There are sensible ways to test a compact family SUV. You could take it to the supermarket, fill the boot with shopping and fill the back with kids. Or you could point it north from Hampshire, drive to Aberdeen, divert through the Cairngorms and see whether it still feels like a good idea several hundred miles later.
The latter seemed more like me.
The queue for Le Shuttle's Flexiplus lounge told its own story. McLarens, Ferraris, Lamborghinis — you name them, they were there, idling politely in line like schoolboys waiting for the tuck shop to open, their owners doing that studied nonchalance that only a man leaning against half a million pounds of carbon fibre can attempt.
The problem with reviewing electric cars without a home charger is that you very quickly become an unpaid infrastructure correspondent. You stop thinking like a motoring content creator and start thinking like a logistics manager.
A large SUV appears entirely at home pulling up to a grand historic building, as though it has merely returned from a light bout of pheasant disturbance. A discreet German saloon also looks suitable, particularly if it is muted in colour, electric-silent and wafting across the pea shingle.
But a bright purple Lotus? This is not discreet. It does not sidle quietly into an open forecourt and hope not to be noticed. It arrives with the visual and audible subtlety of a quality-street wrapper at a funeral.
A pine-scented Italian mountain refuge beneath Monte Bianco where folklore, food, skiing, and serious pleasure converge, and where leaving feels faintly disloyal
Courmayeur sits at the foot of Mont Blanc with the quiet confidence of a place that knows exactly who it is. It has no need to shout. Unlike many Alpine resorts engineered for throughput and spectacle, this is a real town with a proper centre, cobbled streets, stone houses, and a rhythm dictated as much by weather and tradition as by ski lifts and restaurant bookings.
Where Alpine Peaks Meet the Art of Wellness
Some hotels offer you a bed. Others offer you a view. The 5-star Cyprianerhof Dolomites Hotel offers a philosophy. Its daily rhythm is seductively simple: climb mountains like an Olympian in the morning, surrender to spa decadence in the afternoon, then dine like a Renaissance prince by evening. In short: sweat, steam, feast, repeat.
The Alpine A110 R 70 arrives like a perfectly timed coup de théâtre—the final act of a 70-year love affair between Dieppe's engineers and the art of making automobiles dance. This 70th anniversary edition is, quite literally, the last of its breed before Alpine succumbs to the electric revolution. Consider it the automotive equivalent of Catherine Deneuve’s final film: impossibly beautiful, utterly French, and destined to leave you pining for what once was.
Images by Hayden Povey.
Every so often, a car turns up on my driveway that sets the neighbours’ curtains into full cardio. And I reckon the Polestar 4 might just be the most talked-about of the lot. Within the hour, heads were tilting, questions were being lobbed over hedges and before long I was presiding over what felt suspiciously like a Parish Council meeting.
I took the Corvette Z06 Convertible on a week-long tour through the rolling hills and winding lanes of southern England, the sort of countryside where Aston Martins usually rule the roost. From the chalky cliffs of Sussex to the winding backroads of Surrey, the Z06 devoured every mile with theatrical flair. The highlight? A sunset wine tasting at the Roebuck Estates Vineyard, where the golden light glinted off its sculpted lines as elegantly as the sparkling rosé in my glass.
