Exploring Britain for the best driving roads is something that far too few of us do. However, Russell Gowers and three of his mates did their best to put that situation right.
Follow their exploits as they hit the high-roads during the dead of winter, and have a blast in the process...
Three go mad in England... and Wales
Russ: Many of my articles on this site are devoted to whinging, and there’s a very good reason for that. It’s far easier to find something to moan about than to rave about – many a good journo’s career has been forged thus. Nevertheless, sometimes, especially after a heavy New Year, you have to go out there and find something joyful, something to bring a smile to even the most cynical scribe’s countenance.
So it was that in a typical M1 traffic jam, nearly making me late for a much-anticipated Bill Bailey gig, I started, in my mind, to write a blog damning the UK’s totally inadequate road network. However, I realised that a better idea would be to prove myself wrong – to head out on a road-trip to drive the best roads the UK has to offer.
The plan rapidly came together, with Tim Colley, my regular partner-in-crime, being more than enthusiastic to join in. Furthermore, he’d be providing a fabulous car for the job – a 220 Turbo coupé 'FDH', the sort-of-J-spec one with leather, air, and a well-sorted sound system. Classless backup was provided in the form of Mark’s Audi S2 Avant, and Adam’s Peugeot 306D Turbo would complete the convoy. With a route taking in everything from motorways through to the unclassified Buttertubs Pass, this would prove to be a thorough test of the oft-maligned Tomcat’s credentials as a sports car.
Full of cold but raring to go, Tim arrived at Warwick at lunchtime, and we immediately set off for Snowdonia. The first part of the journey was pure motorway, which the coupé handled with ease – settling into the cosseting leather with the heater set to 'snug', and with power to spare, it occurred to me that you could definitely find a worse motorway cruiser for the money. That said, the wind noise above 90 demanded a bit more volume from the stereo, where a contemporary BMW would have stayed whisper quiet. Still, I put this down to the slightly knackered targa-roof seal, a victim of my over-exuberant attempts to clamber out at the Longbridge rally. Oops.
Reaching the A44, we waved a not-so-fond farewell to the motorway and began the Caper in earnest. As I missed an overtaking opportunity, Adam sped past and took off at an incredible pace round the switchbacks and long sweeping blind bends. I made the overtake soon after and set off in pursuit, but amazingly, despite almost double the horsepower, I struggled to make up ground on the flying Frenchie. The Tom’s ride, so pliant on the motorway, had the trade-off of more body roll than you’d expect from a sports-orientated car, and inspired little confidence.
Things went from bad to worse. With Adam still in the lead, I pressed on perhaps harder than I should have done down a long straight where I could make my power advantage count. Hitting the anchors for the sharp left-hand corner that ensued, I experienced massive brake fade, and consequently dived into the bend far too fast. I experienced a dash of understeer, then oversteer as I lifted off, before the TorSen hit home and pulled us out of trouble. After such a close shave, Tim requested that I should calm down a bit to let the tortured brakes cool, and I readily agreed, surprised and disappointed at the lack of ability of the Tom’s chassis.
Tim: I knew things were going to go badly when Adam got bored and overtook us and a line of other cars too. Eager to prove we weren’t going to be outwitted by an oil burner, when another opportunity to overtake arose Russ threw caution to the wind and floored it. Now I’d hardly call myself Captain Slow, but Adam makes The Stig seem worthy of the title. Russ was keen to keep up, and not being one to complain, I tried to take in the scenery. It was clear however, that the Rover wasn’t enjoying the thrashing, nor the bends , and I was somewhat shocked when Russ informed me the brakes were faded followed, seconds later, by the car going a bit wobbly exiting a bend. Enough was enough: we left Adam to try to break the land speed record in a 1990s diesel and slowed down a bit.
In Rhayader, we met Mark Gomer in his Audi S2 and stopped for a quick round of refreshments. Adam sported a huge, manic grin, full of confidence after pushing his car harder than he’d ever done before and being rewarded by serious ability. Russ looked a bit white after the wild ride at the wheel of someone else’s car, so I decided to drive the next leg to our accommodation for the night.
