues of theGerman Alps. We had been flanked byvalley sides for much of our drive fromAustria the previous night, it was sodark that mountains merged with sky,but occasionally the lights of buildingshigh on the hillside had given away thetopography. Needless to say, SouthernGermany is home to some very bigscenery.

After our Burger King lastnight we went self-sufficient forbreakfast, but made good use of theexcellent Sanifair facilities to re-humanize us for another day of touring.For the uninitiated, Sanifair are acompany who look after the toilet areasof a growing number of service areasacross Europe, and how I wish they’dtake over duties in England.

A session in a Sanifair bogmight cost half a Euro, but you receiveimmaculate surroundings, piped relax-o-muzak, a choice of three wipingmaterials, and a toilet that cleans itsown seat after every visitor. And you geta voucher for your money backafterwards! Nicola and I combined ourvouchers to gain a Euro of discountfrom a bottle of water in thesensationally overpriced shop; nomatter, we were refreshed, and clean,and ready to throw ourselves at ournext port of call.

Munich was reasonably easy tonavigate to, which made a change. I hada momentary fumble at a slightlyconfusing junction on the way in to the

city, but we soon made it into the city centre andsafe parking in the Schrannenhall concert hall carpark. How nice it was to drive in a city where parkingwas properly signposted.

Nicola and I loved Munich. From the get-go,as we walked through a food and flower-market allthe way through the pedestrianised city centre, allwas clean and welcoming, and even thearchitecture had a warmth that I didn’t expect tosee in Germany. We felt safe, and that the citywanted us to be there. Indeed, the slogan we foundon our town map was “Munich loves you”, which,sentimental as it sounds, seemed appropriate.

Furthermore, we were served Cappuccinoin Starbucks by a transsexual! Not one of theconvincing, gender dyspheria sorts in their earlytwenties, but by a somewhat more Lily Savagesqueexample of the breed, possibly called Jurgenita (ok,I’m clutching at straws here). The most hilariouspart was how she announced the order “Zweicappuccinos!” in a voice sounding every bit like aMonty Python sketch.

After spending a pleasant hour walkingthrough the leafy English Garden, and pausing for anauthentic Bratwurst at the food market, we madefor the car feeling fulfilled and with a sudden bout ofGermania. And I had a further treat in store, forNicola was letting me visit BMW World.

Not knowing the exact whereabouts ofBMWs global headquarters we had to do a fair bitof navigational guesswork, and the ring roads ofMunich can be slightly bewildering, but when wefinally arrived we knew we were somewhere very,very special, even for those unenlightened soulswithout petrol fever.

A while ago I spent two years, fresh out ofuniversity, as a BMW salesman. Of course, thewhole sales thing is a riot of highs and lows, butfrom out of all the chaos I still carry with me astrange emotional attachment to the brand. Thereis something about a BMW that I specifically like,and I’ve never been quite able to pinpoint it. I stillcan’t today. But today, parking in the spotlessunderground car park of BMW World, taking thestainless steel elevator up to roof level and castingmy stare in awe at BMWs world statement, Isuddenly felt like grabbing a phone and badgeringsome of my old customers.

The BMW headquarters in Munich has twovisitor areas, BMW World and BMW Museum. TheMuseum is a lavishly considered, money-no-objectexercise in demonstrating where BMW have comefrom, and where they’re heading. Historic modelsfrom the lineage are presented either as the focusin display rooms, or in some cases hung in verticalstacks. You can then see every car from differing

Adventure

roadwork page 60

angles as you walk an informal spiralthrough BMWs history, charting milestonedevelopments and taking in the motorsportthat so heavily influences BMW designs.

A biography of the BMWmotorcycle range lines one wall, with everysignificant bike since manufacture beganbeing wall-mounted in shimmering glasscases. There was also a BMW M Sportexhibit with the various engines used in MCars through the years, along with highquality sound recordings of the enginesthemselves that you could take in throughSennheiser headphones. Everything pointedto the fact that BMW really care about howcars make you feel.

All too often car museums arestuffy or anorak-inclined; here, though, theinformation is made available only if youwant it. You are free to “look at thepictures” rather than digesting the entireBMW history word by word. This has beenachieved by making everything interactive.There are terminals throughout the displayareas which can be interrogated for asmuch information as you like. One exhibitcharting the history of each of the individualBMW plants, offers information frominteractive books, where every turn of thepage is accompanied by a friendly voice

expanding on the content you were reading.It was all very, very clever.

And just as the BMW Museumserves as a glorious epitaph to the past, justacross the road BMW World is a fittingexpression of how BMW sees themselvestoday. Every model from the range isshowcased on motorshow style themedareas that the public are able to browsefreely, without fear of a salesman pouncingupon them if ever they happen to stopmoving for a nanosecond. The building itselfcould have been a stark, practical oblong, butno. This building is an event in itself, theoutside made from geodesic shapes formingcurves far too organic looking to have beenjust “built”, but somehow managing withoutcompletely distracting interest from theshining new cars within.

We sat on the roof terraceoverlooking this fantastic structure, bothenjoying a crisp, cold beer (Paulaner) at the

page 61 roadwork

roadwork page 62

evocatively named M1 bar. BMWsbrand building exercise was clearlyworking, in my head I was havingBMW ownership fantasies. BMWWorld is where the lucky customerwho opted for factory collectionwould take delivery of their new car,and would get to drive it down thelong spiral ramp inside thatincredible building and onto theGerman road network outside. Andthen the lucky sods would get toembark on their own special roadtrip back to England. Not bad for amaiden voyage.

In a bizarre way, it waswith some pride that we rejoinedthe Peugeot deep in the bowels ofthe underground car park. No, itwas no M6, but this little car which,in the 1500 miles we had coveredso far on this trip hadn’t put awheel wrong, deserved every bit asmuch worship as all those posh

fantasy-mobiles upstairs, and hey,they were all just hunks of metal,waiting to be recycled. A car needsto have a proper life, like our Pugwas having, before you can properlyrespect it.

