So, Storm Amy had just exploded across the west coast and there I was in Glasgow sitting inside a Czech tin can with the aerodynamic profile of a toaster, wondering if the insurance covered drowning.
The Škoda Fabia is a car that humbles you. Three cylinders, one litre and an engine note that sounds like a sewing machine having a nervous breakdown. Floor the throttle and it doesn’t so much accelerate as gather courage. By the time it hits 60, you’ve aged a full tax year. But it’s cheerful in its suffering. It buzzes, it wheezes and it tries its best.
The rain came sideways, the wind peeled umbrellas out of people’s hands like they were auditioning for Mary Poppins: The Horror Remake, and yet everyone just trudged on. I stopped at a café, dripping onto the floor, while locals chatted about football as if the world wasn’t currently being power washed.
Dunoon was my destination via the ferry at Gourock: a service that, in a storm, feels less like public transport and more like a dare. Waves crashed, gulls screamed and the Fabia hunkered down as though it had suddenly grasped the concept of mortality.
When the ferry finally dumped us on dry land, Dunoon appeared through the mist like the last outpost of civilisation. It’s a handsome little place; quiet, dignified and clinging to the coast like it’s seen too much.
The next morning, Amy had moved on to terrorise someone else, so I pointed the Fabia south toward Cockermouth and fabled rally prep firm M-Sport. The roads were drying, the sky almost blue and the car suddenly perked up, probably relieved it wasn’t being used as a submarine.
Then M-Sport appeared: the Vatican of rallying. Fiestas, Pumas and rally gods everywhere. The Fabia rolled in, looking like a man who’s shown up to a gunfight with a salad fork.
Inside, M-Sport is pure magic. The smell of oil, carbon fibre and dreams. Cars that can leap over hills at 120mph, land on their suspension and keep going. Meanwhile, my Škoda had once bottomed out on a speed bump in Paisley. Still, it had something in common with those rally beasts: stubbornness. And maybe a hint of madness.
That’s the thing about driving in Scotland. The scenery is so breathtaking it feels like nature’s showing off. The weather wants you dead. The roads are stunning, the people unbothered and the entire experience feels like a near-death holiday with spectacular views.
Could have been worse though. Some friends who were meant to be joining from Italy never quite made it. Their flight was meant to land in Glasgow, but the weather meant that the pilots missed the approach – twice. Giving up on this as a bad thing, they went for Edinburgh instead but that was another missed approach. By the time they landed in Manchester about an hour later, there was an estimated six minutes of fuel left on board.
No such worries with a Škoda.
Author Bio:
Anthony Peacock works as a journalist and is the owner of an international communications agency, all of which has helped take him to more than 80 countries across the world.
Photograph courtesy of Škoda
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