The Carrera sliced through the snowstorms with disdain, singing along in the sunny patches between them and snapping clear of other traffic. We ran easily, we ran fast, the weather mattering little; it was three hours before we took stock of time and distance and were shocked. Wales. Were we really so far from London so soon? We seemed to have done little more than settle into hip-hugging seats, buckle up, smooth through five gears and listen to the radio, covering the miles – potentially so treacherous – efficiently and in comfort, cocooned in that tight body.
Quick, threshing wipers dealt with the snow flurries. Washers like firehoses, feeding from a reservoir nearly two gallons deep, removed the last flakes and thrown-up slush when the squalls ended. Tinted glass and perfect vision down that stubby, dipping bonnet took care of the ensuing sunlight that tried to dazzle us by turning the still-wet road into a glistening ribbon of tarmac.
