From FOS to Monaco in a Maserati GT

Just 48 hours earlier, ankle deep in what Uncle Monty would have described as ‘beastly mud and oomska’ at the Festival of Speed, I had received a call: would I like to drive a Maserati GranTurismo MC Stradale from Goodwood to Monaco, fuelling myself with gourmet grub along the way? I waited a full second before biting their hand off. To whet my appetite, they drove me up the hill in their new Levante SUV. Though I fancied commanding something with a bonnet the length of an oil tanker, the luxury 4x4 was plenty thrilling as it glanced Lord March’s wall.

First thing on Monday morning, we were up and out in my murder-black Stradale and headed for Folkestone with not a minute to lose. The race to Monaco was on.

Apologies for any gratuitous food references in what follows, but these are a key ingredients (pardon the pun) of any road trip worth its salt (dammit). The cars loaded onto a EuroTunnel train, our hosts from the Trident marque produced luxury picnic hampers and I ate scotch eggs and pork pies off the Maserati’s carbon-fibre rear wing as we hurtled under the English Channel.

The weather was still dire as we set south from Calais and I was cautious of any gendarmes who might like to punish a UK-registered exotic for the Brexit vote that had been announced just three days before. But as we headed further south the sun appeared and the speedo needle started to rise along with our spirits.

After six hours it was time to pull off the autoroute at Beaune and take our lodgings for the night. The Hostellerie de Levernois is an old favourite of both mine and Nicolas Sarkozy as it happens. The former French premier has helicoptered in dinner companions in the past including Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates. But there’s nothing bling about the Levernois, it is as discrete and rustically chic as anywhere in wine country. The French export Bordeaux and they keep the Burgundy for themselves, or so they say. Here we were just a couple of miles from the most celebrated chardonnay domaines on the planet and within minutes of arriving there was a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet at my door.

Dinner was a pleasingly gluttonous event. Lobster tempura; shellfish gnocchi; crayfish with morilla mushrooms; roasted veal; and a chocolate and caramel moose that looked like an alien spaceship. The Maserati takes 98 RON, I’m on the one-star Michelin.

The next day’s weather was spectacular and by the time we reached Serres it was 34 degrees and I’d earned my lunch. We had swerved off the autoroute and, after following the route Napoleon took from Elba to Grenoble we took the E712 that scissors alongside the 25km-long Verdon Gorge. This has got to be the most spectacular road in Western Europe. It’s certainly the most breathtaking view and involving road I have ever found in France. A green thread of water trickles through the canyon 700 metres below and on it frolic vacationers in pedalos and kayaks.

My sporting nature prefers 460 Italian horses and a V8 that delivers neck-snapping grunt. The Verdon’s switchbacks were never-ending. Each time we went around a hairpin the rear would drift out ever so slightly before burying the traction and leaping into the next bend. Overtaking had to be prepared with surgical precision as the opportunities were hazardous, and I did hear the odd yelp from the passenger seat. But this was as satisfying as driving gets, in a car with immense balance, poise and character.

Past Serres the roads opened up but the mountains continued to rise until we descended into Nice and cruised along the Corniche. We had left Goodwood in the drizzle the day before and here we were arriving in Monte Carlo bathed in early evening sunlight just in time for aperitifs and the Yacht Club.

I swung the Stradale under the Hermitage’s Belle Epoque awning and proffered my muddy wellingtons to the porter. I’d come a long way the last 1,000 miles, but the Maserati looked perfectly at home.