THE STYLE
Approach it from any angle and you will notice that there’s not one duff detail on this car. Its proportions are perfect and the detailing sublime. It’s unmistakably a Ferrari, but that’s only because every ‘small’ Ferrari since has relied, to a greater or lesser extent, on the Dino’s basic proportions and layout.

However, even the most hardened of the Tifosi (Ferrari’s disturbingly loyal army of fans) would be hard pressed to say that they prefer the design of a modern Ferrari to the delicacy of the Dino. Whilst Ferraris of recent years have been memorably compared to peculiarly aerodynamic tomatoes, the Dino is, simply, beautiful (and beautifully simple). The shape flows from the sharp, almost shark-like nose, rises over the front wheels, descends below the side windows, parallel with a rather saucy air intake, before rising over the rear haunches to end abruptly at a clean-cut tail. It is a truly fluid design. I know that lots of gumpf is spoken (usually from flamboyantly gesticulating Italian men with too much gel in their hair) about the design of a sportscar being based on the body of a beautiful woman, but, in this case, I can see their point. For example, sitting in the driving seat, peering down the bonnet between those rounded wings, I don’t think I’m being pervy when I say that the first thing that came to mind was that it was like looking down between a pair of pert breasts…

THE DETAILING
What really makes the design work is the delicacy of the detailing. There are no naff plastic mouldings, crass spoilers or ridiculous vents to detract from the purity of line.

What little ornamentation there is, is limited to some subtle air intakes on the bonnet and rear engine cover and four lovely round tail lights, matched by a quartet of fairly big bore exhaust pipes. All have a practical function, of course. If Ferrari could have got away with producing it without bumpers, they would have done.

GETTING GOING
After walking around the car for the umpteenth time, it’s time to get in. Unsurprisingly, it’s a delicate operation. To open the long door, you have to slip a finger behind a wonderfully tactile polished chrome lever tucked away at the bottom of the side window frame. Little effort is needed to swing open the lightweight door to reveal the cockpit. Slipping down into the driver’s seat is not too tricky, certainly no more difficult then getting into, say, a Mazda MX5 with the hood in place, and certainly a lot easier than getting into a Lotus Elise, which is ungainly if you do it right, plain embarrassing if you don’t.

INSIDE
It’s surprisingly roomy. Fair enough, I’m not particularly tall, but there’s plenty of headroom, and it’s really airy in here. This immaculate 1973 model Dino from our affiliates, Parc Ferme (further details below) has fixed bucket seats trimmed in black leather, with dark carpeting.

However, there’s no feeling of being lost at the bottom of a cave of black plastic that so many cars engender today. The lack of a centre console certainly helps, as well as the slim-line dashboard trimmed in (get this!) brown suede. Whilst this could seem ‘Seventies’ kitsch’, in today’s Conran-influenced world of neutral tones and natural materials it makes the interior seem quite contemporary. This is helped by an oval plain aluminium dashboard housing a rather crowded collection of dials and gauges. If you ever wondered where Lotus and TVR (to name but two) get inspiration for their modern interiors from, look no further.

FIRING UP
Glinting between the two seats is that most “Ferrari” of features, the open metal gearlever gate. This is one feature you either regard with anticipation or apprehension. Tales abound of Ferrari’s outrageously fast cars being hindered by obstreperous gearboxes. If you’re frightened of it, then don’t drive it.

But you should relish the prospect of learning something different, adapt your style from the ‘if you can’t find it, grind it’ school, and get to know what it’s really like to drive a car rather than just guiding it in a particular direction at a particular speed. So, let’s grasp the prancing horse by the reins (sorry) and get it started. Again, don’t expect just to get in, turn the key and amble off. There’s a procedure to starting a classic Ferrari. Starting up any truly great car should be an event. In this case, you turn the key to six o’ clock, listen for the fuel pump chattering over your right shoulder, give the accelerator a couple of long slow prods, count to ten and then turn the key further.