Once back on the road, and withgushing sentimentality out of theway, it was time to address morepressing issues. We needed to buysupplies, mainly drinking water, buta trip around a Germansupermarket wouldn’t go amiss.And could we find one? Could webuggery.

The only method we couldthink of was to set the Garmin tofind Grocery shops. The bigproblem here being that we wanteda nice big out-of-town megastore tobrowse round, and surely there hadto be one somewhere in a countryas big as Germany. But all the

Garmin could offer us were littlegrocers shops on busy highstreets. As it grew dark, and as along evening of driving beckoned,our searching went up a gear andtwice we made forays into towns tofind supermarkets.

Firstly we visitedPforzheim, a town I know onlybecause they have a famousTransport Design degree course atthe Art School there. Alas, anysupermarket remainedundiscovered and we gave up afterdirecting ourselves into first amilitary complex, and then anendless residential area. “If we gojust a bit further…” was theapproach we used, just knowingthat the next corner would yieldsome multi-aisled shoppersparadise, but to no avail.

Eventually Stuttgart cameto our rescue, where from a traffic

page 63 roadwork

“....from some viewpoints it canseem as if you’re looking downonto an exquisitely detailedmodel village”

roadwork page 64

jam we saw the distinctiveilluminated sign of Lidl. Prettyclose to the bottom of the barrelsupermarket-wise but at fiveminutes to closing time, we hadno alternative. We boughtbratwursts and bottled waterfrom the surly tillkeeper, and gotback to mile munching. I must bethe only car enthusiast in theworld to have visited Stuttgartand only seen a branch of Lidl.

We had worn the dayout by now, and resignedourselves to covering as manymiles as we could before fatiguegot the better of us. TheAutobahn traffic was the usualmix of HGVs and flyingDeutchmen, giving us a choice ofeither sitting at sixty with theScanias, or trying to join the fast

lane at ninety, not all that easy ina heavily laden 306. Overall,though fast, the German driversseemed well behaved, despiteobvious temptations when theunrestricted sections came up. Itis a shame to compare andcontrast with the drivers athome who, I fear, are dangerousat any speed with the craze forsudden lane changes, tailgaitingand undertaking which iscurrently sweeping the nation.German drivers believe instopping distances, and extendtheir courtesy if you act likewise.

A rastplatz several miles outsideSaarbrucken was the only placewe felt any real uneasethroughout our time in Germany.The rest area itself was fine,

slightly dowdier than we hadseen but still pretty good for free.But what could have beenimproved was the lighting; itmade us wonder what, or whomwas concealed in the shadows.There was a moment whereNicola felt that a man was lurkingin the vicinity of our car while shewas alone, only to scarper assoon as I returned from thetoilets. I have long beensuspicious that these places arefavourite haunts of certain, lessfavourable elements of society,and sleeping in them in anythingless than a secure articulatedlorry needs some consideration.

Nicola knew that I hadno problem with us findingsomewhere else if she liked, butwe were too tired and frankly

page 65 roadwork

weren’t going anywhere. Andthen we had to deal with thecataclysmic news that we hadbought fizzy water by mistake inthat doomed visit to Lidl. Happily,though, we discovered thatCoffee made with boiledcarbonated water seems totaste marginally nicer than thatmade with the ordinary stuff.

We quickly realised that thismade no sense whatsoever, andthat we were being hystericaland hurriedly went to sleep.Then, later than night....

“Oh, my god..” I thought,from deep inside my sleepingbag, “have we been robbed?”Nicola was rustling through thecontents of the car

“I can’t find it…” shecontinued searching.

“Find what?”“The map”“What map?”“The map you just asked

me for.”At that point waves of reliefrushed over me, releasingcalming hormones into my blood.Everything was OK, Nicola hadjust gone mental.

“Go back to sleep.” At that, and after a quickconfused glance over to me, puther head down and regainedunconsciousness. At some pointshe had clearly dreamt that I’dasked for the map, she had thenwoken and confused her dreamwith reality. She had then gotreally annoyed when I no longerwanted the map she was lookingfor, the map that she had dreamtI wanted. But she soon got backto sleep, and we emergedunscathed from sleeping in thissomewhat dubious roadside restarea.

roadwork page 66

Breakfast and, as itturned out, the sausages werebloody horrible. On our waythrough Germany we hadstopped at the only supermarketwe came across, a branch ofLidl in Stuttgart, to pick up a fewessential provisions. We hadalready discovered that thewater we had picked up hadturned out to be fizzy, whichannoyed us royally.

And now, as we cookedthe sausages for what shouldhave been a thoroughlyexcellent, authentic Germanbreakfast, our hopes weredashed as fat kept oozing out ofthem. No matter how manytimes we pierced the skin, orhow many times we flipped themover to a hotter part of the pan,the sausages were coated in athick, white fat with theconsistency of yoghurt.

Eventually they showed

all the signs of being cookedthrough, were hot to the coreand had been on the gas for anage. So we divided them up andput them on plates. Nicola wasthe first to give up, after eatinghalf a sausage. Myself, I was

clearly in denial, clearing oneand a half sausages and onlybecoming nauseous with half asausage left on my plate, stillwith fat oozing from them. Thetaste was actually pretty good,but the thought of that fat is

enough to have me consideringvegetarianism slightly.

Another fizzy coffeelater and we were ready to rollagain. We had alreadydispatched much of WestGermany and were soon bearingdown on Luxembourg, our nexttarget. The scenery grewgreener as we approached theborder, the hills became morerolling and the roads, if anything,became smoother. It was trickyto see where Germany endedand Luxembourg began butsoon the signs showed we hadmade it into our fifth principalityof the trip.

