With the Grand Prix over and just a single evening left in Italy it seemed appropriate to finally see a little of Milano. With the old man fancying a quiet evening I joined a couple of the guys from our tour for a nice meal somewhere central. I’d love to recommend it but the sheer quantity of vino rosso we consumed means I haven’t a clue where we dined. I remember I had beef wellington though and it was excellent. What I also know is that I awoke Monday morning feeling especially sprightly; because I was still fairly well hammered from the night before. So dad assumed the driver’s seat once again, but only after I’d consumed my own bodyweight in pastries and espresso.
As we turned out of the car park and into Monday morning Milanese traffic, I was especially grateful for my lingering inebriation as motorists and pedestrians conveyed themselves with typically Italian nonchalance. As if by some miracle we appeared out of the north end of Milan and headed towards the Swiss border. Being the kind of chap whose general knowledge consists entirely of facts pertaining to the areas immediately surrounding race circuits, it had escaped my attention that Switzerland is actually outside the EU. And so we braced ourselves to depart Europe. Braced ourselves in the wallet actually as one must display a valid motorway pass in the windscreen, as with Austria, and they are sold as you go through customs; at no little expense.
And so with our little collection of Continental motorway passes growing we nosed onwards towards higher ground. Switzerland became a revelation. The air is pure, the roads are clear, the ground is clean. It is utopia in many respects. Not that you’d know it based on the humourless lady we encountered in a motorway service area. She should try a few weeks in urban West Yorkshire to appreciate what she has in rural Switzerland.
This was to be our best day for pure driving indulgence. We had a couple of hundred miles to cover, but a whole day in which to do it so we had decided to go hunting some Alpine passes. We started at the St Gotthard. Today the pass is, er, bypassed by a monumental tunnel some 15 miles long but the old pass is formidable. While tunnel running can be great fun, some 20 minutes of obeying the speed limit didn’t appeal so we turned off at that stage and headed for the pass.
And how worthwhile it was. The St Gotthard is huge. Quite unlike the Stelvio we crossed in Italy, the St Gotthard is well paved, wide and fairly fast. It is also virtually devoid of traffic so you can travel at your own pace, and because it’s wide and well-sighted you can actually overtake when necessary. And the cyclists…there were none. Bliss!
We stopped a couple of times to admire the view but otherwise made brisk but restrained progress. Lowering the windows through the galleria tunnels gave us chance to sample that wonderful V8 thunder. It was while we gazed across endless vast vistas of snow-capped mountains that I had to pinch myself. Here I was crossing the Alps with my dad and doing it in this magnificent car. Truly, this was a memory to carry to the grave.
Soon enough, though, the St Gotthard was at an end. Some brief correspondence with a friend had suggested, though, that it would be worth pursuing the Furka pass which follows straight on. As we’d travelled all that way it seemed rude not to give it a shot. It was a bit galling to find ourselves slowly tailing a large coach for the opening couple of miles. As frustrating as the glacial progress was, at least oncoming motorists were well out of the way avoiding the coach before we arrived.
The Furka started with tortuous switchback hairpins, climbing fast and lined only with widely spaced concrete bollards. The drops were very visible and very long. Rounding hairpins gave the odd sharp intake of breath, but more through amazement at the view than fear. Dad remarked as we climbed “this is big country”, and it certainly is. The surrounding mountains seem to have a scale which dwarfs even the other passes we crossed.
Before too long the coach had pulled out of the way and we were able to increase our progress. The road is fairly vast with some lovely sweeping corners, as well as the obligatory hairpins. It wends its way slowly down into the bowels of a great valley and we paused for breath and to admire the view. A narrow-gauge railway passed along the valley floor and motorcyclists passed frequently by. With the sun shining and amazing views in every direction we could’ve stayed all day. But we weren’t going to reach France stood still and mercifully for all, a V8 Vantage won’t drive itself.
Down in the bottom of the valley and we took a right – the Grimsel pass this time. Time has dulled my memories slightly but as we traversed another remarkable road I swore this just might be the best of the lot. Remarkably, as we crossed a rare flat section we encountered a group of classic car owners in a petrol station forecourt. How often does one see multiple 300SL roadsters accompanying Astons, Corvettes and Austin-Healeys on a trip? Classics are there to be driven, after all.
The Grimsel is stunning and really sparsely populated with traffic. Halfway along its length is a bluey-green lake, partially dammed and sat incongruously among the light grey rocks. The shore of the lake hosts a particularly foreboding hotel – the Grimsel Hospiz. This area seemed bleak in the sunshine so one can only imagine the atmosphere during the depths of winter when the whole place is under snow. It’s certainly something to behold and it’s claimed to be the site of the first known hotel in Switzerland, way back in the 12th Century.
We emerged and headed off for France, past signs for the amusingly-titled Wankdorf. Tonight we were resting in Mulhouse, in the Alsace and an area which has been variously a republic and briefly under both German and Swiss rule. However, its place in automotive enthusiasts’ hearts has been cemented by its hosting of one of the world’s great car collections: the legendary Schlumpf Collection.
Having driven for over eight hours and through three countries – out of Europe and back again – we felt justifiably confused by where we were and what language we were speaking. Still, we managed to order a beer and kick back to relax a little. It can be easy to forget during such a big trip that this is still a holiday and should be treated thus. As contrary an expression as it seemed given our day, it was nice to sit down.
