Andrew Greenhalgh

Interested in driving an old Range Rover to Florence and back? Here are a few facts.

The car – A 2009 Range Rover Diesel TDV8. Pictured here safe and sound back in the office car park, Guildford. (Looks black in this light.. but it’s Bournville Brown.)

Route – Guildford to Portsmouth. Ferry to Caen. Cross the Alps through the Mont Blanc tunnel. Down Italy to Florence. Reverse on way back.

Distance – Guildford to Florence was 924 miles.. and back again was 912. Slightly longer going out due to a ‘satnav mistake’ finding my hotel in north Italy. Total 1,836 miles.

Duration – If you’re driving solo and taking things steady then two days from door to door.

Fuel economy – Just over 30mpg. Cruised at just under 70mph.

Tolls – in France 225 euros. 188 euro’s in Italy. Watch out for the ‘virtual’ tolls from Caen towards Paris – you to pay online.

Parking – Florence has a ‘Zona Scudo Verde’.. Green Shield Zone, keeping old cars out of the old centre. Had to park 5 km out of town. Only cost 15 euro’s for the week.

Overall cost – Ferry £337, Diesel £500, Tolls £360. Total £1,197. (A similar trip by air would be around £500.)

Worst road – The A1 Milan to Bologna. Flat. Straight. Endless.

Best road – The A6 in Burgundy north of Beaune… but the Valle D’Aosta down from Monte Bianco is a something else.

Car spotting – France is full of Citroens and Italy is full of Fiats. There was a mid-engined modern-ish Ferrari in rosso red with yellow brake calipers near Modena. And a lovely Alpine A110S in that light blue of theirs, somewhere deep in Burgundy.

Mechanical mishaps – None. Apart from my rear number plate coming unstuck after baking in the sunny Italian car park. No Halfords in Italy. No specialist number plate sticky pads. But I bought some ‘bio-adesivo’ strips in a hardware store, which did the job.

Don’t do it – If you want the fastest, cheapest way to get there.

Do it – If you love driving. French and Italian motorways are quieter than the UK. Get your timing right around Paris, Milan and Mont Blanc and you’ll barely touch traffic. Glorious motoring.

On the two-day solo drive from the UK to Florence I noticed my mind wandering.

Yes, some attention was focused on getting the car up to speed. And keeping it there. Easy to do with modern technology. The car performed. My navigation app sang out directions. Usually along the lines of ‘keep going straight for another 64 miles.’

I say the car behaved. It did. But I hadn’t fully forgotten a serious breakdown back in December. (Blocked fuel injectors.. for those who care about such things.) That recent trauma meant I pounced on every strange noise, knock, hum or vibration. Probably imaginary. You tell yourself that. Or ‘pull yourself together’… and move on.

Plenty of lovely scenery to move on to. I shan’t forget the Aosta Valley as I dropped down from the Alps onto the flat lands of Piedmont. It was exhilarating. And a relief to be on the move again after queuing two hours on the hairpin bends approaching the Mont Blanc tunnel. But this was a road to turn off the music and focus.

I also found myself thinking of those who had passed this way before. Nelson and other sailors, rushing to meet their ships in Portsmouth with orders from the Admiralty. South of Paris I thought of the Maid of Orleans – Joan of Arc – heading there to rescue the city from the British forces.

In the Alps I wondered if Hannibal of Carthage led his elephants this way to defeat the Romans. Turns out they probably passed further south. And on the flat arrow-straight road between Milan and Modena I thought of Enzo Ferrari driving home from breaking with Alfa Romeo to start his own Scuderia.

There were less intellectual moments. The railway line runs alongside the Autostrada in central Italy… and I caught myself shouting ‘Go on then you smug, high-speed bastards’ as a Frecciarossa sped past. Ridiculous for a man of my age to flick a V-sign at a train.

Luckily, most of the journey passed in a calmer state. I like covering routes others have done before me. Satisfyingly following in their footsteps – or wheel tracks. Occasionally closer to home… when I thought about Mum and Dad taking the ferry to stay with friends in Brittany back in the early 90’s. Some of their favourite holidays.

I imagined describing this adventure to Dad. He would have enjoyed hearing about it. I would have loved telling him.

One anxiety regarding the UK to Florence road trip was toll booths. The French and Italian ones being on the left. Not a problem with a passenger in a right-hand-drive old Range Rover. But this was a solo trip.

You can get a little box for the windscreen and glide through the automatic télépéage lanes. Nice ping. Queues bypassed. Charges taken automatically. But a single scheme covering both France and Italy seemed to need a European bank account. And my banking arrangements are boringly domestic.