We enteredLuxembourg completelyunarmed with information or anygreat game plan. The firstobjective was to find somewhereto park, and there were manydot-matrix signposts denotingplentiful parking places and how

“....Cherry Coke,had become theofficial soft drink ofour trip”

page 67 roadwork

many spaces they had remaining.So we chose one that soundedfairly central and started to pursuethe signs around the city.

Before long we started tosee the same buildings again, andrealised that the sign we had beenfollowing was for city centreparking as a whole and not anyspecific car park. As aconsequence we had just been ona tour of the entire city ring road.More upsetting was that we hadn’tbeen too enamoured with anythingwe had seen, and were unsurewhether we could eke a daysentertainment out of it.

Once we found a car parkin a quiet officey kind of area, weheaded by foot to the station,which we assumed would besomewhere near the city centre.We walked down a long, straighthigh street, looking for all the worldlike Ipswich. Not all that inspiring.Only when we reached the stationand got our hands on a city map,did we realise that we had headedin entirely the wrong direction.

Our pointless walking waswell rewarded though. We found ahuge, historic park built in theformer river bed, literally yardsfrom where we had originallyparked. Once the other side of thepark, after very carefully climbingthe moss-covered and steepmasonry steps, we found our wayinto the city centre, which was a lotmore picturesque than we wouldhave given it credit for. Theshopping streets are nothingspecial, much like any other city,but the view across the city issomething to behold.

Luxembourg is a citystraddling several valleys and thislends it a peculiar, layeredtopography. From some viewpointsit can seem as if you’re lookingdown onto an exquisitely detailedmodel village. We spent some timetaking in these views and walkingthe many narrow cobbled streets,and explored some of the olddefensive structures (all withoutspending the several euros to visitthe museum). Luxembourg had

proven to offer far more than wehad imagined, and we would havegreat pleasure in returning in thefuture, on a less pressingschedule.

By now mid afternoon itwas time to start moving. Weretraced our steps out of the citycentre and back on the road out ofLuxembourg City. Time not beingparticularly of the essence, andbeing keen to explore a bit more ofthis tiny country, I took us off thebeaten track and into the town ofWasserbillig. I had no basiswhatsoever for this choice, but thesignpost and name of the townintimated that there might be anice riverside area to walk around.

We proceeded into thetown, but, put off by heavy trafficwe soon did an about turn andheaded back from whence wecame, except we had seen asupermarket on the way in, anddecided to stop there for moreprovisions. This turned out to be abrilliant decision for severalreasons:

roadwork page 68

Firstly, and I didn’trealise until we had alreadyparked, I was in desperate needof a crap. Finding the entranceto the supermarket,necessitating a walk rightaround the building, past thecar park and the DIYdepartment, was absoluteagony. Then the bathroom itselfwas deep within the building,past the restaurant, and Nicolacould see me accelerating as Iwalked, willing there to be no“out of order” sign, or worsestill, no loo paper. As luck wouldhave it, all was fine and I had apristine white bowl into which topost my probably Lidl Bratwurstinfluenced motion. I had animprobably broad grin on myface when I had finished.

Our main reason tovisit the supermarket was to re-

stock on Cherry Coke, whichhad become our official softdrink of the trip. At first wecouldn’t find a single non-alcoholic beverage in the entirebuilding. A big supermarket,groaning with every possibledelicacy or household sundryand no squash, pop, fizz or juice.And then, suddenly, we suddenlyfound the second reason wemade the right decision to stophere:

A small, hand writtencardboard sign proclaimed“drinks>”. And there, in atemporary lean-to extension,was the motherlode. We hadinadvertently stumbled uponquite the largest room full ofcoffee we had ever seen, andwe like coffee rather a lot. It wasa crying shame that, apart fromloving the stuff, we know next to

nothing about it. A massivevariety of varieties, all availableby the sack if required, and wecouldn’t really do anything aboutit. After doing some research,we vow one day to return, byTransit perhaps, and gatherfrom this amazing resource; fornow, we made do with a big bagof coffee pods, to hopefully aidus in our portable brewing.

We also picked up afew cans of Passion FruitRubicon; we hold the Lycheeflavour in particularly highesteem, and can you find it insome of the larger branches ofTesco, bizarrely in the ethnicfoods section. We gave CherryCoke a miss this time, and gotourselves back on the road.

Feeling a little wornout, for a moment we rested ina services and both had a little

page 69 roadwork

snooze to ready ourselves for anotherstretch of night driving. The services westopped had had a terrific view right overthe valley we had just visited, andwatching the lorries and coaches haulingthemselves up the hill before us had astrangely hypnotic effect on me. Half anhour of stolen kip went down very well.

It was on the edge of darknessby the time we were on the roadproperly, and we were very soon back onGerman soil, by now counting down themiles until a proper rest opportunity. Wewere aiming for a proper service areathis time, ideally one with the miraculousSanifair facilities. I vowed to not takeNicola to another Rastplatz quite like weexperienced last night.

In return she promised not to wake meup by panicking about any non-existentmaps I had demanded from her.

roadwork page 70

TheGrowler

As Jaguar embark on theirjourney into a Brave New designWorld, I take a ride to rememberwhat Jaguar used to be all about.

For better, or for worse.

page 71 roadwork

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

Driven

roadwork page 72

The Jaguar XKR left me with one of the mostconfused verdicts I have ever drawn to onevaluating a car.

Back in 2003 an XKR with a fewdecidedly non-jaguar optional extras served asthe Baddies car in terrible Bond flick DieAnother Day, and, let's face it, that's pretty muchthe best bit of advertising by association you canbuy. Jaguar have enjoyed a reputation over theyears for building cars for bounders and cads,the kind of scoundrels you might expect tochase 007s Vanquish and fire rockets at it.