More of the same road-terrain wise and my turn to drive wasn’t my favourite memory of the trip, however much the scenery compensated for this. I drove following Mark and Adam towards Machynlleth and despite Mark’s and my cars being of similar vintage, I was at a clear disadvantage. Mark had both more power but more importantly was able to put much more of it on the road with Audi’s quattro system. A few bends in and I was lagging behind: not wanting to repeat Russ’s brake fade experience, I had to rely on the straight bits to make up time, and these were few and far between now.
On arriving in Machynlleth, a large part of the driving was over, the coupé hadn’t broken down, but I was beginning to wonder whether it was really the right car for the trip.
Russ: I decided to ride shotgun with Mark, and the Audi took off like a scalded cat, singing the muscular baritone that all five-cylinder cars do, wastegate adding a startled chatter of indignation at every upchange. Mark knows the road, and it showed. The Audi was easily able to use all its power even on the tight B-road, while the Tomcat didn’t imbue Tim with the confidence he needed to push on. Meanwhile, the 306 continued to adopt improbable angles through some tricky bends, but steadfastly refused to deviate from its line. Consequently, as we stopped for a photo at the top of the pass, the 220 was well behind.
We took things a little more sensibly coming down the other side, and headed for our overnight stop near Machynlleth. This was a house literally in the middle of nowhere, a converted cowshed only accessible by gravelled forestry roads flanked by deep ditches. All three cars dealt with the uneven surfaces very well initially, and we made it to the cottage without incident.
We took stock of the day’s driving. Adam was the happiest, having raised his opinion of the diesel 306 by some margin. Mark was confident in the unshakeable grip of the S2, and Tim was worried that the Tomcat would take umbrage at the undignified treatment it was being subjected to by succumbing to an attack of Heritage. Me, I was thinking of how to keep the Tomcat from being humiliated on the Evo triangle the next day. Slow-in-fast-out seemed to be the order of the day, but this strategy was hampered by the totally inadequate stoppers. It is an inescapable motif of the Rover story that sows’ ears are often fashioned from silk purses – in this case, a grown-up 200bhp sportscar was seriously hampered by brakes made from blocks of cheese and old Dire Straits 45s. Or something.
The night wasn’t complete, however. Mark decided that he’d head home for the evening, as he lived not far away, so we arranged to meet him at the base of the Evo Triangle the next day. He was soon back, however.
"Lads, you’re not going to believe this. I’m stuck in a ditch…"
And so he was. The unshakeable grip of the S2 had proven to be eminently shakeable on a frozen driveway, and the big Bavarian was thoroughly beached, with near-side wheels wedged in a drainage ditch, and the offside dangling uselessly in the air. Despite the valiant attempts of the 306 to pull it out, it was going nowhere, and refused to move until the next morning, when the local farmer arrived with a Defender 90.
Tim: Day 2…
… began bitterly cold. I woke up thinking I was at home, ready to roll out of bed, through the shower and into my “white good on wheels” Focus to drive to university. Reality hit home, though, when I looked up and noticed a frosty skylight, and to my right, Adam fast asleep (separate beds, obviously). “Bollocks,” I thought, “it’s snowed and we’re in the middle of nowhere, in Wales”.
Thankfully there was no snow, just a light frost: and aside from the small matter of a German in a ditch, all was well.
With Mark’s car rescued by a nice local farmer, we set off for Snowdonia with me at the wheel. Fully expecting the Rover to fall apart, I was grateful for the more relaxed driving style that one could adopt on these roads. Sweeping A- and B-roads through the Welsh countryside, all national speed limit, not much traffic and plenty of straights for overtaking… The coupé had found something more fun than motorways that it could handle.
After a quick stop for fuel, an oil check and a car wash we headed for the famous EVO triangle. My initial apprehension as Russ took over shortly before we arrived in the vicinity was short-lived. After a slight bother of locating the triangle (driving round the block in a small village all thinking “was that it?!”) we realised we were on some of the best roads the UK has to offer. Russ made swift work of the triangle, proving that even the sloppily sprung Rover can be made to drive very nicely. Even more impressive was how Adam kept up in the 306. More evidence that with an adaptive driving style, playing on a car’s plus points can result in corking performance, be it power vs. poor handling with the coupé, or superb road holding vs. a distinct lack of power in the 306.
