The key to a mountain.

I kid you not. I have it in my hand. I’m standing outside a nondescript building in an ordinary town and I have a bemused expression on my face.

The actual key to a mountain? It looks more like a tool, with a triangular indentation cut in one end. Two minutes ago a man opened his desk drawer, handed it over with a shrugged “Voila, c’est tout”, and then I found myself back on the pavement, clutching, well, something rather amazing.

The mountain is Mont Ventoux. You might be familiar with it, you might know some French and be able to work out its name has something to do with wind. You might like your cycling and know something of its reputation as a savagely difcult Tour de France climb. Locally it’s known as the Giant of Provence, a barren limestone peak that sits alone above the plains of the Luberon, summit punching up through the vegetation, way above the tree line. Winds hit 200mph here, snow and sudden storms occur year round. They close it in winter, lock it away behind a barrier. A barrier to which I now have a key.

Where did this start? With wanting to give the Ariel Nomad an adventure. It’s done mud, grass, tarmac, gravel, but not snow. I like snow. But what’s the point in taking it to a ski resort? Where’s the jeopardy in that, the remoteness, the adventure?

Yes, I know. I towed the Nomad out here so I’m a wuss. It wasn’t the plan. I wanted to drive out here solo. But I also wanted to bring my bike and skis, and knowing how quickly conditions can change on Ventoux, I’d need spares: spiked tyres, a shovel, spare battery, oil, tools, a jack, straps to attach it all. Ariel went so far as to design, engineer and build a roofrack so I could carry everything. It’s now on the Nomad’s options list.

And then I remembered I’d need to take a photographer to document what I was up to and – ah – a flm would be good too. So plans changed. We have a Land Rover Discovery 5 on the TG Garage feet. It’s not yet had the chance to properly show what it can do, to prove that despite its new-found luxe, it can still walk the walk when put under pressure, can do things that would stop an Audi Q7 or Volvo XC90 in its tracks.

Plus, it has a fashy electric towbar. A phone call to Brian James Trailers followed. Hooking the A4 Transporter trailer up was a cinch (thank you, rear-view camera), the Nomad’s aerial was tie-wrapped down and its cabin loaded with all the overfow that wouldn’t ft in the Disco. Concerned about light-fngered sorts at French service stations, the trailer is covered with padlocks. At the Eurotunnel, I stopped and paced the rig out – about 33 feet long and probably up over the four-tonne mark.

France passes. It does so very, very easily. The Disco hums along, tows as smoothly as butter, is delightfully unafected by standing water or crosswinds. I’m getting a massage and subjecting my passengers, Mark and James, to Desert Island Discs, while they’re stabbing at laptops. I’m piloting a mobile ofce suite. I’m also barely aware of how hard the Disco is working, until a glance at the notoriously optimistic trip computer shows we’re averaging 21.5mpg. My maths is more accurate than Land Rovers: 19.3mpg.

Six hundred and ffty miles later, I’ve collected the key from the Vaucluse roads department in Carpentras and we’re of to have a look at what we’ve let ourselves in for. We saw Ventoux from the motorway, I pointed it out to the guys and it looked innocuous – there was barely a grunt from the underwhelmed laptop-tappers. Not so much now. It’s dark on Ventoux, the temperature is dropping steadily and the trees are swaying ever more vigorously as we climb. It’s pitch black, slow-going and what was I saying about crosswinds? The Disco appears to have knockknees it’s trembling so badly. But so are the rest of us. Still in mild disbelief, I want to check the key works, but at Chalet Reynard, the famous halfway point, where the trees start to thin and the scalp of the mountain emerges, the howling, shrieking wind and minus double-digits dash display means I settle for just pointing the headlights up the next pitch. Yep, I don’t need to experience the full force of Ventoux just yet.

Thoroughly chastened, we retreat to lower climes and a warm, welcoming bed. Tomorrow’s mission is the summit, and it’s currently looking a long way of. I want to stand on the Nomad’s roofrack, next to the signpost that reads ‘sommet’, while the sky treats us to a sunset spectacle and we survey our achievement. I also want to plant a cheeky Union fag up there.

In the fnest traditions of British explorers, it’s the frst thing I gafer tape to the Nomad the next morning: the pièce de résistance – if the French understand that sort of thing. We’re up beyond Chalet Reynard, nosed up to the barrier and haven’t seen another car or sign of life. We’ve made it this far at least. Beyond, just one set of tracks pressed into the snow lead of into the dark. I’m dressed in about fve layers, from thermals at the bottom to my survival suit up top. One of the middle layers is heated. Oh yes. I also have heated insoles in my shoes and heated gloves. I’ve no idea how I’m going to change the battery pack when it inevitably runs out.

Ratchet straps are removed, shovel and skis join bike and spiked tyres on the Nomad. I’m hoping not to have to do any tyre swaps as that would be an enormous hassle, but if I can fnd an excuse to unload bike or skis, I’ll take it. The Nomad’s 2.4-litre fres up frst time. Anticipation builds. Full of excitement, I bound across to the barrier like Neil Armstrong, the key slots in exactly where I’d been promised, the screw turns and, with a heave of protesting metal, the barrier rises. Beyond, a playground.

Trailer abandoned in a convenient lay-by, the Discovery now becomes the photography platform-cum-survival cell, and the Nomad, well, it has a mountain to play on. I literally cannot conceive of anything better for either it or me to be doing. Ever.

