Ferrari Dino 246

There’s plenty of snobbery around cars like Ferrari. If one is accessible to the commoner, then it could never be a thoroughbred Prancing Horse. Likewise, if it’s only got a small engine, then it should be looked on with cries of derision. Stuart Milne says this is nonsense: the 2.7-litre Ferrari Dino is one of the greatest Ferraris ever. Outside of museums, I’d never seen a Dino in the metal. And certainly never sat in one…until now. From the outside, the Dino looks incredible and every inch the Italian supercar; but I’d never experienced anything like the view from the driver’s seat. The dash was swathed in Italy’s finest suede and the seats were immaculately trimmed in leather. In front of me was a steering wheel with achingly-cool drilled aluminium spokes. And then I started the car. Like most old Ferraris, there’s a knack to waking the engine: turn the key to the final position and wait for the fuel pump to click a few times. Turn the key all the way and put your right foot flat on the accelerator – and with a lion-like roar and a burst of smoke leaving the exhaust, the Dino rumbles away like distant thunder. But the quirks of classic Ferraris don’t stop there. Because the gearbox doesn’t have a heater, you need to wait for the engine to warm the gearbox oil. This means first gear is out of the question for the first twenty minutes. This is a car you drive out of desire, rather than practicality – which is exactly how it should be. I wouldn’t have known all this if this Dino’s owner, Phillip Moir wasn't sitting next to me. Phillip is the main man at Parc Ferme, a classic car club with a fleet of sensational motors, and the Dino was their star car so he was keen for me not to make a hash of this Italian stallion. So after this quick briefing, I was on my way with my girlfriend in the passenger seat. You can read all about this next week; but for now, let’s get on with the driving experience. I’d expected a Ferrari built in 1972 to be a bit of a dog: heavy, hot and generally unreliable, but this Dino was none of these. We were soon hoofing down the motorway, more than keeping up with the more modern traffic; and when we joined the winding B-roads around Oxford, it revealed itself as a car that just wanted to be driven, not admired as a museum exhibit. Not that I wanted to push it. I needed to manhandle the gearbox to change gears, and the brakes were less than impressive. But it’s a car which is a full seven years older than me, so I’ll make allowances. Performance wasn’t earth shattering, with its 195bhp 2.7-litre V6 making for a 7.1 second 0-60mph dash and a 148mph top speed. But that’s irrelevant, because the 246 is one of the finest motoring experiences money can buy. Talking of which, a 246 will set you back at least £50,000, rising to around £80,000 for a fully restored, concours-quality example.