We didn't hit the gully hard, but fibreglass meeting tarmac is never a pretty sound

The excuse that necessitated a 5610 kilometres stomp across the globe to Birmingham airport and a two-hour drive to Wales was this month's letter of the month. Oddly enough our Colombian staff photographer Alejandro got very excited when the word Wales was mentioned. Yeah Wales is great, I love it, spending most of my childhood family holidays on a Welsh beach of some description, making sandcastles, eating tuna sandwiches and being rained on. But cruising a great distance from sun and shine, to murk and misery, was not exactly my idea of fun. But then a rather well known Italian supercar manufacturer threw something called an LP640 into the mix, and (all of a sudden) rain and ruins became the next best thing to my daily afternoon daydream that features Shannyn Sossamon, some silliness with an inner-thigh and ice cream.

I was going to treat this moment as if it would be the first and last time I was ever going to get to drive a fully-loaded Lamborghini Murcielago LP640, on my home turf - in full view of my high-school teachers, my folks, friends, foes and ex-girlfriends. Boy I was going to drive the tyres off this chariot from sunrise to sunset, clocking up as many miles as each day would honestly allow.

It happened to be a brisk morning, when the car arrived, in a white box truck, at my parent's house in the UK. Transfixed as the side shutter door of the truck rolled up to air a mid-section snapshot of the LP640, allowing a first glimpse of driver's side intact, door and a lick of rear tyre, I glance at the tarmac. The roads - seemingly too narrow for a Lambo - are wet, large puddles in parts, potholes littering the roadside. Branches had fallen from the trees at the height of the blustery night just gone, too. This was not the best time, or place, to be testing such an extreme car. But I had a photographer to pick up from the airport, 80 kilometres away, and one hour in which to cover the distance. The first turn of the ignition arms the fuel pump, and the fans, the second marks the sequence that sparks three seconds of lightening quick starter motor igniting 6.5-litres of V12.

The sheer glee that I was now rolling on fresh rubber on the left-hand side of the road in an Italian-registered supercar was enough to send me bananas, but I kept my cool, a cool that soon filtered away once I noticed the car had arrived with half a tank of fuel, and half of this again had been left somewhere between turn one and two, as I navigated car and I 600 yards from where the car had been off-loaded. Thankfully a fuel station arrived on the horizon. Sheer relief made way for a heart attack of mammoth proportions, as the panic that had been spreading through the media (that UK fuel prices were about to hit an all-time high) were not, as I thought, to be taken lightly. The predictions rang true, to the tune of $ 2.20c per litre.

I was now the unfortunate fool, who had woken from a 40-year sabbatical cryogenically frozen in a chamber, to find mutton-chop facial hair, killer collars and flares are no longer in fashion, nor are thirsty supercars that cost two arms and a spleen to fuel. As I pull up to the pump, my ego dived under the seat, slightly embarrassed as the Lambo gulped gallon after gallon. By the time $ 100 has been and gone on the pump display I was feeling a little woozy. But it doesn't stop there. With a 100-litre capacity, a full tank of fuel demands a staggering $ 210. Twenty-five minutes later I stop for a Mars bar, a bottle of water - and more fuel!

Alejandro's flight is on time, but the biggest doubt that had been cast over our flimsily orchestrated plans was whether or not all of our luggage would fit in the nose-end of this car. Alejandro had been on vacation, and was therefore lumbered with bags of clothing and his camera equipment. I also had a bag, a library of map books and a surplus of bulky overcoats. Yet the LP swallowed everything we threw at it, with ease. We were finally ready to carve our way through Birmingham's rush-hour traffic and onto the wide-open roads of nirvana. But not until we stopped for fuel, again!

As we made steady progress along the M42 the full tank of fuel miraculously disappeared. We were now on the notoriously busy M6 motorway, heading north (still circling Birmingham) when the light flashes up that we have 12 miles remaining. This number drops to 6 miles, to settle at 0 and we're still edging down the exit ramp to a roundabout. The plan was to drive from Birmingham to Betws-Y-Coed in North Wales for some of the best driving roads the country has to offer, but it seemed impossible to get out of the West Midlands without stopping for fuel every ten seconds.

