A Rolls Royce press trip is like being taken by Mary Poppins – Mary of the novel, not the film, she is more savage and interesting – and shown a thing you would not otherwise know. When you arrive at the destination – it is Provence today, but it could be California or Ibiza tomorrow– you find the cars at the airport, laid out in blue and lilac and grey. Among them stand smiling men, whose job it is to help you drive the car: during the self-drive part they stand at roadsides smiling at you, though I think they have had weapons training. If you know this is a Rolls Royce press trip, fair enough. If you don’t, Lord knows what you make of it. As you are driven to the hotel the police follow you. They are fascinated because, I think, if you have any wits at all, this is what the money is for.
Ask the smiling men which Rolls Royce they most love and they will often say the Ghost, the smallest Rolls Royce at 18 feet long (it is also the cheapest, at £250,000 or so to infinite, depending on finish). They call it the purist’s Rolls Royce, and I think they love it because it still, just, has a normality that the flagship Phantom, the Cullinan SUV and the electric Spectre do not have, and never sought.
This is the Ghost Series II, named for the original Silver Ghost of 1906, and it comes in normal and Black Badge, this being the hotter variation: more torque, less silverware, a black Spirit of Ecstasy. The Black Badge is for the criminal or vigilante, or, if buying a Black Badge Cullinan, the person who wants to spend half a million pounds on taking the London taxi to the outer limits of its possibilities. The truism is, though people do not understand it: Rolls Royce will make you any car you want, which is why you find them in Barbie Pink and Banana Yellow. Owners are addicted to them – most have several models – because they are an act of self-creation and, for the monied, the act of self-creation never ends. They are, essentially, speech for the very rich: if you want to understand them, read their cars, and you might like them better. Or not. They are all bespoke now because bespoke is the fashion, though Rolls Royce will not modify them for weapons. It’s too long since Lawrence of Arabia and his nine armoured Rolls Royce ghosts with Vickers machine guns, which he didn’t drive in the Cotswolds. I asked.
I choose the Boracai Blue Ghost, because it has as much identity as a Vermeer, but it moves. I am confident that were Vermeer alive, he would be working at Goodwood. It’s hard to describe the internal luxury of a Rolls Royce; it’s dreamland shrunken with leather and wood. It is more beautiful, more comfortable and more powerful than any car you have known or even imagined – apart from the last Rolls Royce – and it smells of content. If it has a coherent aesthetic – before the Black Badge or the Banana Yellow – it is Greek Revival, which suits it, because Rolls Royce is likewise savagery and poise. It is a monster disguised as a courtesan, or vice versa; you are going to a bunk-up, or a war. They express – and I think this is unique – imperial ascent and decline together and if this is your thing – it is mine – there’s nothing better.
It’s hard to describe the internal luxury of a Rolls Royce; it’s dreamland shrunken with leather and wood.
I have read that one day all that will be left of us will be coffee pods and nappies. And, perhaps, too, the hulk of a Rolls Royce Ghost in a fantastical shade of blue. Some things outgun the people who possess them, and this is one such. Driving it through the lanes of Provence was such an amazing experience I couldn’t decide if I was a Disney princess or Vlad the Impaler, riding toothpaste or star destroyer but I knew this, and that is the point of it all in the end: I liked myself better doing it.
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