I enjoyed some of that feeling in theXKR. A Jaguar of the old school, it still exudessome of the raffishness the company seems tohave built its reputation on, a likeable, Raffles theGentleman Thug from Viz kind of persona. It'sstill a bit of a show-off's car. with the roof downthe waistline is unfashionably low and much ofmy upper body is exposed to public glare. In all

honesty I'm not really brave enough to revel inthe sort of attention this car can still garnerafter all these years, with its mellow rumblebouncing off cottage walls as I drive throughsumptuous Suffolk villages.

This is one of the most crampedcockpits of recent times, the seat just doesn'tseem to go low enough to prevent me buttingthe header-rail on entry, but even my 6'5" frameis still comfy enough once installed. Happily, thefact that my head is too high does at least affordme a terrific view down that magnificent countryestate of a bonnet. As I sit, I realise that it isn'tcramped, it's cosy. I also marvel at how thematerials were so much nicer than I rememberthem being, and considerably nicer than you'dfind in a far newer X or S-Type. All plasticsurfaces are pleasingly dead and anechoic to afinger tap and the wood has a glorious lustreand must have been lacquered to wading depth.

I have driven XKRs before, but not

page 73 roadwork

recently. It could the fact that I have got used toever more powerful machinery in theintervening years, but I'm sure I remember thesupercharged AJV8 delivering more savagerythan in this particular car. It doesn't have thewhip-crack standing start acceleration thatcirca 400bhp should provide, perhaps some ofthose horses have gone lame since it was builtnine years ago.

What it does have, though, is aseemingly bottomless pit of constant, seamlessacceleration. Plant the throttle from a rollingstart and the incredibly long gears take youaround the clock with extremely decent haste, itfeels more like a hydraulic ram than a catapult,but it's definitely still quick by anybody'sstandards. Mention should also be made of thesports mode, which does more to sharpenresponses in this car than in plenty of others Icould mention, even if that traditional J-Gateautomatic gearbox has something of theVictorian signal box about it when you selectgears manually. Strangely, I rather like it, but Ican understand why Jaguar have moved awayfrom it for their new models.

Maybe the sixty-eight thousand mileson this car have gone straight to the dampers,but it isn't the last word in responsiveness. Infact, he entire experience reminded me whatmotoring enthusiast of yore must have meantby "barrelling along". In truth, it's a very pleasantexperience. I would liken it, in an overwhelminglypositive way, to being at the helm of a well-poised and particularly powerful speedboat.Plant the throttle and the bow lifts, you feel theprops cutting into the water. You are thenthrust, very smoothly, towards the horizon,lifting only when you run out of space.

This slight boatishness makes for avery relaxing time behind the wheel whendriving at seven-tenths. There is a little dive,pitch and roll, but that all adds to the regality ofthe experience and tells you when the limits aregetting closer. There is plenty of grip, those 19ssee to that, but dial in a little more exuberance

“....that J-gate gear-box has something ofthe Victorian signalbox about it....”

Driven

roadwork page 74

and you better make sure you have plenty ofroad to play with. At one point, while barrelling,a slight evasive manoeuvre due to a Volvodriver with middle-of-the-road leanings causedone of the rear wheels to meet the muddyverge, breaking traction and sending the backend sideways for my next corner. I wasimmediately reminded that this is a very bigcar. There is a load of pendulum to look afterand those big overhangs and comparativelyshort wheelbase can promote somewaywardness, especially when the blower isblowing.

I'm inclined to think that, despiteappearances, sports car isn't the XKRsfavoured job description, in fact I should haverealised that when I first saw all that wood onthe dashboard and steering wheel. It alwaystended to be labelled as one, but we shouldremember that big chunks of the chassis canbe traced back to the XJS, a marvellous carbut as sporty as jam-making. It does make arather compelling case for itself, though, as aGT car. Ignore the rear seats, or take them outand burn them for being utterly useless. Betterstill, put a couple of soft bags there to expandthe surprisingly reasonable bootspace. Slidebehind the wheel and adopt a semi-reclineddriving position and feel the miles pass underyou.

On my website I was recently weighingup the pros and cons of where Jaguar havebeen recently versus where they're planning togo in the future. The fear was that all thosequalities they're associated, both for better andfor worse, would be abandoned in favour of aclean slate approach, but thankfully Jaguarhave managed to avoid being reckless. I wouldaward them only partial credit for the XF, thedramatic impact it had at launch hasn't lastedparticularly long and that DB-9 Aston-Martininspired shape still reminds me too much of aLexus. The XJ is altogether more successful,the nose is how the XF should have looked,there is some beautiful detailing and an

page 75 roadwork

inherent rightness to the proportions even if a fewfeatures still Irk me (rear lamps, although they dolook fabulous at night). If magazine impressions areto be trusted the next small Jaguar should bepretty special, too, and damned good fun to drive.

I would like to take attention away, though,from the industry fascination with everythingbecoming more dynamic, somehow sportier. Thecurrent XKR is a far more aggressively set-up carthan the old shape, I would ask if it really needs tobe. I would wager that few people buy today's carprincipally for its firm ride, in a market flooded withsports cars maybe Jaguar would be right torealign it as a slightly more genteel tourer, or atleast offer that as a chassis set-up option. Certainlythis old car you see before you offers anintoxicating blend of performance and relaxation,and will take you on a trans-continental blast in farmore comfort than, say, a Porsche 911.

I wasn't sure whether to be disappointed,impressed or confused by the XKR. I ended upbeing all three. Actually, In the end, everythingconsidered, I think I love it.

Driven

roadwork page 76

Words and Pictures by: Chris Haining

page 77 roadwork

Part Four

Now running out of Europe, wehad just two counties left.Emotions run high for the

homeward stretch.