Amazingly we were still on schedule. I guess my determination to keep a tight ship, at all costs (literally) was the reason we were rolling in and out of every fuel station. Then down came the rain. And boy did it rain. With the wipers at full song as we motored on past Oswestry, the roads got narrower by the village, until we reached Llangollen - nestled within the Dee Valley of North East Wales. At this point the rear girth of the Lamborghini (which Alejandro had named Lola) was starting to prove problematic. The A5 is a two-way road, but slender at best, so one wing mirror monitors the rear tread as it rides the cats-eyes of the centre line, the other licking a rock face. It's funny how you hone your senses under these circumstances. Alejandro, previously on the edge of his seat, is now huddled in the footwell, a bag of nerves. I was loving it though - an elevated level of responsibility accentuated by the imposing dangers that lurked around every turn. The pace continued, tightening Alejandro's fists, temples and sphincter. How much does this car cost, he enquired nervously. In this spec, I reply, $ 430,000.

There's a wall a millimetre from his left ear, and a nasty drop to my right, and somewhere in between a lane of on-coming traffic that heads our way out of a series of imposing hairpin turns. Unable to change the position of the grin that's making my face ache, I start laughing uncontrollably. My fit of hysteria continues, until we bottom out the front splitter over ensuing road works. We didn't hit the gully hard, but fibreglass meeting tarmac is never a pretty sound. We travel the next six kilometres in silence, reflecting on the day, the car, that splitter and whether or not the rain would ever ease up. Moments later we stop for our first drink of unleaded in Wales, a stone's throw from a turning that looked like the mother of all roads on the map.

The service attendant tips $ 160-worth of fuel into Lola, as the rain shows signs of subsiding. Alejandro had flown from JFK to the UK for the grand total of $ 306. I had driven three hours, give or take a few minutes, and already I have spent more money on fuel - and we hadn't even reached our destination yet. 'This is the first Lamborghini I have ever had here', the garage owner states. I am not surprised at all; the gloomy backwater village (the name of which fails me) is not exactly a haven for the most exotic legends of the road. But he continues: 'I've had Maseratis, Ferraris, and Porsches...' The list goes on, and he's not just firing off a long list of manufacturers. There are product denotations, specs and model year details thrown in for good measure. '...but never a Lamborghini.' It is the first time it dawns on us that we are finally in evo-land; a turn or two from what fanatics refer to as the 'evo-triangle.'

Hoofing a Lamborghini of any sort through the heart of the Denbigh moors is more a moment befitting of a romantic novel than a monthly motoring feature; the familiarity you make with the machine, the tarmac it rolls rapidly over and the scenery it fires past simply challenges every last one of your senses. If I didn't have a male as a passenger I would have cried at this very point, with emotion. If we weren't living on the edge of our nerves as we brush past danger, we were cackling as the sheer horsepower whaled away behind us - a manic medley that filled the cabin full of energy. At this level of sound you are attacking the road at a rather scary rate. Scenery blurs as my right-hand side e-gear paddle is pawed up again.

'The LP640 is outrageously brutal, perfectly Lamborghini...'

It's a big car for these roads, but not as demanding as you may think, beautifully accurate and balanced with every change of direction. Even at speeds rarely dared in anything, never mind a colossal champion of supercars, the 335/30 ZR18 rear tyres bicker with traction but never allow grip to break free of the road surface. Surely this beast could eat you up and spit you out, without even breaking a sweat, but within the confines of my own ability, on the north-bound A453, the LP is clearly immovable.

We'd decided that the castle ruins of Denbigh (the apparent home of the apparition known as the Grey Lady) would be our target. But as the road closed in nearing our rendezvous we soon wedge the nose of our supercar precariously close to the irregularly spaced 12th century gateway towers. Moments later we are jammed against another wall, in the centre of town this time, with three cars immediately behind us, a line of cars unable to exit a narrow street exit to our left and an obstacle of cars parked on the corner. I'm filled full of fear, as there was literally nowhere to go. The vehicles behind couldn't reverse either and I was beginning to feel like a prize idiot. Alejandro, convinced we could just about squeeze around the corner without ripping one side of the car clean off, jumped out and directed me out of the tight spot, with only a millimetre per side to spare. Phew. But no one was beating on their horns, or yelling out of their car windows. But why would they? It's not everyday you get to see such an incredible car beached down a medieval side street. The LP640 is outrageously brutal, perfectly Lamborghini; indecently inflated, broad, squat, with intake gullies garrisoning the side profile - utterly stunning. The replacement Murcielago has the elegance of Grace Kelly and yet it strikes fear in the heart of men.

