From the Rolls-Royce experimental archive: a quarter of a million communications from Rolls-Royce, 1906 to 1960's. Documents from the Sir Henry Royce Memorial Foundation (SHRMF).
Article from 'The Autocar' magazine detailing a motoring holiday through the French Alps.
| Identifier | ExFiles\Box 128\3\ scan0011 | |
| Date | 16th December 1938 | |
| December 16th, 1938. The Autocar 1137 BUSMAN'S HOLIDAY (CONTINUED) Lautarêts, which had been chosen as the rallying point for the party. It was 10 p.m. when we sat down to an excellent omelette and coffee in this Alpine chalet. But midnight chimed without the arrival of our two intrepid ones from Paris. We whiled away some time with the Philips car radio, which, at this lofty altitude, brought in dozens of stations in languages so numerous that we could not identify them all. Finally, we fell into bed after arranging for the front door to be left on the latch and the Enoch Arden candle in the window. We were fast asleep when, at 2 a.m., heavy feet were heard in the corridor as Alan P. Good and Magnus Geddes fumbled for the light switch. So all five men foregathered at last over that bottle of barley water and hot milk thoughtfully provided by Mr. Haig, and we heard how they had run straight through to Grenoble from Paris in seven hours—and that on a comparatively new car. Clean and Comfortable I would always recommend P.L.M. mountain hotels. They are clean, unpretentious, comfortable, inexpensive, and the site of that on the Lautarêts is perfect. Next morning, the near-by peaks, covered in snow and bathed in the brilliance of an August sun, looked beautiful from my bedroom window. I watched tourists trek to the botanical garden of rare flowers maintained by the University of Grenoble in these heights. We got away via Briancon and the Valley of the Durance in time to make Barcelonnette on the other side of the romantic Col de Vars for late lunch. Of Guillestre, with its mediaeval buildings, one might write an entire article, but the pass which bars the way to Barcelonnette is becoming the worst-kept mountain road in France. The north side of the Galibier is, by contrast, at its roughest only as one gets to the topmost reaches. In places it resembles nothing more than a mule track, but the Col de Vars, if badly surfaced, repays one by providing a panorama as fine as any in Europe. At one point, a few kilometres above Guillestre, one may park the car with five corkscrew bends spread out at one's feet, while, all around, the high Alps of Dauphiny range themselves tier upon tier. Barcelonnette is a lofty summer and winter resort hidden away between guardian hills. But time was pressing, so we soon headed both cars for the Cayolle Pass (7,720ft.). The Col de la{L. A. Archer} Cayolle is a sort of miniature d'Iseran in that it is narrow, not very steep, and begins by the side of a rushing torrent. It is on the south side that one gets the first salt smell of the sea, and the sky takes on its authentic Mediterranean blue. The three-seater had led the way up the pass, and, on surmounting the summit in the driving rain, we had a glimpse of it far down in the valley taking the curves like a figure skater. At Guillaumes we began the lovely and tortuous descent through the Valley of the Var to the Alpes Maritimes and the coast. This long and perfectly graded drop towards the sea, through tunnel after tunnel cut in the rock face, provides a welcome contrast to the High Alps. But now the great trip southwards, over range upon range of mountain, was gradually ending as the villages of the Alpes Maritimes were passed one by one. Of the rest—the quick progress through Nice and over the ever-lovely Moyenne Corniche, with its views of the blue Mediterranean—one need hardly write here. The scenic beauty of the hinterland of the Côte d'Azur is something almost too lovely to describe. One cannot wonder that so many of the romantic stories of fiction find their focus in Monte Carlo. Rest Cure We stayed in Monte Carlo for some days sunning ourselves on the delightful beach and the more sporting of our party aquaplaning in the wake of a speedboat. Then, having drunk our fill of so many delights, we felt it was time, for two of us at least, to return home. So the original pair (B. and myself) made off at midday in yet a third twelve-cylinder Lagonda—a saloon which had been doing demonstration duty for some months on the Continent—intending to cover the 700-odd miles to Dieppe in one jump by the normal Rh{R. Hollingworth}ône Valley route. We dined at Vienne, and darkness had fallen before we set out to complete the 450 miles to the coast. We began putting a regular 55 miles into each hour until my friend B. took the wheel, whilst I slept unheroically on the roomy back seat. Back in Fontainebleau we turned left in a few miles for Versailles in order to avoid Paris. Here in the early hours we took coffee at the just-opening station buffet, and wondered why Fate should reserve her worst coffee for tired travellers at moments when human resistance to such trifles is at its lowest. The pair of us, by this time thoroughly unkempt after a night of ceaseless motion, ambled gently coastwards. So Dieppe was reached and the whole bosom of La{L. A. Archer} Belle France from north to south had been crossed in less than 20 hours, counting the various stops for food and drink for men and car. But both agreed that never in something like forty trips to the Continent had we travelled so far and so fast by road in such comfort. If the twelve-cylinder Lagonda has one quality—apart from velocity—it is surely its superb comfort, from the furrows 5,000ft. up the Galibier to the long open stretches beyond Fontainebleau, where the 100 mark can be held for miles on end. Of the engine with its extraordinary smoothness my comment would be that it revels in speed. On top gear its low speed torque is not such that it jumps to action, but if the lower ratios are used—and the quiet gear box is certainly designed for that purpose—very rapid acceleration is possible. Petrol consumption averaged 12 to 14 m.p.g., which for a vehicle of approximately two tons is very good. It was certainly a great trip—in a great car. An energetic member of the party. Keen observers will recognise in this snapshot the figure of Alan P. Good, a magnate of the automobile and aircraft worlds, who has added water ski-ing to his many accomplishments. A27 | ||