PostcardsPeugeotfrom a

Adventure

roadwork page 78

page 79 roadwork

I’ll admit it. It’s a strange thing tolike, but I really enjoy sleeping inmotorway service areas. InEurope, anyway, can’t say I’vetried it in England withoutrecourse to a Travelodge, but inthe big, well lit rest areas ofEurope, with no “2 hr maximumstay” in force, and no teenagerswheelspinning furiously in neonyellow Saxos, I feel strangelycomfortable. I even enjoywatching the traffic speeding by,the colourful convoy of heavyhaulers destined for ports far andwide. At a service area I feel

involved in something, I’m in mylittle boat, sheltering from thestorms in a cosy harbour, mixingwith the salty sea-dogs and theirbig freighters.

Weird romanticismaside, this was another verypleasant place to stay, and if itwasn’t for the stares I noticedfrom the main building, as waiter-looking types in shirts andnametags wondered what thelittle Peugeot with the steamedup windows was doing there allnight long. No matter, after abrief pause to eat some brekkie

and use the excellent Sanifairfacilities, we were back on theroad.

For the second time inas many days, I had to resist thetemptation of begging Nicola tolet us have a spin around theNurburgring. We had passed it tothe south yesterday evening afterdark, and now, after turning northwe were passing it to the east. Ithas long been an ambition ofmine to do “the Ring”, ideallydriving something a bit special,and one of my pet hates is seeingthe little Nurburgring sticker

displayed on anything that hasblatantly never left the country,let alone been flung around theNurburgring. My own Audiproudly wears an “M25 Ring”sticker on the bootlid, at leastI’m being honest.

But there were twomain reasons to pass theopportunity over today. Firstly,the car we were driving wasentirely inappropriate, not fromthe perspective of it being aPeugeot 306 1.4, but ratherfrom the point of view that it wasactually in service as amotorhome, and was weigheddown by coolboxes, bottledwater and all our worldly goods.Beside which Nicola wasn’tparticularly keen on the carbeing subjected to potential racetrack treatment, after theStelvio Pass a CV joint wasalready causing concern, theNurburgring could potentiallycause the clutch and brakes toshut up shop. And that relatesto our second reason:

Near Nurburgring to

the South, last night, we hadpassed the aftermath of anaccident. Not a fatal one, by thelooks of it, but it reminded usagain of the fact that the carwas our accommodation andour sole means of getting home.On racetracks, things can getbroken, and if anything was tohappen to the Peugeot we hadliterally no contingency plan, nomoney, no time to spare waitingfor repairs, and in three daystime we all had to go back towork, including the car. Wepressed on; there would beother chances, I’d make sure ofit.

We had made today’starget the city of Dusseldorf, forno other reason than it prettymuch marked the halfway pointon what was now the laststretch of our journey. The city isabsolutely festooned by a web ofautobahns, so finding a way inwasn’t tricky. Once we were in,though, it was slightly moretricky knowing where to stop.From the side we had

Adventure

roadwork page 80

approached the town, apart from getting graduallymore built up, there was nothing to tell us that we hadarrived in the city centre.

We parked in a multi-storey belonging to alarge Kaufhof department store and, after exploringthe toy department and grabbing the 2009 Legocatalogue we set foot into the heart of Dusseldorf, orrather, tried to. It soon became clear that we had noidea which direction to head; all the streets looked thesame. It was just sheer luck that we found ourselveson the Konigsalle, the city’s most prestigious shoppingstreet.

We took time to explore Sevens, a grandiosenew shopping mall with an enormous Saturnelectronics store atop it, keeping our hands deep inour pockets. This was true of most of our time inDusseldorf, we concentrated on looking, rather thandesiring, and held off the temptation to visit any moreshops. Instead we drank in the atmosphere of thisbustling and cheerful city. From the obvious wartimedestruction, Dusseldorf has risen to be quiteavantgarde, and seems justly proud itself.

After a Pizza Hut we followed the suggestedcity tour route on our guide book. This took us past theseveral historic department stores, the variousimportant theatres and along the west bank of theRhine. It was here that we felt the Dusseldorfs realwarmth coming through, the blazing sunshine hadbrought the citizens out in their droves and they hadfilled the many riverside bars and cafes, all watching ascoasters eased their way up the lazy river, beneath itselegant suspension bridges. We felt good as we tookshade under a tree, before realising we were thirstyand that it was time to get on.

Once away from the river we followed thetramway back to the Kaufhof where we had parked.Nicola humoured me and we visited a vast toyshop,lined with model cars (another of my shamefulpassions), noting that the Germans must really, reallylike toys if the quality of their toyshops is anything to goby.

Dusseldorf sits surrounded by varioussatellite autobahns and it took a fair degree of cunningto get out and heading in the right direction. When wehad made it through the maze and onto open road wetook advantage of a lay-by to grab a bite of road-readiness munchies and brew a coffee, which led tome nodding off in the late evening sun. I am againthankful to Nicola for her seemingly infinite patiencewhen these matters surface.

Caffiene and calories ingested, we began tocarve our route north-westerly, out of Germany andinto Holland. The roads again grew smoother and aswe reached lower ground, straighter. Our travellingmood at this point was one of quiet pride and

page 81 roadwork

achievement, sadness that we hadonly one full day left but joy that wehad come so far. Amsterdam,which we would be visitingtomorrow, would be a fitting end toour journey.

For now, though, all wehad to worry about wassomewhere to spend the night. Ihad already identified a suitablecandidate in the guise of a servicestation near Amsterdam, but itwas too early to call things to ahalt just yet. And anyway, I hadalways held a sneaking interest in

the nearby town of Almere, one ofthe newest towns in Holland andwhos’ oldest house dates fromonly 1976. It was a shame that,once there, it was rather too darkto see anything much.