I was relieved that our LP-loaner had been opted with Lamborghini's e-gear system. I'd naturally steer away from a paddle-shift but today, as we carve a close call over a serious kerb one moment, to charging through the six cogs on the road leading out of the town, past the 30mph signs the next, I fear a heavy clutch would have nudged my stress levels into the danger zone. In this case I'm happy for any aid that allows me to keep both fists tightly gripped around the steering wheel of this angry Audi-influenced Lambo. It soon reminds me of a friend who hates small children, people in general, conservative values and probably the air we breathe. Reminds me because she too is effortlessly elegant, stylish and so poignant in her silence that she can drown out any distraction, this side of an atomic catastrophe. And like my friend, the LP640 is not entirely the best company to keep when you are in a bad mood. Drive this Lamborghini with anger as your authority and (depending on your driving ability) you'll either leave a lasting impression on the landscape, or fight your way to the other side of hell with eyes wider than Jupiter and tension in parts of your body you never thought possible.

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As we finally head towards the B4501, taking us down the east side past Llyn Brenig reservoir, we ditch the road maps temporarily and allow the Lamborghini's sat nav lead the way. It's dark now and within two turns we find ourselves on un-specified roads, that in a flash become lanes of immeasurable confusion. No signposts, no road markings, no honest road surface, without doubt no place for a monster-wide supercar worth more than the black-market value for my internal organs. It's pitch black, the rain is coming down hard again, on single-track lanes barely wide enough to walk down, yet we're squeezing an 81inch wide Lamborghini homebound, down these lanes. And just when you thought the roads couldn't get any tighter, they did. If you want to feel the hairs raise on the back of your neck, set your pulses alight and give you a buzz beyond anything you have ever experienced before, hire a supercar and get lost in Wales at the first available opportunity. I admit I did age a good few years in the space of that day, but it was worth every year!

We found ourselves on top of a number of eerie obstacles, all too often, in the shape of potholes, change of camber, and large chunks of the road literally missing from the road ahead. Most perils that we'd encountered in the day happen to hide around long-fast-sweeping blind corners. The thought of the same terrors making themselves known at night was worrying. At least we had the ceramic brakes and quick-witted steering to keep us shy of the most obvious of dangers, but we would still be caught out on a number of occasions.

The following day, we head two hours south to take the scenic A4112 to Leominster, on the border of England and Wales, finally finding the A488 rollercoaster that blends long top-gear straights, swooping corners and tight second-gear turns that weave through the countryside littered with low-cut hedgerows and unpronounceable signposts. Once again the clear sky collects clouds to bury the sun and our hopes of a day free of rain. By the time we meet the A44 that takes us into the heart of Rhayader, it is literally tipping it down. The rain has been a pest this trip, but today it is bitterly cold. We check into the Elan Hotel (www.elanhotel.co.uk) and drop off all our gear.

Back behind the wheel it is the B4518 that we keep an eye out for, easily located after the clock tower (which marks the border between South and North Wales) straight on, until we reach signs for the Elan Village. The cattle grid - which demanded we lift the front lip of the Lamborghini by the interior button - triggers the start of the exhilarating pass known as the 'Elan loop.' Similar to the 'evo triangle the route absorbs every range of road you can imagine, differing mainly in its tighter proximity, single-lane roads and close-knit collection of hairpin turns. There are more sheep and cattle to be aware of here, as well as bulls! Some of the passes are a little nervy, facing ravines and bridges barely passable by means of our Murcielago. Here the road hugs the first big reservoir, in and out of the dense woods, before diving over the expanse of water to get into the really tricky bits!

'The thought of the same terrors making themselves known at night was worrying. At least we had ceramic brakes...'

