April 2025

Morning Drive

14 cars, with 17 people met nice and early on 6th April and enjoyed a superb drive zigzagging up through Dartmoor and then back down the Teign Valley. Roads were quiet, dry and much warmer than we’ve been used to. A very windy brief photo stop at Pork Hill was the only reminder that summer is not quite here yet. The shopping metropolis of Trago Mills wasn’t open when we arrived, so the car park was empty, but an onsite cafe, Pinocchio’s, was open and promptly served us all a good breakfast. Whilst chatting and admiring each others cars after breakfast a chap wandered over and asked if we knew anyone who maybe interested in his ‘M-reg GTS’ he had in his barn, last driven 4 years ago. He didn’t know what it was, but think it must be a 928?! Contact details were shared for more information; we will see what is sent through.

Easter Sunday Drives

Easter Sunday: Sun, Speed, and Glorious Self-Indulgence

You know it’s going to be a good day when the only thing louder than your flat-six engine is the sound of your own smugness echoing off the hedgerows. Easter Sunday, that most sacred of days, was transformed — not into a quiet celebration of chocolate and rebirth — but into a symphony of German engineering and Westcountry tarmac. And it was glorious.

We had around 20 cars split into two convoys, one led by Jon Coomber and the other — far more stylish and undoubtedly better looking — led by yours truly. Devon and Cornwall became our Autobahns, our Nürburgrings, our personal playgrounds.

The roads? Empty. As if the gods themselves had parted traffic like the Red Sea so that we, the chosen few, could glide, roar, and thunder through the countryside with the sort of grin you normally only get when you win the lottery or find out your in-laws have moved to Australia.

Sunshine poured from the sky like golden syrup, glinting off every bonnet and spoiler. There were 911s of various vintages, a Boxster or two that looked like they’d just come off the production line in Stuttgart, and even the odd Cayman prowling about.

Jon’s group started off into Devon while I took the Cornwall route, where the bends were tighter, the hills more dramatic, and the locals stared at us like we were aliens arriving in formation. Which, to be fair, we sort of were.

We ended up at separate breakfast stops — one somewhere impossibly scenic and rustic, the other equally cholesterol-laden and caffeinated. Bacon was devoured, eggs were scrambled, and coffee was inhaled. It was less of a breakfast and more of a debriefing, with everyone comparing exhaust notes and tyre temperatures like F1 engineers.

In short, it was a day of pure, undiluted Porsche pleasure. If you weren’t there, you missed out. If you were, you’re probably still smiling. And if you’re reading this and thinking “I wish I’d gone” — well, there’s always next time. But bring a Porsche. And maybe a sun hat.