A quick tour of the tidy,cosy housing estates surroundingit was capped off by a drive alongthe seafront in Almere Haven, withits very striking apartmentbuildings and private, residentsonly lanes. Leaving Almere wechased a distant commuter trainas it headed for the lights of

Amsterdam, and finally madeourselves cosy at the services,parking as far from the lorries aswe could reasonably get.Tomorrow would be our final fullday of journeying. Better make it abig one.

I had ulterior motives for visitingmainland Europe again. Last year,when I made the journey throughEurope and into Sweden I haddiscovered a couple of particulardelicacies I was pretty keen onreacquainting myself with.

roadwork page 82

Adventure

The first was PocketCoffee. My quest for this divineconfection (dark chocolate with agenuine liquid espresso centre)had seen me exploring motorwayservice areas and sweetshops inminute detail right across Europe.I finally struck gold in a departmentstore in Munich, where I bought£24 worth. Yes, it’s an illness Ihave.

And the other is aparticular kind of crisp that youonly seem able to procure inHolland. Their name is SmithsHamkas, they are a cheese andham effect (I shall use the wordeffect instead of flavour, asdoubtless nothing either animal ordairy in involved in the productionprocess) and they are waffleshaped corn-derived snacks. Also,they are absolutely delicious,having a lightness of flavour thatnothing so heavy-handed asWotsits or Doritos could everhope to equal.

I marked my desire forthis divine food of the gods byheading into the services andbuying six party-sized bags. Ipacked them away into the bootand tried to forget about them.

Today we headed intoAmsterdam, a city I am reasonably

familiar with but that Nicola hasnever visited. My previous tripshere have been either with collegeor my parents, and had beenaccordingly either nicely culturedor loutish. I hadn’t been, though,for over three years, enough for

my memories to lose their straightedges and become a little misty.

Following the signs led usto a large multi-storey car-parkwhich turned out to be quite somedistance from where we reallywanted to be. It was alsofearsomely expensive, but at leastlooked like being reasonablysecure. From the car it was aconsiderable walk across thevarious canals before thingsstarted to look familiar, and thenwe were in the narrow, crowded

street providing Amsterdamsmain shopping arteries, andleading into the famous DamSquare.

The Dam was covered inscaffolding, but still dominated thescene, and served as a usefulnavigational tool, but even so westill desperately needed a streetmap, both to maximise ourenjoyment of the city, and to giveus half a chance of finding our caragain. So a long trek was requiredto the only place I could guaranteethe exsistence of a touristinformation kiosk, Grand CentraalStation.

The kiosk, a large,American looking two storeybuilding also acommodates thebooking office for canal trips andguided tours, and this combinedwith the fact that it was asaturday, meant that the placewas absolutely mobbed. By nowwe were completely without Euros,so I joined the snaking queue withmy credit card to attempt toacquire a map. I was now startingto drip with sweat in the non air-conditioned kiosk, and was denieda map when I reached thecounter. Cash only.

Frustrated, I rejoinedNicola who waited outside with her

“....for a properlyauthentic Dutchdining experience,we had a KFC”

page 83 roadwork

roadwork page 84

Adventure

own heat-related fatigue, and weduly slumped off to the station insearch of a cashpoint. CentraalStation is colossal, and wasswimming with tourists. Andthere were overhead signspromising the existence of anATM, which we couldn’t bloodyfind anywhere. Eventually, afterseveral circuits of the stationand having virtually concededdefeat, we found one, buried in acorner, concealed by an army oftourists. I promptly withdrewtwenty Euros.

Meanwhile Nicola hadnoticed that the machine directlynext to it was actually anelectronic Tourist Informationkiosk, and, as if to nullify thewhole cashpoint-seeking

endeavour, it also printed outhighly detailed colour streetmaps completely free of charge.This was terrific as it meant nomore queuing, so we couldspend my freshly vended twentyon dinner. Which was, to give usa properly authentic Dutchdining experience, was KFC.

After lunch we made aforay into the red-light district,honey to a bee for Britishtourists for its heady blend ofdrugs, pornography andlegalised prostitution. There isprobably some culture in the mixas well, but we avoided it.Amsterdam is generally a verysafe city, but we noticed ourpossessions (Nicolas bag, mycamera) receiving some envious

glances from those we’d rathernot get involved with. Of course,these days Tourism is a massivepart of Amsterdams income,and there were plenty of placesto stop and buy miniature clogsand model windmills.

This was all well andgood but, after fulfilling ourappetite for souvenirs, werealised something; there wasabsolutley no way we could makethe most of Amsterdam in thetimescale we had available, andwith no money. So, vowing thatone day we would return, maybewith bulging pockets and a hotelroom booked, we made our wayback to the car, fed the rest ofour Euros into the parkingmachine and hit the road once

page 85 roadwork

more.One thing we still needed to do was

to visit a supermarket to pick a few things upfor the folks at home, and that gave us onelast opportunity for the Garmin to help usout. And boy, did it fail us this time! We hadbeen keeping an eye out for supermarketlooking places while walking throughAmsterdam, and had tried one, but it turnedout to be a weirdy beardy organic shop andwe abandoned it. So, Garmin on, Points OfInterest, Shopping, Grocery stores, Go.Immediately it found one which looked on thescreen to be out-of-town, therefore probablyquite a decent size. All good so far.

It was after driving for ten minuteswe suddenly realised that, for whateverreason, the GPS had decided to navigate usback to where we stayed last night, and hadlost all interest in finding us a supermarket.So, our time wasted and now slightlyannoyed, we checked the system verycarefully to reduce user error, and oncemore let it choose us a shop. This time a nicelooking one turned up on the map, and againit’s out-of-town location led us to believe itmight be worth bothering with. Initial signswere good, after a five minute drive we wereprompted off the motorway and into amodern business park. And then it told us toturn left, and three hundred yards later wehad “reached our destination”. We were inthe middle of a Hackney style council estate,and there, at the foot of a decomposingtower block was a shabby little grocery store,and a small car park full of dishevelled lookingcars. Not a place we really wanted to leaveour car and all our posessions on this, thelast day of our trans-European odyssey.

