Gradually, like a small red ant, we skirt
the edge of a huge natural amphitheatre, climbing all the time so chat we can
then look back down on where we've just come from. The road is remarkably wide
and you can see a long way ahead, so it's relatively easy to have a play on the
corners. The double-edged sword of looking at the incredible views, however, is
that you're always aware of the drops ... the ever-increasing drops. Get too
enthusiastic or misjudge a braking point and you know you'll be tumbling for some
time, but there's nothing like a bit of danger to focus the mind. It's part of
what makes it so fun.
Right up near the top, just before a tunnel
plunges into the mountain directly beneath the peak, we park up and press the
copper-coloured button to quell the engine. As the Jag's V8 dies, the silence
seems to rush in and fill the space around us. It's wonderfully peaceful up
here. Quite wild and remote. After a minute or two we get back in and burble
into the darkness of the tunnel.
The
gears are operated by handsome and tactile paddles
After the massive natural expanse outside, the
tunnel feels dreadfully cramped and narrow inside. Water occasionally drips
from the rock ceiling above, making me think I should have put the roof up.
Gradually, though, the white light at the end swells until that moment when
it's filling your vision and your pupils are forced to contract and adjust to
reveal what's outside. As we emerge, it's like we've driven through a portal
into another world. There's noise and colour, bustling and jostling. Smells of
cooking meat and baking bread waft thickly across the car while shouts of
imploring vendors rise above the general hubbub of thronging tourists. There's
certainly no doubt that we've arrived on the famous side of the pass.
A
button to active the exhaust valves appears beside the gearstick
In a synchronised wave, people tum their
faces to look as the F-type slinks slowly through the crowd. But as we reach
the end of the stalls and the mass of bodies recedes, the real reason they're
all up here heaves into view. Rather like looking down 'the face of the dam
earlier, the old loaf struggles to grasp and process the sheer scale of the
scene. From up high it looks for all the world like a Scalextric track built
into a rock garden. The way it spills down the valley with snatches of red and
white kerbing picked out amongst the natural hues is truly spectacular. Topped
off by the Coca-Cola-sponsored cable car suspended above us, the scene couldn't
be more different to the other, wilder side of the mountain and I'm not sure
which I prefer. Perhaps it's because it looks slightly contrived that it's so
mesmerising, but there's something almost 'Disney for drivers' about it.
Jaguar’s
penchant for concealed air vents manifests itself as a rising pod on the fascia
For a few hours we set about doing some
photos and, although it's fun, by the end of it I'm getting a little frustrated
by just how busy it is. As a driving road it certainly starts to lose its
appeal when you're continually catching crawling cars crucifying their
clutches. The 7C's road surface hasn't improved either, with huge ridges of
subsidence threatening to dent the lower reaches of the F-type's almost
aquiline nose at various intervals. Romanians also seem incapable of having a
picnic and then clearing up their rubbish afterwards, which is a bit of a shame
in such a beautiful spot. The discarded food packaging attracts dogs, which
seem friendly enough but have a slightly unhinged and unkempt look of wildness
about them that means you treat them with caution. Photographer Dean Smith
certainly doesn't look particularly happy when he comes scampering out from
behind a rock having been disturbed by a dishevelled dingo while having a pee.
It makes me chuckle, though, because 16 stone of man scampering away from a
puzzled dog is plain hilarious whichever way you cut it.