Russ: The Evo Triangle provided some of the best fun I’ve ever had behind the wheel of a car. Covering around ten miles and including every type of corner, camber and surface that you could possibly imagine, it really is Wales’ own mini-Nurburgring. A major reason for its sheer brilliance is the fact that it doesn’t actually GO anywhere – as the name suggests, it is an entirely redundant triangle of A- and B-roads, centred round a village that you’ve never heard of. No caravans, then, were in evidence.
I decided to put my new 'slow-in, fast-out' doctrine into practice for the Triangle, to try firstly to maximise the Coupé’s strengths, and secondly to minimise the risk of stacking Tim’s prized Tomcat on what was a particularly frosty morning. The coupé rewarded my gentler approach, imbuing me with much more confidence than the day before. The key seemed to be to brake early, drop a cog, feed the car in gently, then plant the throttle on mid-apex, thus minimising the shock to the under-damped chassis. Coupé and driver soon bonded, and for the first time on the trip, Adam had to really work to keep up.
Whether the S2 would have struggled, however, is another matter: Mark’s superior brakes would have left us always on the back foot. Yet again, we return to this central issue: the Tomcat’s brakes being made from Party Ring biscuits. Nevertheless, working within the car’s limitations, I had the kind of fun driving that I didn’t think you could have in this country any more. I’ll remember that drive for a long, long time.
Tim: Lunch should have followed: however, the Welsh had other ideas and had closed every pub within a 50 mile radius. After several wild-goose chases, we settled for a Tesco in Mold, then pressed on northwards with me taking the wheel of the coupé again and Russ jumping in with Adam in the 306. Much to everyone’s amazement (Just yours, Tim - Ed) the coupé hadn’t emptied any vital fluids, and before long we arrived in Lancashire. Russ had the idea that we should go to Morecambe and take a photo on the West coast, to go with another on the East coast the next evening: however, after a half hour search for a location yielded only an inaccessible seafront and a carpark deserted apart from a dark blue 5 Series with its lights on, and a bloke hiding behind a bin. Nice. Put off Morecambe entirely, we went back into central Lancaster for a bit of nosh.
The final leg of day 2 was the drive to Kirkby Stephen, on the edge of the Yorkshire moors. A few junctions up the M6 then a bit of A road with Russ at the wheel saw us there and both cars handled this with ease, even at an average of xxx mph. Oh, but did I mention it started to snow?
Day 3….
yielded the snow we’d feared the previous morning. Recognising the need to stock up on sustenance, we set to enjoying an enormous full English at a fabulous little guest house Russ had found on Google Earth. We decided to first head West to take in Lake Windermere and get a couple of photos before embarking on the cross country drive east towards Whitby taking in the Buttertubs pass en route.
I took on the drive to the lake with Russ riding shotgun, and it was slow yet relaxing. Sticking to the major routes allowed us to take in a bit of decent scenery and avoid having to test the ABS features of the cars. A fair bit of faffing about paid off in the end and resulted in a couple of corking photo opportunities. With this box well and truly ticked, we set off eastwards once more, eagerly anticipating the Buttertubs: the road Jeremy Clarkson names as his favourite in the UK.
Sadly, the weather had other ideas. After Russ indulged in a brief uphill drag race with a Navarra, which kept up surprisingly well with the coupé, we peeled off the A685 onto the B roads and within less than a mile we hit heavy snow. The road to the Buttertubs was entirely iced-over, and a VW Polo trying to reverse back down the hill was enough to put us off. If the B-roads were this snowy, the unclassified Buttertubs was likely to be impassable, so, reckoning discretion to be the better part of valour, we reluctantly struck it off our list. Instead, we settled for a canter down across the A66 down to Scotch corner. Wide A-roads, low traffic and more cracking scenery meant that this was a route that both car and driver enjoyed. The coupé’s secondary ride comfort and impressive power reserves made for a most civilised of thrashes.