Traffic is limited on this part of the road. To labour the point, we meet just two cars, an old Defender and a tractor in the space of three hours. The sound of the rain thundering down on the windscreen, the boom of exhaust note bouncing off the nearby wall to our left and Alejandro's catchphrase 'what a road' every time we take another turn, sent shivers down my spine. We were clearly in our own mini movie, the star of the show the LP640 of course, the stage the road eclipsed by the bows of the massive elderly trees passing the Pen y Garreg dam. We had a modest amount of fuel on board so we were able to play to our heart's content. We seldom get out of third gear, dipping into fourth for an insane burst of the right-hand pedal before braking down hard, fourth to third to second, riding the centre of the road praying nothing was coming our way. It's the first and thankfully the only time the back end of the Lamborghini wiggles out of shape. We cast each other a nervous glance, but the lesson is lost on us, as the last stretch of the loop, eight kilometres from Rhayader, opens up finally allowing bigger speeds. We exit a long tight left-hander as the long rain-drenched jet-black road laid ahead of us, reaches for as long as the eye can see until the depth of the trees challenges our view. The sun is low now, but the tarmac is glistening. As if I'd never experienced anything over third gear up to that point in my life I hold onto third long enough to get the fierce F1-style V12 barking, grabbing fourth and a moment with fifth (seeing 233kph) before the chequered flag of the cattle grid has both Alejandro and I wincing... Banging through the gears, leaning on the brakes fearing we'd lock up, my concern switches to the front splinter, hoping it wouldn't take yet another beating on the ground once we reach the metal cattle grid. I pull to a halt, at the junction, a hundred yards later and poise. Left to the hotel, or right for a second pass? The previous night's hair-raising passage through North Wales under the cloak of darkness (however amazing) was frightening enough; this route, at night, would be nothing less than petrifying.

'Four days and 1290 kilometres, at the cost of $ 700'

The next morning we would stop for what would be our last top-up of fuel before our travel companion would be loaded back into the white box truck, that side shutter being pulled down defining the end of our adventure, as we wave a tearful goodbye to Lola. We'd spent a total of four days and 1290 kilometres, at the cost of $ 700, in her company and we both wanted to turn about there and then and do it all again - even with the damp, cramp and crippling fuel prices. Try for yourself and you'll see why.

DIRECTIONS
From Dubai to Birmingham, flight prices start at $ 916 economy, $ 4159 business - both on Emirates. Our route followed the signs to North Wales Llangollen then the A5 to Betws, using directions from www.theaa.com Total journey time was 2 hours 30 mins. From Manchester airport, the journey takes 1 hour 50 mins. Accommodation-wise we suggest staying at the Groes Inn (www.groesinn.com), which is close to Conwy and owned by a confirmed petrolhead. The parking, rooms, and food are all good, and being just a 20-minute entertaining drive from Betws-y-Coed - the hub of the evo Snowdonia test routes - it's also a good base. Once in Betws you have a huge choice of great roads. Take the A5 towards Capel Curig, then the A4086 to experience the Llanberis Pass, or take the A470 then the A487 to find the beach at Porthmadog (scene of many an evo cover shot). For the very best driving, however, head south out of Betws on the A5 then look for the A543 to Denbigh. The B4407 to Ffestiniog, the B4391, A4212 and the B4501 are worth a visit, but watch for hidden bumps and crests, sheep and mobile speed cameras. Another great route is Elan Valley, 2 hours south in Rhayader, Powys. The roads are very narrow, weaving in and out of the massive dams, with heaps of hairpins. Again watch out for sheep, and the bull!

Specification
Engine V12, mid/longitudinal
Displacement 6496cc
Cylinder block Aluminium alloy, dry sump
Cylinder head Aluminium alloy, dohc per bank,four valves per cylinder
Fuel and ignition Electronic engine management, sequential direct injection
Max power 631bhp @ 8000rpm
Max torque 487lb ft @ 6000rpm
Transmission Six-speed e-gear, four-wheel drive, front and rear lsd, ESP, ASR
Suspension Double wishbones, coil springs, dampers, anti-roll bar front & rear
Brakes Vented carbon ceramic discs all round, 380mm front and rear, ABS
Tyres 255/40 x19 front, 285/40 19 rear
Weight 1665kg
Power-to-weight 385bhp/ton
0-100kph 3.4sec (claimed)
Max speed 340kph+ (claimed)
Price $ 429,000 (spec as tested)
Evo Rating 5 Star