We gave up on the whole idea of asupermarket, and decided to go somewherecompletely different. Yesterday evening I hadnoticed on the map an area called theNational Park De Biesbosch, not far fromDordrecht. It looked very green and blue andpicturesque on the map, and might make anice place for a walk. So we made our waythere, getting deep into the flat, wet Dutchcountryside as we did so. We foundourselves on a narrow road, one step upfrom a farm track but still with enough trafficto reassure us, and kept driving until we sawa reason to stop. But it didn’t really come.

We had probably been spoiled bythe quality of view we had had elsewhere inEurope, but there was no particular wildlife to

roadwork page 86

Adventure

note, and the flat marshylandscape wouldn’t photographparticularly dramatically. Westarted following road signs forDordrecht, with views to maybespending some time there,when suddenly our progresswas impeded by a river, whichhad a chain-ferry operating.Having no money with us, wehad no way across, and somade do with a few photos of anearby marina. An area ofhardstanding gave us a chanceto stop for tea, and I succumbedto temptation, opening the firstbag of Hamkas.

When the time hadcome, we retraced our stepsand made our way to our lastrest area, outside Rotterdam onthe road to the Hoek VanHolland. Another BP Garage,with an attendant invitingdonations for a piss. Our finalnight of sleep in the Peugeotwas uneventful, In fact Iwondered if we’d sleep at all athome in our luxurious double

bed.In the morning we

followed the signs into Hoek VanHolland, and though itappropriate that we explore theplace properly. The Hook tendsto be a place that people justpass through, and we soondiscovered it has much to offerin its own right. Beyond arugged range of sand dunes TheHaven sports a long, sandybeach, which looks like it mightbe full of life in the summermonths, indeed it was prettybusy just today, except nobodydared to enter the water. Westood for a while at thewaterline, looking out into theNorth Sea. Geographically thiswas the end of our trip, and thesea-state wasn’t exactlywelcoming us home, the skyhanging heavy with purplish bluestorm clouds.

After walking backthrough the dunes, popular withdog-walkers we headed into thesmall town centre, and as soon

as we arrived in the we noticedthat they had a supermarket!And it had just started to openon Sundays! After killing twentyminutes walking around thelargely closed shops thesupermarket had opened, weentered and bought beer and adelicious stollen-like biscuit witha marzipan centre. At the till,after attempting to settle themodest bill with a credit card,we found they were anothercash-only enterprise, and so apanic visit to the in-storecashpoint was needed. At leastwe could spend the change onthe ferry.

Our queue for theStena Hollandica had never hadmore than thirty or so vehicles,and even despite our earlyarrival we somehow endedamong the last to pass thecheck in. Stenas’ magnificentNorth-Sea ferry was well undercapacity, among which wasseveral rowdy school parties.Not to worry, we were able to

page 87 roadwork

rest in the sanctuary of our pre-booked seats inthe Stena Lounge, providing free refreshments,a comfortable airliner-style chair and a superbview out to sea. I had a very rewarding chat witha gent involved with Siemens, and throughmutual exchange of view it appeared that myopinion of Britain’s failings compared to theEuropean way of doing things echoed his. Also,the lucky sod got to visit our road networkbehind the wheel of a BMW 130i.

I spent much of the trip on deck, gazingout at the continent we were leaving behind us,oil rigs and tankers looming out of the spray anddisappearing over the horizon. As t darkened Itried in vain to take the perfect photograph withwhich to end this, the road trip which wouldhopefully spark a great many more in myrelationship with Nicola. She stayed cosily insidefor most of this fairly rough crossing, joining meoutside for one warm celebratory embrace.

We had come a long, long way in 9days, covering 2634 road miles and sufferingonly a broken indicator bulb in terms of failures.Harwich had not done a great job of welcomingus back; this country really needs to sort out theenvironments in which it welcomes visitors, butit didn’t take much gloss of of what we hadachieved. I had amassed a great many notes tocompile, seven hundred odd photos to siftthrough, and a much much greaterunderstanding of how we fit into the Europeanwhole, in fact, the greatest impression I hadpicked up was just how small Europe is. If anEnglishman can drive pretty much from Englandto the Mediterranean in one day, Europe reallyought to get on with each other.

And finally, and certainly not least, thecar. Our 1995 registered (‘94 built) Peugeot306 XN 1.4 had been a terrific travellingpartner. A ride quality rarely experienced thesedays, never less than 45mpg economy, comfyseats, flawless reliability, the doubts I had hadon that drive down to Dover had beencompletely unwarranted, and I couldn’t believehow much fun it had been behind the wheel.

As a closing thought, how many carslike these are thrown away every year, eitherthrough Scrappage schemes or simply lack ofinterest? As a tool, this little Pug had been aseffective as any new car, and a damn sightmore economical and fun than many. We canlive without big alloy wheels, climate control andxenon headlamps. It is about time that thepublic got a grip and realised the importance ofa lost commodity; the essence of driving.

roadwork page 88

Adventure

page 89 roadwork

“.... the greatest impression I hadpicked up was just how small

Europe is...”

roadwork page 90

Adventure

Name Christopher R G HainingAge and Date of Birth 29 years (22/04/81)Height 6’5”

Driving licence Full, held for ten years.

Home address2 Keswick Close, Frinton-On-Sea,ESSEX,CO13 0TG

Home (01255) 677492Mobile (07765) 885149Email chrishainingwrites@gmail.com

About Me

I studied Transport Design at Coventry University and always intended to find work in some aspect ofdesign, be it vehicle or product, graphic or presentation. After graduation I moved straight into prestigevehicle sales in order to recover from the financial strain of University, I later regretted this decision asit meant withdrawing from design for far too long.