I nudge forward through the gateway to paradise. The tyres bite into three inches of pristine snow. They have grip and traction, but not too much. Perfect. The sun is just rising into a narrow gap between distant mountains and a low, scudding cloud layer. The light is astonishing.

“THE TYRES HAVE GRIP AND TRACTION, BUT NOT TOO MUCH. PERFECT”

Photographers like light. We make it about a hundred yards before the radio latched to my collar chirrups into life. Even I agree we need to capture this for posterity.

Earlier, while chomping sleepily on breakfast, I’d had an attack of the health and safeties. Conditions will be hostile, I’d reminded Mark and James, we need to keep three seats clear in the Disco at all times, keep the engine running permanently, the heated seats and steering wheel on, the four-wheel-drive system in Snow mode. The Discovery will be our sanctuary, our place of refuge should all go tits up and the Nomad gets blown of the side of the mountain. Or more likely, driven, given the numpty at the wheel.

But as we look east at the rising sun, bathe in the soft orange light, that all seems a long way of. West? We can’t see west, it’s lost in cloud.

The cloud conceals horrors. It’s like a diferent world. The visibility closes right down, the light disappears, we’re in the Upside Down, suspended in a world of white, the marker posts our only positioning beacons. And then the wind. It’s modest at frst, a couple of gusts that sweep straight through the Nomad’s frame, snapping the fag to attention, making the Ariel lean on its springs and me duck my chin into the high collar.

But Ventoux is only just getting started. The road begins to rise more steeply, up towards 10 per cent, the snow has drifted so we’re now lurching over ridges; wheelspin, which I’d relished at lower altitudes, is now a harbinger of vital momentum running out. Behind, the towering form of the Disco is doing a passable Pisa impression. But it looks steady, the concerned parent to the Nomad’s impetuous child.

The wind rises to a roar, the tightened seatbelts vibrate on my chest, in the best possible advert for gafer tape the fag fails to take fight, but leans over to angles I’ve never seen when driving on a motorway. For several minutes, I nudge onwards, following the domino line of posts, noticing the hoar frost that’s built up on them, realising I’ve lost feeling in a couple of fngers. I drive one-handed, clenching and unclenching the other, then a low wall appears ahead – I know where I am now, the Col des Tempêtes, renowned as the fercest place on the whole mountain. And not far below the summit.

But I’ve made a mistake. I haven’t kept watch on the Nomad’s dash. The heated windscreen light has gone out. Unnoticed by me, a misting frost has started to take hold and on the last climb I have to resort to driving with my head out the side. The windscreen ofered protection, but now I have none and the goggles are nearly ripped of my face – but I’m nearly there. The fnal hairpin. Sheet ice. 25 per cent gradient. Not going to make that. Take the lower road.

Five seconds later, only ten metres below the summit, I’m stuck fast. The Nomad’s light front wheels rode up over a snow bank, the rears did the same on the hardened crust for a metre or two, and then fell through. Thank God I brought the shovel. I also have a winch of course, but I’m cold and need to warm up.

The three of us take it in shifts to dig snow out from under the Nomad’s belly. We dig, we rock the car, we make an inch of progress. During this 20-minute interlude I become aware of a fourth fgure lending a hand. It’s a runner. A chap who’s just run up the mountain. I repeat myself through disbelief. We’re having a chat and over his shoulder I spot a cyclist, a bloke on a sodding mountain bike. I thought we were the only daredevils on this mountain. My pufed chest has been punctured. Nevertheless, extra assistance helps us wrest the Nomad free, risk the ice and acquire the summit in short order.

Is the scale of achievement diminished? Not at all. The wind and temperature might strip other things away, but they also bond our hardy band. We do something we almost never do on shoots – take a team photo. I construct a homemade scraper and clean the sign of. “Sommet du Ventoux, 1909 metres,” it says. Yep, that feels like an achievement. With two Frenchmen huddled in an alcove of the giant military radar tower that forms Ventoux’s pinnacle, I resist the urge to hammer the fag in and claim Mount Windy as sovereign British territory.

But if you stand around admiring your achievement too long, the cold digs in, the mountain catches up with you. Isn’t Mallory thought to have summited Everest and then died on his way down? We retrace our steps to lower climes, the lighter, lower Nomad the more sure-footed at tracking down these steep slopes. And from a safe haven several miles away, we gaze back at the summit and notice something. The cloud is thinning. We catch glimpses of tower between racing wisps.

But down here, it’s Pikes Peak. With snow. And I have the most playful car on the planet. And I fnd I’m not interested in skis or bike when I have an hydraulic handbrake, long-travel Fox dampers and 235bhp through the rear wheels. And this snow-covered road… wide, open curving uphill corners, hairpins, soft snow banks. Bring. It. On.

Ice hangs from the number plate, sheathes the suspension arms, flls the undertray. The cabin is dusted with snow. But the Nomad never misses a beat, its appetite, its relish for these conditions is like nothing I’ve experienced before. Pure childish wonder and joy. Meanwhile the Discovery genuinely impresses me. The confdence it inspires, the ability it has whether towing or pushing through snowdrifts was something I feared had died with the Disco 4.

It hasn’t. The veneer of luxe cloaks a tough tool.

Several hours of photographic ‘work’ follow, and when I’ve had my fll of fun I drive more gently, respectfully back to the summit and watch the sun drop slowly through a haze of clouds into a distant horizon out beyond the southern coast of France. I stand on the Nomad’s roofrack, hold the fag steady and pat the key in my pocket. Might forget to drop that of on my way home.