Hugging Portugal’s Atlantic coast, The Founders’ Run commemorates the country’s long association with motorsport. Glen Waddingtondrives a 1920 Rolls-Royce – in all kinds of weather
Photography Joel Araújo
Day two, mid-morning, outside the Palácio Nacional de Mafra, it strikes me that the Corrida das Fundadores is more than just a gentle trundle between two cities. Think of it as Portugal’s equivalent of the London-to-Brighton Run, only the start and finish points in this case are three times as far apart even by the shortest route. Participation is open to cars built by 1939, rather than 1905, although the oldest of the 30 on this event is the 1904 Mercedes Simplex Tourer driven by Albert Eberhart and Roy Sullivan, and Octane’s 1920 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost is pre-dated only by that car and a 1916 Buick.
We’re at an elevation of 115m, not so high in the grand scheme of things, but the topography of the greater Lisbon area is vertiginous and, right now, we’re pretty much in the clouds. Until earlier in the week, autumn had been enjoying a late burst of summer weather, with wall-to-wall sunshine and temperatures above 30ºC. Now it’s raining. Thick, wet blobs of water have been lashing us for most of the time since we left the overnight stop at Caldas da Rainha, buoyed by a breeze best described as bracing (bracing enough to blow our high-sided Rolls off course more than once).
Weather protection takes the form of a vertical windscreen and a roller-blind roof. There are no side-windows in the chauffeur quarters. Up-front on this buttoned-leather perch, commanding nearly 21/2 tonnes of England’s finest via an almost horizontal steering wheel, a 7.5-litre straight-six and rear-wheel brakes, it’s absolutely, fundamentally, unrestrainedly life-affirming. And fantastic fun. Hey, better a tad moist than burnt to a crisp.
Behind us, the 18th Century UNESCO World Heritage Status palace dominates the city’s main square, its 220m-long limestone façade bounded by a 68m domed tower at each end, while a balcony modelled on that of St Peter’s Basilica in Rome takes centre stage – only this one was intended as a symbol of royal power, rather than a stage for apostolic blessing. We are here, however, only for a few minutes. Not even time enough to dry out in the cloister before it’s back to the tyranny of the roadbook and its tulip diagrams. Our destination Belém is calling, and it’s off we go.
REWIND 48 HOURS or so to my arrival at Museu do Caramulo, after an early-doors flight from the UK. ‘Our��
