We never seem to get much time in the nice hotels. This morning is a case in point. The route forwards sees us tackle Furka, and we want to grab a photo of TS2 outside the iconic Belvédère Hotel as we pass. The roads are still damp but the imminent sunrise will burn the worst of the mist off and the roads will soon get busy.
We know car people. They’re all going to photobomb the Furka’s curves. They’re also all going to want coffee before they leave. Breakfast is served until 10am, and Furka is just 13 miles down the road… We could get there and back, and still have time for food. It would be unconventional, but it’ll work.
We head out to warm TS2 at 07:00, and are soon climbing out of Realp in a ladder of switchbacks. We have the road to ourselves. Just Evie, myself, TS2, and that incredible engine note echoing back at us from the rockface.
We pass James Bond Strasse in the fog with our eyes straining to pull the Hotel Belvédère from the mist. I’d been here with Rob in the TR6 in 2024, and was keen to come back, but had forgotten that last time we were going the other way. From the Andermatt side, the hotel comes after the summit. What was billed to Evie as “a quick nip up for a photo before breakfast” is actually, “let’s summit Furka in the fog, drive another three miles down towards Gletsch, spin around in the Belvédère car-park, then do it all again the other way.”
She takes it in good spirits. Fear has been re-calibrated. We ascend through the cloud and are above the rain for a few miles before the road wraps itself a final rock buttress and reveals our target. Six storeys of absolutely iconic abandoned building. The Belvédère.
If you’ve seen Goldfinger, you know this building. Of course, TS2 predates Fleming’s novel by five years, and Guy Hamilton’s emblematic Bond film didn’t come along until she was 11. A little research last night tells me the hotel closed in 1980, after climate change had stolen the Rhône Glacier from its windows and massive strides in automobile technology had made crossing the Alps doable without overnight stops. Here we are, in a car from an era before any of that, paying tribute.
We take photos in the empty car-park, then summit for the second time before dropping back towards Andermatt.
On the descent we meet our first unfriendly drivers: a gaggle of new Aston Martin owners, led by a support vehicle. Hazards flashing, it blips its headlamps at us as if to say, “Get out of the way!”
With no sense of their own proportions, the Astons sweep past with a good six feet of clearance between overly flared arches and rock-face. We, meanwhile, are left with about twenty inches between my ankle-high door and certain death. I’m ashamed to report that they’re all on British plates.
The ambient temperature slowly climbs as our anger and altitude subside. We sneak back into breakfast for the warmth of Club Triumph member company and fresh coffee.
The long way into France
Excepting helicopter, there are four ways in or out of Andermatt. West takes you to the Furka, which we’ve now crested twice. East takes you to Oberalp which we traversed last night. The southern Gotthard Pass points you entirely the wrong direction for our hotel in France, so it’s the Schöllenen Gorge for us.
Exiting North towards Göschenen is quite different from taking one of the high passes. Rather than climb into the Alps, you sort of get swallowed by them. A narrow, dramatic corridor of rock opens up to take you down, with the Reuss rushing below and sheer granite cliffs rising on either side. We cross the Reuss high above Devil’s Bridge in a landscape that’s entirely close, vertical, and imposing.
We’re finally birthed into Lake Lucerne, and begin what we hope is a low-drama day. We count off the villages. Beckenried, Neuenkirch to grab some fuel, park up at another Lidl, and take a rest on the banks of the Sempachersee through Eich.
Chasing the train out of Oeschgen as we hunt down the French border. Evie’s still carrying a sleep debt, and asks if I can maybe drive and navigate for an hour. I assure her it will be fine. I have my phone and can simply follow the blue line until it reaches our lunch stop. She closes her eyes as we enter Rheinfelden.
One roundabout. That’s how long I last.
At 13:43 we are in Switzerland, heading for France, all systems go. By 13:45 we are crossing the Rhine into a customs queue for Germany. Three minutes later, I’ve turned us around and am in the same queue facing the other way awaiting re-entry to Switzerland. Immediately upon arrival, I get stuck in a line for Basel.
Evie vows to stay awake. Sleeping is entirely too stressful.
TS2 is hot. She won’t idle like this, and she won’t restart if she cuts out. We hunt free-moving air. Considering there are three lanes of bumper to bumper traffic, we have to use ‘little car diplomacy’. We are no threat to the myriad BMW and Mercedes 4x4s that surround us. The Swiss seem charmed by our diminutive steed, and allow us to pick and re-pick lanes based upon whichever moves best at the time.
We reach Basel centre at twenty past two. Saint-Louis by half past, and suddenly Switzerland is behind us. Our speedo has been sticky since Merano, and moves from bouncing around like a conductor’s baton to a simple rhythmic click track. The tempo of its beat encodes our progress through France.
Around half-three the route ahead shows a set of tight hairpins ahead, but these are lazy French wide ribbons of tarmac. Pappardelle to Italy’s capellini. Honestly, it was harder exploring Lidl’s multi-deck parking.
The Vosges are gentler than anything we have driven since Sunday, and TS2 swallows the change easily. We cross the “Col de Bussang” (731 metres? That’s not even half a mile high!) and snigger to ourselves about “proper” hills.
We stop for lunch at 4pm, at Saint-Maurice-sur-Moselle. The French love a closed restaurant, and we find plenty to keep them satisfied. Evie asks for recommendations at the Mairie and we are directed to a quite charming alpine themed patisserie.
The Moselle valley opens up and sets into a gentle sway of French village and tree lined fields. The light goes long and golden, the sky a deep rich blue. Having not seen Rob’s TR6 all day, we arrive at Épinal minutes behind him and park alongside.
Épinal
That evening we realise we can use the event dot-tracker to find other participants in the town. We snag a warm welcome from Tom and Todd (Team Torpedo) and are surprised to hear our American cousins have been following TS2’s progress with considerable interest.
They grill us about the trials and perils, and quote our own blog back to us with great cheer. “Guys! This is the team that’s driving TS2! We’ve been reading about about that car all week, and now I get to meet you? Amazing!”
We are soon well into the southern embrace of Tom, Todd, Jeff, Mike, Joseph, Chris, Andrew, Bo, Kyle, Chuck, David, Chad, Thomas, Jeff, Jim and Glenn (aka Skerrit) and have a standing invite to visit a lake-house and drink what I suspect is enough bourbon to drown a horse.
On the walk back from town, and with tomorrow being our last day, our minds turn to what’s next. I get the feeling we have only uncovered 5% of what this amazing little car can do. We’ve crossed continents, but she’s pulling in friends from around the globe. She climbed a mountain before breakfast, then came back down eager to go again. Whatever the argument against using this car is, I have lost the ability to follow it.
I can’t wait to see what the Register does next with her.