Detour #200: Driving 2,000 miles for a mountain high in a Morgan
The marvellous Maloja Pass
“Two thousand miles is very far through the snow. I’ll think of you wherever you go.”
Chrissie Hynde’s vocals have a new meaning for me as I look back on my Morgan mission to the mountains. Two thousand miles is indeed a long way in a soft-top sports car, especially in the depths of winter.
“My” Morgan is a new Plus Four, a car designed for sunny drives on high days and holidays and this trip was conceived with lofty ambitions, the destination being the high society hangout of St Moritz in Switzerland to visit a unique classic car show, held on the resort’s frozen lake. It’s called The Ice and the trip there and back is certainly chilly.
It begins with the challenge of packing luggage and photographic equipment into the car, using every inch of space behind the seats and strapping waterproof bags to the rear rack as there’s no boot. It’s one of the anachronisms of driving a Morgan with a design that’s hardly changed for almost 90 years.
That’s true for the exterior at least, but underneath the hand-beaten aluminium panels and ash frame there’s a modern chassis and powertrain. Borrowed from BMW the car’s two-litre four-cylinder turbocharged engine packs a potent 255bhp and drives through an eight-speed automatic gearbox. Think of it as a kind of factory-fresh resto-mod that offers classic looks but an up-to-date drive.
The first leg of the journey is a test of endurance. From London to Folkestone, through the Channel Tunnel and then South across France in as little time as possible. Cruising at 80 mph one could never call it quiet, but the Bluetooth-connected stereo streams music at sufficient volume to drown out the howling gale caused by ancient aerodynamics.
It’s tempting to stop for the obligatory photo at Reims, but the mountains are calling so I crack on, pausing only for petrol every 250 or so miles. By the evening I’ve crossed the border into Switzerland for a night by the lake in Lucerne.
Leaving before dawn the next morning a seemingly relentless series of tunnels takes me out of the city, one of which is so lengthy that I enter in darkness and emerge into daylight.
I had hoped to take the Grimsel Pass, but like many Swiss mountain roads it is shut for the winter. A quick look at the AlpenPasse website confirms that the Brünig Pass is open and, on the map, it looks like a promising morning workout.
In reality it’s not the Alpine picture postcard I imagined but does throw in a smattering of Switchbacks as it climbs to around 3,000 feet.
Descending down to the level of the lakes at Brienzersee and Thunersee I carry on towards the base of the Bernese Alps. To my total surprise the road runs out in the village of Kandersteg and the only way to proceed to the Simplon Pass is via a train that cuts through the heart of the mountain.
On the other side I ascend rapidly to reach the grand Hotel Külm-Bellevue with its amazing views across the pass and a very fancy architect-design public convenience.
With the roof now stowed away and clear skies above the Morgan comes into its own. The heated seats are toasty, the blower is blasting warm air and, despite the outside temperature being below zero the cabin isn’t much cooler than with the roof up. More to the point, the car’s slightly claustrophobic interior is now open to the elements – the sights, sounds and smells of the mountains.
Speeding along 6,000 feet high in the sky, diving through bend after bend, it’s almost like flying.
Across the border into Italy I’m brought down to earth with a bump. The Piedmontese autostrada is busy with locals who take the art of tailgating to new heights. The road passes through tunnel after dimly-lit tunnel and I’m in danger of suffering highway hypnosis and nodding off.
Fortunately, relief comes on less busy roads, bypassing Lake Como and leading north towards Chiavenna and more mountains as I cross back into Switzerland.
The Maloja Pass is next and it’s simply marvellous, like a shrunken Stelvio it stitches together hairpin after hairpin on a rapid climb up the mountainside.
St Moritz is just a few miles from the summit, but my hotel lies the other side of the Bernina Pass in Poschiavo. Over the next couple of days I dash back and forth in sunshine and blizzard and become smitten by this Swiss road.
It’s not the end, though. Heading homewards there’s one final pass and it’s almost as special. Or it would be if I could see. It’s -14 degrees and blizzarding as I reach the 7,500-foot summit of the Julier Pass. The descent though is spectacular as I drop below the clouds and string together the series of bends, the Morgan’s exhaust popping and banging in a remarkably ungentlemanly manner.
Retracing my steps back across to Lucerne, then through France to Calais and home to London is a long haul, but the memories of the mountains sustain me all the way.