Shouldn’t have worried. You just get out and walk round… as captured in this pic taken at a French péage approaching the Alps.

One Italian booth refused my cards. I fed it cash. Another didn’t sense me because I’d stopped too far back. Pressed a button. All was well.

On the few occasions people queued behind me, I gave them a glance and an apologetic wave. They didn’t mind. One shrugged.. another smiled and waved back.

Once you see someone doing their best, it would be a bit much – even for an Italian – to lean on the horn.

‘Leave things tidy’ I’m muttering at a motorway services halfway down France en route to Florence. I used to work at one of these places as a teenager. Nearly 40 years later, I still look with horror at the people leaving an unreasonable mess.

I’m on autopilot. Stacking my cup and plate neatly. Wiping the table with a napkin. Even straightening the chair before I leave.

‘Pot Wash and Tables’ the supervisor would say when I clocked on back then. Meaning I had 8 hours clearing tables in the restaurant. And when the tables were clear I’d load the dirty plates, pots and cutlery into the industrial dish washing machines – watching out for gusts of steam at the back end of the conveyor.

Best be quick, or Janice on tea point will come in shouting again for more saucers. Then back out to clear tables. I can still see my brown fingers at the end of every shift, stained by stubborn tea bags refusing to come out of their pots.

I can also picture the congealed egg welded onto the stainless steel cutlery. And smell the ashtrays. Restaurants were smoking back then. Hard to believe now.

On my way down to Florence, I stop every couple of hours at services like this AutoGrill near Piacenza. Somewhere to let the old Range Rover rest, have a pee and stretch my legs.

Services are great places for people watching. Which I appreciate, being on a solitary drive. Wondering where that family is coming from or where that chap is going to… and what they do in normal life. I used to ponder on that when anchored there for my shift as everyone else passed through.

If only they would clean up after themselves.

This is only my second voyage on a Brittany Ferry in 40 years. Hardly screams ‘loyal customer’. But I’m here again because of the first time. Funny how a brand experience can last decades.

Booking my first non-air trip to Italy, I had two key decisions to make. Rail or road? Not a hard one. I’m taking a bike over… love driving… and want some freedom and autonomy. Road it is.

Then Le Shuttle (Eurotunnel) or ferry. Also easy. Ferry. And that’s where it gets interesting. Because ferry makes less sense. The chunnel is faster, competitive and runs every half hour. But I didn’t want to use it.

I was drawn instead to a Brittany Ferry. Not a P&O one.. nor DFDS.. but a Brittany Ferry. It had to be Brittany. And I’m not even going to Brittany.

Our first family foreign holiday – apart from to Wales – was to a Eurocamp site near Douarnenez in Brittany in the early 80s. Dad packed us into the blue Vauxhall Cavalier… Mum read the map. Got the Brittany Ferry to Cherbourg and drove over. I remember parts of that holiday as if it was yesterday. Not 40+ years ago.

And so Brittany Ferries have captured my business once again. This time I’m paying… not Mum and Dad. 

Some brand experiences stay with you. Especially the ones from childhood.

‘What’s your favourite section of the M40?’ asked a colleague. 

Great question.. and after 13 years commuting between Shropshire and Surrey, I feel well qualified to answer. 

Depends which way you’re going. If north. Easy. The Aston Rowant cutting. Known as ‘the Canyon’ by local folk. The bit just after the BT Tower at Stokenchurch, where it plunges through the Chiltern Hills down to the plains of Oxfordshire. 

Under the elegant single span curved bridge. Descend between the sheer, chalk walls of the canyon. The road gently curving to your right. You can’t see far ahead.. until it straightens. The canyon walls recede.. and the promise of the midlands lies gloriously ahead.

That’s the best bit. Seeing what feels like all of middle england in front of you.

Lovely how you can maintain speed all the way down despite coming off the throttle. A tenth or two miles per gallon satisfyingly gained. 

This bit of road should uplift anyone. Always does for me. I’m on my way home.

Good.

People who buy brand new Land Rovers are doing people like me, who buy old ones, a massive favour.

How so? Because without people buying these cars when new.. I have no entrance into luxury car ownership.

I’m looking at you, lovely blue Defender.

Rory Sutherland – my favourite Marketing Svengali – talks about this quietly fantastic altruism. Someone pays top money for a brand new Range Rover in 2009. It depreciates steadily in value until.. Bingo. I can pick it up for £10k. 

