Stuff We Love - Driving A Bentley Around The South Of England

Photos by Peter Hunt

“It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive,” wrote the Scottish novelist, Robert Louis Stevenson in an age before Easyjet and Ryanair. These days, it is, generally, better to arrive, along with one’s luggage, than it is to travel; except when one is touring in a Bentley.

I don’t even like cars, couldn’t care less about them. When I spot Rolls Royces outside London’s Dorchester Hotel, I am stuck by the fact they look as if they have been made from a kit. A few months back, couldn’t tell you what a Bentley even looked like. Said, “Not interested” when I was offered one for a week’s test drive. Changed to “Yes please” somewhat swiftly after husband suggested I had taken leave of my faculties. “What is it with men and cars?” I screeched back. Now, I am equipped to tell you.

Men (and it is, uniquely men, in my experience) revert to being little boys at the sight of a superb feat of engineering, a beautiful car, handmade and polished to a shine in Crewe in the North of England. My local mini cab driver sent me a text gushing with !!!!! when he saw us drive by. Middle aged chaps in bad shorts purred with delight, old men on mobility devices got moist eyed, evil little chavs in hoodies suddenly reverted to being the carefree kids they wish they were and shouted “nice car” in voices utterly free of their usual world-weary sarcasm.

You think you wouldn’t be wooed by a Bentley? Get in a convertible, marvel at the sheer ballet of mechanics as the top goes down, stroke the perfect leather interior and drive. A Bentley is a thing of beauty, except when one doesn’t feel quite beautiful enough (no, strike that, quite BLONDE enough) to live up to it. We drove all the way down to Devon, in the South of England, then pulled into a beauty spot, uncluttered but for a Mr. Whippy ice-cream van. The vendor came over, asked if I had a son who is a footballer, asked if I had won the lottery then concluded, “I don’t think you pinched it, but I know it isn’t yours.” Alas, he was right. I am yet to find a spare GBP 159,000 in lost change down the back of my sofa, but oh, when I do….

I have a new favourite summer game. Forget digging sandcastles. “Park the Bentley” is way more fun (not just because you can’t hit anything; you can see where you are going on a sort of TV screen and loud beeps erupt at each threatening blade of grass to the rear). My game involves parking next to the most vulgar car you can find and then ruining the day of some master of the universe in a tinny little Porsche. Cruel, I know, but those city boys did lose poor people’s pensions then walk off with golden handshakes of their own…One has a responsibility to even the balance somehow.

A Bentley goes incredibly fast, or so I’m told. To borrow one I had to sign a sheath of paperwork promising I would not exceed the speed limit. I also promised I wouldn’t export it although I took it on a teeny weeny little chain ferry from Devon to Cornwall, which considers itself to be Kernow, its
own Celtic country.

May I suggest, for your next holiday to the UK, you inquire about touring in the ultimate car? (There are a few very posh companies that can arrange that). I can tell you, it works A DREAM at the snootiest hotels, where suddenly it’s, “yes Madame, there IS a room available. We’re upgrading you to a suite.” But the downside is, I am forever bereft. The car has gone home to Crewe and all I am left with is my Transport for London Oyster card, my own two feet, and the memories.