Story and photos by Nik Berg
Time equals distance divided by speed. However, I think my schoolboy math may have failed me when planning this road trip route across France.
There’s simply no way to cover the ground from London to the Dordogne then down to the Pyrenees and back in six days exclusively on the picturesque N-roads as I had hoped. Especially since the best part of three of those days are to be spent at a wedding.
There’s no room for a navigational error or, more likely, a breakdown – I’m taking my 1982 Lotus Esprit.
It’s my first big trip in the Lotus since 2022, when I made it up to Scotland . . . and almost all the way home again.
In preparation, the car has been fettled and fuelled up, while packing for two has proven to be a Tetris-like task. The small trunk space, which is mostly occupied by tools and spare fluids, is not ideal for carrying our clothes unless we want to attend the wedding smelling of hydrocarbons. However, by removing the full-size spare wheel under the hood, there’s enough room for a duffel bag. We can also squeeze a suit bag behind the passenger seat, and bungee another bag between the seats. I’m impressed with just how much we manage to get in. A pile of shoes left inside the house suggests my wife is a little less happy with the arrangement.
We make good time from London to Portsmouth, negotiate the ramps onto the ferry, and set sail with everything going according to plan. Six hours later we’re docking in Caen and the sun is setting as we negotiate passport control. “Le Mans?” questions the border guard. It’s not an unreasonable guess, with almost every other car on the ferry adorned with La Sarthe stickers and heading to the 24-hour race on this early June weekend.
Our overnight respite at an Ibis Budget hotel almost spells disaster. In the gloom I approach the electric gates to the hotel, the Esprit’s terrible headlights failing to pick out the fact that for some unfathomable reason there is no apron – just a solid kerb. There’s a horrific clunk as I hit it square on and imagine coolant pouring everywhere. Yet somehow there’s no damage, and by taking an acute angle to the entry I manage to get through the gates.
Early the next morning there’s no sign of any leaks, the car fires up on the first try, and we crawl out of Caen. Yet at the first junction the indicators fail to function. It’s happened before, so we pull over and I take off the steering column surround to inspect the contacts. Everything seems fine, and then I happen to glance into the passenger footwell where the relay is hanging down. As luck would have it, I have a replacement in the glove box, pop it in, and we’re blinking again.
It’s a delay of maybe half an hour when you factor in the coffee and croissants bought at a nearby café, but it’s enough to make me reconsider the route south. It’s around 350 miles and if we avoid the autoroutes it will take over eight hours. Taking the paid-for péages will save three hours, so that’s what we opt to do instead.
French motorways might well be the best in the world. They seem to be universally well-surfaced and generally light on traffic. At the posted 130 km/h (80mph) speed limit, the time-distance calculations look favourable.
I haven’t got around to installing a stereo in the Esprit, but my iPhone connected to a pair of UE Boom Bluetooth speakers provides a mighty enough sound to drown out most of the wind noise coming from the door seals.
We opt for a period-correct ’80s playlist to keep us entertained, while further amusement – for me at least – comes at the toll booths. In order to reach the ticket machine my wife has to contort herself through the window. All those months of yoga have paid off. Meanwhile, in the drivers’ seat, all is well, and even after over five hours behind the wheel I have no aches or pains.
We arrive at the wonderful Chateau La Rochette, our home for the next couple of nights. It’s not quite as grand as the wedding venue, and I have to put up with another guest making Lotus jokes, but that’s a small price to pay.
There’s a pre-wedding dinner in the startlingly pretty town of Brantôme en Pérogord, where we eat local duck, quite possibly from the river of this mini-Venice-like setting. Water becomes the theme of the evening as a massive storm hits and, on returning to the Esprit, while it’s thankfully remained dry inside the cabin, all is not well in the engine room.
There’s white smoke, a strong smell of fuel, and a misfire. I know exactly what’s wrong but to fix it means getting drenched, so I limp the car back to the Chateau and hope the storm passes.
The next morning, before suiting up for the wedding ceremony I get my hands dirty. It’s only a stuck carburettor float, so with a can of carb cleaner, a screwdriver and a few minutes of effort it all is well again – and it doesn’t trouble us for the rest of the trip.
The sun comes out for the wedding with the bride and groom exchanging their vows in front of the Disney-like Chateau de la Côte and then partying until the early hours.
The next day we depart for the Pyrenees, another 270 miles due south. The weather is warming up with each mile and the Esprit is beginning to feel like a greenhouse. Turning the fan on full alleviates things a little, but opening the windows is out of the question, as by some quirk of aerodynamics it somehow feeds the exhaust gases directly into the cabin.
Soon enough, though, we’re distracted by the majesty of the mountains and the prospect of two of the best driving roads in the region, both easily reached from Bagnères de Luchon. This ancient spa town still has a somewhat sulphurous smell, but you’ll also get more than a whiff of gasoline as bikers and drivers gather here en masse in the summer months. The winter is for skiers, but come the thaw it’s over to the wheelmen and women.
We rise early, first to ascend the Col du Portillon and then to sweep up the road to Superbagnères.
Col du Portillon is an ancient route over the mountains and across the border to Spain that climbs to a height of 1293 metres (4242 feet) through switchback after switchback. It’s the first set of twisties I’ve tackled since refreshing the Esprit’s suspension, and I’m revelling in the new precision. It feels like there’s just a smidge more resistance at turn-in, but then the car tracks through each bend beautifully. There’s more grip than I’m willing to attempt to exceed, and the only limiting factor in this undiluted driving experience is the gear change. It’s improved with new bushes, but the action is still a bit ponderous. The altitude doesn’t seem to have taken much edge off the Esprit’s performance – as long as I rev it out. It’s not quick by modern standards, but there’s always more joy in extracting what you can from something a little slower rather than being forced to hold back in faster machinery.
It’s only 12 miles from Bagnères de Luchon to Bossòst, but even so we stop at the mid-point, two wheels in France and two in Spain, and head back to the spa town for an even more incredible road.
Superbagnères is a small ski resort, which for obvious reasons is closed in the summer months. That means the road to it is almost empty except for enthusiasts – and it seems it’s still too early for them; on the 11-mile climb we don’t encounter a single other vehicle.
It really is a super drive, beginning with smooth new tarmac that flows alongside the bright blue meltwater of the river Pique, and then rises gently into the forest. Then it’s into the hairpins to ascend above the treeline and into open Pyrenean pastures where the corners open up as they pass below dormant ski lifts. At the summit, the Grand Hotel sits silently awaiting the next snowfall. All there is to do is turn ’round for the downhill run.
With the extra shove of gravity, the Esprit approaches each corner with additional pace, and I start to smell the heat in the brakes before I feel it through the pedal. Not wanting the journey to end here, I back off in mechanical sympathy, for the reality is the day’s driving has really only just begun. To make it to our return ferry, we need to cover 450 miles to Tours today and then another 240 miles the next day to Cherbourg.
As it has on the way down, the Esprit seems thoroughly at home on the autoroute. Despite the sustained high speeds, including one or two gendarme-wary runs to triple digits, it’s managing an easy 300 miles on a tank of fuel. That’s around 30 mpg in English units. I check the oil level with every stop for gas, but little more than a litre is consumed over the entire 1600-mile trip.
I’ve met Esprit owners who say they wouldn’t risk a 100-mile drive, and I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times in my three years of ownership where I may have felt the same way.
Now, though, the Esprit feels unstoppable, and my only worry is working out where’s next on my road trip itinerary. Finally, it’s a nice problem to have.
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