I get the exact same car as the original owner. Provided I wait a few years first. Fourteen years. 

Apart from this patience and a tolerance for the odd scratch and imperfection, there is one other thing you need. A maintenance budget. My ownership period is not just about enjoying a luxury vehicle. It’s about preserving it. On occasion that can be costly. £5k kind of costly… in my 2.5 years of ownership.

Thanks to the original owner, the Defender pictured here might also be mine one day. Perhaps in 2039.

My old Range Rover might need replacing by then.

Last weekend’s Milan – San Remo finished with two riders descending the legendary Poggio into San Remo. World-Champion Tadej Pogacar and Tom Pidcock majestically held off the charging bunch, and were separated on the line by a scant half wheel. Pogacar raising his hands in victory.

Sport at its finest.

But the image that stayed with me came just afterwards. The only one I saw taken from behind. It was posted on Instagram by runner-up Pidcock (left). He made sure to credit pro snapper Alan Bučar Vukšić.

So how did he get this shot?

By positioning himself 200 yards beyond the finish line and quickly turning and firing again after they had passed. A different perspective. Uniquely captured.

I’m not bad with an iPhone. But this is proper photography. Bravo.

Visiting the Household Waste Recycling Centre should be a chore… yet isn’t. Even when it’s Saturday and you’re queuing to get in.

I’ve been coming to such places all my life. In the 70’s and 80’s they were called Tips.. Council Tips. ‘Can we come, Dad’ we’d ask, as he was hitching a trailer full of rubble and garden waste to his Cortina or Morris Ital.

Not much health and safety those days. Kids didn’t have to stay in the car, for one. I recall those tips being smaller, less demarcated. And instead of the current helpful staff in hi-vis orange, there was usually a solitary, surly bloke in a donkey jacket. His job was to man the gate – but he’d quickly come over for a nose if he thought you had something of value.

The Council Tips were done up years ago. Although they still seem to smell the same. But there are now friendly staff members ready to answer the inevitable ‘where does this go, mate?’ questions.

Luckily, the modernisation hasn’t removed the charm. Everyone shares the same purpose. Disposal. Watching your fellow tippers appeals to a curious mind. You find yourself quietly wondering, for example, why that chap is slinging that wheelbarrow when there’s clearly years of life left in it.

The tip is a place you want to linger. Fair enough. By the time you’ve queued up and reverse parked… you feel you’ve earned the right to take it slowly. To enjoy it. Perhaps see what the next lot are getting rid of, before you leave.

The old Range Rover feels lighter on departure. So do you. You’re smiling as you drive past the queue coming in. Maybe even nodding your head. Satisfied that the car has been load carrying for once… part of her repertoire. It’s good to exercise that now and then.

Good exercise for me also. I’ll be back next week.

The average UK worker endures almost an hour a day commuting.

For me, it’s rather more than that. I live in Shropshire and work in Surrey. Both glorious British counties. Separated by 170 miles.

I’m not complaining. Not today. Not when things look like this – see pic – once you’ve arrived home safe and sound.

Commutes aren’t usually this idyllic. The weather’s nearly always worse… especially in March. And it’s likely that something at work – or home – is playing on your mind as you shuffle slowly between the two. Usually in traffic.

But after doing this weekly commute for 13 years, I’ve had time to make peace with it and also better optimise the experience. Transform it from an obligation slightly dreaded… to something more appreciated.

Driving a car you love – and that suits you – makes for far better motoring.

My original Surrey-bound chariot was a Fiat 500 supermini. A cute, quirky little thing. Fun and reliable… but rattly and always a bit fragile next to the HGVs. Nicely cheap on fuel though.

A few years on my finances were in better shape and my teeth were fed up with the rattling. So I splashed out on the old Jag pictured here – a similar model to the one my Dad had when new, 28 years ago.

The three-hour journey was transformed. I was in a car I adored. And after some light restoration and with ongoing attentive maintenance she runs better than something her age has any right to.

But it’s not just the machinery.

Shifting my departure times to miss the worst traffic is equally transformational.

This means getting up super early to be away by 4am and in the office by 7. Don’t panic… it’s only once a week. And it helps I’m an early bird and don’t despise being up when everyone else is enjoying 3 hours more sleep.

Then on the return leg a few days later I either leave at midday… or cruise home between 6-9pm when most people are off the roads and enjoying their evening.

It’s not always about the destination. It can also be about how you get there. Experience has taught me that the journey itself is worth optimising. Minimise traffic. Love the car.

You stop enduring the commute and start owning it.