In addition to my design qualifications my experience in car retail has allowed me to develop furtherinsight into marketing and promotion, together with a breadth of automotive knowledge. Aside from themany corporate events hosted by BMW or Mercedes-Benz, I am a regular attendee of motor, tradeand boat shows in this country and beyond. I have always returned from them with my appetite whettedand a yearning to become more involved.

While I have worked determinedly and to a high standard to help Mercedes-Benz of Colchester run asan efficient, successful business, it’s now time for me to display the same energy in an exciting newcapacity. I am anxious to further my career in an arena where the skills and abilities I know that Ipossess can be employed to their best advantage, especially in the creative world I love so much.

Qualifications:Higher Education

Degree 2:2: 2000-2004, Coventry University, Transport Design (MDes) Four year degree course covering all aspects of vehicle design, including concept development, aerodynamics, ergonomics, marketing, engineering and production theory.

BTEC Diploma: 1999-2000, Colchester Institute, Colchester, EssexFoundation Art and Design,

Other Education

A Levels: 1997-99, Tendring Technology College, Frinton-On-Sea, EssexGeography: (B grade), Art and Design: (D Grade), Computing (N Grade)

GCSE’s: 1995-97, Tendring Technology College, Frinton-On-Sea, Essex(A* grade) General studies.(A grade), Geography, English (double award).(B grade) Mathematics, Art, Business Studies, Information Systems, Design and Technology, (C grade) Science (double award).

page 91 roadwork

Curriculum Vitae

Employment and work experience

21/01/08 to Present day, Mercedes-Benz of Colchester:

Sales Executive for Mercedes-Benz of Colchester. Sales Executive for Mercedes-Benz ofColchester. An identical role to that I had at BMW, but with a different and more structured salesprocess. After remaining in Sales for eight months I assumed my current role as SalesCoordinator.

I am still able to perform a full Sales Executive role and remain FSA Certified.

I report directly to my Sales Manager, with whom I work very well. I also have good workingrelationships with staff in other departments, including Marketing and Head Office.

08/05 to 09/07, Cooper BMW of Ipswich:

Sales Executive for Cooper (formerly Lind) BMW of Ipswich. In my first car sales role selling newand Approved Used BMW cars I very much enjoyed the experience of selling for a premium brand.As part of the role I quickly became familiar with vehicle appraisal and preparation, administrativeprocedures, stock inventory check and the use of the Kerridge system and BMWs IVS (Viewdata)system. Development courses I attended included Inchcape Sales Excellence and the BMW SalesCertification programme.

I became a key member of the sales team, with good sales figures and a very strong reputationamong customers, leading to regular repeat business.

04/03 to 09/03

5 month placement with Gibbs Technologies of Nuneaton, famous for the world record holdingAquada amphibian. I was based in the design department of the worlds foremost centre foramphibious vehicle technology. Working in a team of five, our duties were the conception,development and prototyping of new ideas and techniques, and then to communicate anddemonstrate our findings to management.

I personally oversaw the development of much of Gibbs’ publicity materials during my tenure.

Skills:

I am computer literate, and I am proficient with many popular packages including Quark Xpress,Adobe Photoshop, a number of database / expert systems (Kerridge, IVS etc) and all componentsof Microsoft Office. I am currently teaching myself to use 3D Studio Max 8 and am never phasedby new applications. I am a keen amateur photographer, using various cameras from 35mm SLRsthrough to point 'n shoot pocket digital cameras . I also have a comprehensive knowledge of allaspects of cars and the motor industry.

I am used to working in a team and with a broad list of regular contacts. Performing my presentjob well requires that I am able to work efficiently with others, and can confidently both give andreceive instructions.

To develop my skillset further I have been practicing magazine layout and content production.

roadwork page 92

Hobbies and pastimes:

I am an active member of a number of online motoring forums and have been developing mywork in automotive journalism. I am a lover of good live music and visit as many festivals andconcerts as I can. I have traveled extensively and particularly enjoy driving holidays, duringwhich I record my experiences through writing and photography. My girlfriend and I are avidstunt-kite fliers and also enjoy walking and wildlife.

Career Ambitions

I yearn for a creative role where I can employ my passion as well as my skills and abilities. Theopportunity to use these for the benefit of a successful marketing and promotion specialistshould make every day of work particularly gratifying.

Ultimately I would like either to found my own company specialising in vehicle or productmarketing and promotion, or to make a name for myself in published motoring journalism. Orboth. Certainly, a deep-seated fascination in design has inspired me throughout my educationand working life so far. It is my greatest wish that it could now form the foundation of a newand long lasting career.

References: Andrew Horsler, Sales Manager, Mercedes-Benz of IpswichAndrew.Horsler@jardinemotors.co.uk, (01473) 232232

page 93 roadwork

roadwork page 94

About ROADWORK

ROADWORK is a tool I use to help to display and develop my writing, journalistic and layout designskills. All material herein is owned and produced by myself. I am self-taught and self directed butwould love a chance to flourish under somebody else’s wing.

To read previous editions of ROADWORK or to see more of my work, please contact me by e-mail orphone (details above).

I also have an online magazine / blog I keep up to date and from which everything I produce can bedownloaded free of charge; RoadworkUK.blogspot.com

I have also contributed articles to Hooniverse.com, an increasingly popular car website.

Hardware used:

Nikon D50 SLR Digital camera with 18-200mm VRii lens, Canon powershot A410 digital camera,Sony Ericsson Satio mobile phone camera.

Software used:Quark Xpress 8.1. Adobe Photoshop CS2, Adobe Acrobat 9 Pro, OpenOffice Writer, MicrosoftWord 7.

ROADWORKChris Haining 2010 All Rights reserved