mordant wit

This is a story about a trip to the car enthusiasts’ Mecca, Maranello. It’s the place we have read about since we were kids, where they build the cars that still have the most evocative badge in the world, Ferrari.

The omens are good right from the start. BAR F1 star Takuma Sato is on the flight from Heathrow to Bologna, so we quickly put together a conspiracy theory that he is paying a discrete visit to the home of the prancing horse. He is whisked away from the airport and we see nothing more of him. The Planet Hotel is bang opposite the old factory gates. Underneath is the Ferrari store, selling everything from overpriced mugs and T-shirts to small bits of bodywork from crashed F1 cars. Across the car park, in a nondescript yellow building, is the F1 operation. We eat pasta and veal that night in the Montana restaurant up the road, walls lovingly adorned with pictures of Michael Schumacher helping out in the kitchen, and countless images of past drivers, their helmets and overalls displayed around the walls. This place is a shrine.