London to Tuscany in a Porsche 911: the road trip you have to do once in your life

It all started when I saw the listing for the silver 911 Carrera GTS. I knew the time had come to make real a dream born long before I understood what it meant, back when I watched Sean Connery play James Bond, climbing the legendary Furka Pass in a silver 1964 Aston Martin DB5.

The plan was simple on paper and mad in practice: leave London with Alessandra, cross the Channel through the Eurotunnel, drive across France and Switzerland, and reach the country of automotive devotion, Italy, ending in Tuscany to celebrate her birthday.

The preparation

A trip like this forgives no improvisation. Full service, oil, filters, a check on the pads and discs, a set of tyres Michelin Pilot Sport 4s I could trust to keep the horses on the road and not in a ditch. I threw in an alignment too, just to keep my mind at ease on Europe's motorways.

The night before we left, I washed her by hand. There's no better sight than seeing your car gleaming, knowing you did it yourself.

The 911 is, essentially, a mistake Porsche made in 1963, and has been perfecting ever since. Engine in the back, a design paradox that by all logic should never have worked - and yet it gave an entirely unlikely shape the timelessness and elegance other manufacturers have chased for decades without catching.

Two people, fifteen days, suitcases in the front trunk and whatever didn't fit there behind the seats - mostly Alessandra's shoes. We were ready.

Departure

An early wake-up, hot coffee, and the three-litre, 450-horsepower engine fires up. A day full of driving and changing landscapes. It doesn't start better for someone who loves cars. Τhe constant movement, the change of scenery and the unique safe space a car gives you, to share your thoughts - whatever they may be - without having to look someone in the eye. That's why we love car rides, let alone a 2500km one.

Arriving at Dover for the Eurotunnel, the attendant waves us into a specific lane. Why? Within minutes an entire Porsche convoy pulls up behind us - a 992 Turbo S, a Boxster GTS 4.0, a 997 Carrera GTS and more. We were exactly where we needed to be, with the right company. That's where we met Paul, who'd brought his Boxster GTS along while five more waited in his garage back home, a GT3 RS among them. In his own way, politely but pointedly, he assured us our 991.2 GTS was just right, and that the rest of his collection was, as he put it, "excessive". I pretended to believe him, and he pretended to mean it. Alessandra, watching me talk about gearboxes as if discussing the weather, just shook her head and went to find a coffee.

France

The moment you roll off the train and set tyres on Europe, on the glorious French tarmac of the autoroutes, is also the moment you realise a vast, labyrinthine web of corners and straights opens up ahead of you for hundreds of kilometres, all the way from Italy to Greece and Turkey. The choices are endless.

Somewhere in the first twenty minutes inside France, Alessandra's voice: "Can I please drive her?" Message received. In short order, the driver change became reality - it's not exactly wise to refuse your girlfriend something like that a few days before her birthday.

At the first fuel stop, her need for parking perfection proved fatal, the front lip of the bumper the casualty. Moments like these test your character: will you react with logic or emotion? I failed the test, and not by a small margin. The mood soured, or rather I soured it. Alessandra said nothing for about an hour, which was worse than any argument. I hadn't understood it in that moment, but cars are our servants, not the other way around. They're things that serve us, that break, that we break - and that's as far as it goes. As long as we live, we learn - it's just that some lessons come with a cracked bumper lip and a silent passenger.

Arriving in Paris for our first overnight stop, I couldn't help but set the GPS for an entirely unnecessary loop around the Arc de Triomphe. That driving pandemonium there, the kind that brings very different countries to mind, sits paradoxically in the heart of Paris - an unexpected contrast between the beautiful, orderly exterior and the diffuse, tangled interior. Alessandra held onto the handle above the door as if we were on a funfair ride, but she was smiling - the first sign the bumper lip had begun to be forgotten.

The next day found us setting off for Burgundy, one of France's most celebrated wine-producing regions. Alessandra made sure to find the right stop for a morning espresso - she has a radar for good coffee that I still haven't worked out how it functions in an unfamiliar country - and after we borrowed, without much remorse, a few corn cobs from some fields near Puligny-Montrachet, it was time to find our lodging.

Approaching the small winery we'd be staying above, we looked around to see exactly where we were: among hundreds of rows of vines, as far as the eye could see.

We parked next to dozens of crates of freshly picked grapes and headed straight for wine tasting - and drinking. The road trip had given us beautiful sights so far. Now it was starting to give us beautiful tastes too.

Toward Italy

After three days, we decided to head south, toward Annecy, a town beside a stunning lake, with colourful houses and a romantic atmosphere that would justify a trip of its own. But it wasn't the destination. Beautiful as it was, we were headed for Tuscany - and specifically for a 19th-century stone villa where we'd spend the next three days.

Somewhere between Turin and Pisa, the road turned wild. Tight hairpins, one open bend after another linked by straights. We didn't think twice - it was time for Sport Plus and PSM off. The flat-six was ready for a fight. Throttle response, even with the turbos, was instant. The tarmac was slightly wet, but the electric steering, after Porsche's fine-tuning, communicated grip levels with precision. The PDK, in Sport Plus, shifted almost violently. The assault on the tarmac lasted about twenty minutes, just outside the town of Massa - a good omen for fans of 2000s Formula 1. Alessandra, in the passenger seat this time, didn't say a word the whole way. Only at the end did she turn and say "again", and I understood that somewhere among those hairpins, the car had won her over too.

With a stop in Turin for the essential espresso and Nutella toast, we arrived safely at Villa Lena, where we'd celebrate Alessandra's birthday. In a lush green landscape, the 911 still dripping from an unexpected rain shower, we checked in and enjoyed three days of relaxation and wine tasting across various Tuscan vineyards. Beautiful drives among towering cypresses, endless vineyards, and that particular Tuscan light that makes even the most hurried driver slow down without realising it. We walked in nature, ate, drank, celebrated her birthday.

And when the time came, we fired her up again. The story continues toward Venice, then Switzerland's Andermatt and its mountain passes, with one last stop in Champagne before the return to London.

Part two, soon.