Russ: I took the wheel for the final part of the trip, the A169 from Pickering to Whitby through the North Yorkshire Moors. This was a route I picked up from browsing Scoobynet, and as we started the route, it was easy to see why – lots of switchbacks, lots of blind bends, at which the Japanese rally machine would have excelled. Even in an Impreza, however, anyone would have struggled in the fog with which we were faced. Greasy roads didn’t help matters, and, with the sat-nav not proving accurate enough to drive quickly by, the coupé fell once again behind the nutter in the 306.
Trying to make up time, I tried an ambitious three-car overtake on a stretch that appeared straight on the sat-nav. As we passed the second car, Tim’s eye’s widened, and his foot slammed his imaginary brake pedal into the bulkhead, as a pair of headlights rounded a corner that we didn’t realise was there. I hit the real brake pedal, and the coupé responded, matching traffic speed nicely and allowing me to merge in behind the final car. It was an unpleasant moment, and I half-expected Tim to order me out of the car immediately. Surprisingly, though, he wasn’t too bothered: suitably chastened, though, I performed the rest of the 169 at a pace more befitting of the elements.
Tim: Whitby didn’t let us down, and with a bit of last minute research via Russ’s phone we were enjoying some of the best fish and chips the UK has to offer in the Magpie Café. This was effectively the end of the caper, and it had left us all in different mindsets about the cars. Adam was clearly impressed with his £700 oil burner. It could really handle, and despite the lack of grunt much over 90, it could still be enjoyed as a driver’s car in the right hands. Nevertheless, Russ was betting that Adam will have bought a GTi-6 long before the next caper: although he did take a late shine to my coupé.
Meanwhile, I was asking myself why on earth I’d bought a Rover 200 and not held out, saved up a few grand more and bought an MG ZS180 (renowned for its chassis and handling). The fact is that while there’s a lot to like with the Turbo, there’s even more fatal flaws. Granted it looks great, sounds alright, has 200bhp, aircon and a gentleman’s interior, but that’s it. Unlike the 200 cabriolet, it doesn’t get the reinforced sills yet it still has no real roof, so chassis dynamics go out the window, especially with a 200bhp lump of cast-iron under the bonnet. Also, by the time they got round to making the coupé, all the talk of Tony Pond-approved chassis setups seemed long forgotten, so the Coupé Turbo sits on the same springs as the 1.6 K series versions with aluminium engines putting out a touch over half the power. Russ, I’m sure, will say I’m being too harsh on the old Rover, but if Mark’s Audi is of the same age… what more can I say? It was a good caper, but I don’t think I’ll be taking the coupé on anymore B road blasts anytime soon.
Russ: Many geniuses have flaws. Van Gogh cut his ear off, Alan Turing was a social recluse, Ryan Giggs is Welsh. The Rover 220 Coupé Turbo can also be put into that category. Its looks are stunning, even today: its equipment unimpeachable, its comfort surprising. What’s more, I love its character, its terrier-like impatience to get going and bark around the heels of more exotic machinery. But its sporting credentials must be called into question. Why are the brakes so ineffective? Why is the damping so soft? Rover had the perfect recipe for a gentleman’s sport’s car – grace, pace, and a beautiful place to spend time – but the seasoning with which it was sprinkled prevents it from getting a Michelin star.
As well as his S2, Mark Gomer owns what he calls a 'Roversport 216 Coupé GTI thing.' Basically a stiffened, lowered, strut-braced 216 coupé SE, it might be looked down upon by the purists, but perhaps there might have been a case for Rover to make such a package available. With Roversport brakes and suspension upgrades, the 220 Coupé Turbo would be nigh-on untouchable for the money. It would no longer be the plucky, but flawed, British underdog – it’d be the finished article.
As for the caper: well, that caused less debate, There are few finer things in life for a petrolhead than an traffic-less road, an absence of speed cameras and three free days to enjoy it all in. Garnish with a few beers, and you’ve got the ideal post-New Year retox. Don’t listen to the journalists whinging about gridlock Britain – they’re paid to do that. Just get out there and have a bloody good drive.
