Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
For this leg of the malt-researching multi-tour, we were going to take the M5. I have al-
ways liked big fast saloons. A BMW 5-series is a moderately big car (not long ago it
would have been regarded as a just plain big car), and the quickest type of 5-series is
the M5. With the M5 you get all the benefits of the generic 5-series; it's a well-designed,
well-built, dynamically well-sorted and very reliable motor with the usual extras people
have come to expect in a new car these days, except in the M5 you get all that plus a
stonking five-litre, 400-horsepower V8 engine nestled under the bonnet to make life in-
teresting. There are various uprated bits to cope with the extra power, but it's the engine
you'll tend to notice. Well, until you need the brakes, which are equally powerful.
The M5 was the first car I'd had the patience to specify, order and then accept delivery
of. I suppose I had just become accustomed to buying second-hand, when there's no real
wait; a car is either available or not. When I had the money to afford a new car (i.e. too
much; if you're a private individual and being sensible with your money arguably you'll
always buy second-hand) - and especially when I had the money to afford a new car that
was fairly high performance and therefore not usually readily available straight off the
forecourt - I'd get frustrated that I was going to have to join a queue and wait for up to a
year, and so usually ended up taking a demonstrator model, or a cancelled order for some-
body else.
This latter option led to a 911 which had what Ann insists to this day was an orange
interior. I still maintain it was terracotta, but the degree of garishness was one small factor
in trading that car in for the M5. We ordered it in black with black and blue leather and
something called privacy glass rear and side windows. Only the windows were really a
mistake; they're a bit darker than we'd anticipated and make the car look like a gangsta's
wheels, but never mind; you don't notice them when you're driving it.
The M5 is fast in a generous, raspingly, burblingly bounteous way. It sweeps through
corners like a sports car and then surges towards the horizon on a tsunami of torque and a
creamy purr of sound.
I am, as you might have gathered, a fan.
Blame caravans. I can still remember the sinking feeling I used to get, years ago, driv-
ing in summer along a road I knew fairly well and seeing a caravan in the distance, know-
ing that there were few or no safe overtaking opportunities ahead and that I was going
to be stuck behind this giant off-white rear-end for the next half-hour or so. I got bale-
fully used to this happening, puttering along watching the blinds in a caravan rear win-
dow swinging gently to and fro as some struggling Escort in front tried to haul it round
a bend. This at least gave me time - oh, lots and lots of time - to meditate on the bizarre
and even deceitful nature of caravan nomenclature. Caravans must have some of the most
thoroughly inappropriate names on the road. They're called things like
Typhoon
and
Buc-
caneer
. What they should be called, of course, is stuff like
A Nice Cup Of Tea
, or
Match-
