BIG CAT COUNTRY
For Philip Astor, the Jaguar F-type, with its sinuous power and grace, is the perfect companion on a thrilling return to his beloved Scotland
As I write, and I dare say for several months to come, the skies above us remain bereft of aircraft, and the roads in our neck of the woods are largely empty. My old Land Rover sits disconsolately in the driveway, like a faithful Labrador looking up longingly for a chance to go out for a good run. As it is, we are diligently observing the government advice to stay at home, popping out only occasionally to pick up some groceries and a newspaper; and while I haven’t gone completely stir-crazy yet, I won’t deny that I am itching, in the words of Willie Nelson, to get back on the road again.
However long I am denied the chance to break free, at least I can console myself with the knowledge that I went out on a high; for just a matter of weeks before the national lockdown, I drove up to the Scottish Highlands in Jaguar’s flagship sports car, the F-type R Coupé. I have written in this magazine before about Jaguar’s pioneering electric I-pace, and my enthusiasm for it stands. But I will need a lot of shaking from my belief that the most exciting driving experiences are still generated by cars with an internalcombustion engine, and the F-type R, with its thumping five-litre supercharged V8 engine, is a case in point. Mind you, its allure extends well beyond what lurks beneath the bonnet. I spotted the four exhaust pipes first – always a promising sign, in my view; and the whole design of the car is fabulous. Rarely has a model epitomised the features of the marque it represents so accurately as the F-type. Like the eponymous feline, this Jaguar is sleek and lithe and agile. As the brand’s historic logo suggests, it’s a cat with the capacity to roar, and with its muscular haunches it is perfectly poised to pounce.
I was going to Scotland to tie up the last remaining loose end following the sale of my old home in Aberdeenshire. Until this year, I had retained the little church where, in 2012, I married the first and former editor of this magazine, but the time had come to transfer it to a representative of the local community. A haven of calm reflection and gentle spirituality, the church also has remarkable acoustics, as exemplified by the peerless local fiddler Paul Anderson, who regularly plays and records there. He seemed to be the
ideal choice to assume its stewardship, and so my wife Justine and I were eager to return for a simple handover ceremony.
Justine, who is generally pretty fussy about the cars I am asked to review, had been unusually taken by the F-type’s appearance, comparing it appropriately enough to a black panther, with its Carpathian Grey livery and Ebony interior. But she was guarded about the idea of a 500-mile drive north in its cosy two-seater cabin. She had also watched the weather forecast: Storm Ciara had just battered its way across the country, but its successor Dennis, described as a ‘perfect storm’ because of its fearsome combination of rain, winds and snow, was coming up fast behind. ‘The car’s got four-wheel-drive,’ I sought to reassure her, but to no avail. So, I drove up alone, while Justine flew; and though wistful without her, I was at least able to enjoy the full majesty of the car’s performance without persistent bleats from the passenger seat. The bare figures – 0–60mph in under four seconds, and a top speed of 186mph – can only convey so much. The reality is one of effortless pace, and a sense of sublime authority on the road.
This is a route that I have been driving in various cars since I was a schoolboy. While at Oxford, I would regularly motor up on a Thursday evening, returning on the following Tuesday for my next tutorial, before setting off again a couple of days later. Goodness knows how many times I have done it since. But apart from the odd trip in my misty-eyed Ferrari days, I have never covered the distance so expeditiously. The F-type sailed up the nation’s motorways without complaint, quite indifferent to the plague of hailstones that Storm Dennis hurled at it.
The real excitement of this journey comes as one enters the Highlands on the way to Braemar. There’s a particular stretch of road between the little Perthshire town of Blairgowrie and the Spittal of Glenshee, on the border with Aberdeenshire, that I have treated as a rally track for as long as I can remember. With its succession of sharp bends, short straights and relentless peaks and troughs, it feels like driving your own rollercoaster. The Scottish tourist authority has now cottoned on to its charms and promotes it as the first leg of a scenic 90-mile road trip through the Cairngorms National Park called the Snow Roads. Though the powersthat-be like to maintain that ‘the Snow Roads are slow roads’, they certainly aren’t in the F-type. I often used to shoot grouse on the hills around here, and the car zipped and darted towards Braemar with all the speed and guile of the noble king of game birds.
Justine and I spent the weekend at the Fife Arms Hotel, whose inimitably friendly atmosphere, delicious Highland fare and eclectic art collection have made it something of a home from home for me in this part of the world, so rich in personal associations. For now, the Fife has closed its welcoming doors, but it will unquestionably survive this wretched episode, and when it reopens, I don’t want it to have changed a jot. And so it goes for Jaguar, which, like all other car companies, has paused its manufacturing for the duration, but will surely rise again. In the case of the F-type, an updated model has already been launched with a few cosmetic tweaks, but the car’s distinctive profile and awe-inspiring V8 engine will ensure that it retains the essence of a bona fide classic. Jaguar F-type R Coupé 550ps, from £93,215 (www. jaguar.com).