by Mike Grundon (11 Aug 2006)

The idea for this trip across Europe was a simple one. I wanted to cut loose and tour, totally unplanned and unscheduled, moving wherever the wind and the mood took me. Looking back that's exactly what happened - but in a way I'd actually been planning it for years.

Ever since I was first interested in cars I've wanted to take a fast car out of my comfort zone and burst into the world. I wanted to see sun-dappled countryside and snow-capped mountains, to meet people and have conversations in no particular language, to just see where I ended up without route-cards or advance booking. My pal Jonathan's request in July that I should be one of the best men at his wedding in Tuscany meant there was no longer any excuse. It was time to make the dream a reality.

The rough route, sketched out on the map in my mind, would take me down the west coast of France, tool around through the Pyrenees for a bit, dash across the south coast of France and slip into Italy that way. The trip home would come up through the Alps. Sadly, the scale on my mind map was way out of kilter with reality. It's an unavoidable truth that France alone is very, very big. The final route ended up truncated somewhat.

Jaguar's XK8 Convertible was the perfect tool for the job. Its blend of elegance, power and sporting heritage stretching back to the old days of the Grand Tour was what had attracted me initially, and 3000 miles later an average fuel consumption of nearly 29mpg put the icing on the cake.

Anyway, back to the start. Launching into Europe may have found me in a country much bigger than I'd expected, but I was equipped with the ideal car to deal with it. For day after sunbleached day I made my way south, waking in the morning, picking a familiar sounding area and meandering in its general direction with the roof back and a grin on my face.

A friend of mine has this theory that if you trust in the universe, the universe will provide. I hoped it was true. I had this image of waking in a friendly bed-and-breakfast or small provincial hotel with sunlit curtains billowing in on a warm morning breeze, but the only knowledge I had in advance was to look for the signs saying Gites de France, or Chambres d'Hotes. It was up to the universe to provide.

And provide it did. My first evening in the Loire valley was spent in a 200-year old farmhouse, sipping wine under the walnut tree in the garden with a lovely landlady and chatting about everything from the weather in Scotland to her reminiscences about times past when she'd gone out driving with someone in an E-Type.

All of the places I stayed in my 10 nights away were different and there was no correlation between cost and enjoyment. The most atmospheric accommodation and the best nights sleep were in the cheapest places. Two nights after the Loire, I found myself south of the Dordogne in a roughly converted barn - crumbling wooden shutters on the windows, shower nailed to the wall, a cricket in the bedroom - yet it was the most magical place.

I'd showered off the grime of the day and stepped outside into the warm scented evening to sit with some fruit, cheese and a drink. The moon rose over the woods to my right as I looked down the valley over sunflower fields and vineyards to a distant village. An owl hooted in the trees. The crickets chirruped. A distant bark echoed off down the hills and the bell in the church tower struck the hour. I was living the dream.

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