And then the spell is complete. The small six cylinder engine bursts into life with an angry buzz and clatter. It’s loud, but not rudely so. It’s impossible to resist giving the throttle a poke to wake up the engine. The sound then becomes more mellifluous, but always retains a mechanical note; you can tell that there are bits of metal moving around and small explosions going on, just a matter of inches behind your head. There’s no roar or bellow, as the Dino is a soprano amongst its larger-engined V12 tenor brothers.

THE DRIVE
Driving off into the flotsam and jetsam of town traffic, the gear change is stiff; it’s actually best not to use second at all until the oil is up to temperature. If you regard this as a fault rather than an appealing characteristic then I suggest you would be better off in the passenger seat, admiring yourself in passing shop windows. The clutch is quite heavy but not excessively so. Certainly no trickier than a TVR, say. Nevertheless, it’s a good job that there’s enough pulling power in third for low speed work whilst the Dino gets properly warmed up.

THE EXPERIENCE
The sweet odour of hot oil mingles with the rich leather smell as the gearbox and engine warm to their task. There’s the odd waft of warm-popcorn through the open window as Optimax exhaust fumes find their way into the cabin; the window is open at all times so you can hear the engine note bouncing off hedges and walls (that’s the rule - why should pedestrians get all the benefit?). Eventually, the traffic thins out and the roads open up as we head out into the countryside (in this case, the undulating and flowing roads of South Oxfordshire, a short drive from Parc Ferme 's base in Egham).

We’ve been in third whilst pootling through a village, the engine bubbling, bursting to be let free. There’s a nice wide stretch of B road up ahead, snaking up a shallow valley. It’s empty, so here we go. Still going at thirty, it’s time to slot into second in preparation for the national speed limit sign (the gearbox is warm now; with a firm hand the lever slots in against the well-oiled resistance of metal cogs). The engine’s now doing four thousand, maybe four and a half thousand revs. Put the foot down. There’s an instant surge and the tone gets louder, increasing in pitch into a guttural wail as we surge up the road.

There’s a real linearity in the acceleration – no sudden kick in the back, but a consistent and significant push all the way to the gear change. Into third – straight down from north to south in the dog-leg ‘box – with a ‘clack’ as the lever snicks against the gate. More acceleration, and you can feel the rear end squatting into the tarmac, feel the rear tyres gripping and pushing the car forwards. If you were following you’d see a brief puff of smoke from the four rear exhaust trumpets, accompanying the change in tone of the engine.

There’s a bend approaching so we’d better back off. As the accelerator is released, there’s a crackle and pop from the exhaust on the overrun. It's a real race-car noise that’s wonderfully addictive. On to the brakes - gradually and rather sooner than you would in a modern car - and we’re into the corner at the right speed. It’s best to use a ‘slow in, fast out’ technique with these older cars, on their relatively old and narrow tyres and softer suspension.

You can feel the movement of the car beneath you, balancing itself on its springs as the car's position on the road changes. As the bend opens out we’re back on the power again and again the rear squats and we accelerate out, before snicking into fourth, when the glorious wail changes tone yet again.

And there’s mile after mile of this. I don’t doubt that you could cover the same distance quicker, and in greater comfort, in any number of modern “sporting” saloons, possibly with one arm on the door ledge, wearing a nice sports cardigan and singing along to Phil Collins on the CD. Even today’s hottest hatches, such as the Alfa 147 GTA and Golf R32, soundly beat the Dino’s modest power output of 195 horsepower.

However, due to their weight, insulation, complexity and safety features, none of them can hold a candle to the intoxicating pleasure of driving a Dino briskly on good roads.
You can drive within the limits (both the speed limits and your own limits) in a Dino and still have a corking time. To have real fun in the new batch of GTIs, you’d have to be on a race track or in the Highlands.

THE FERRARI MAGIC
Granted, the Dino’s ergonomics aren’t great, with a rather horizontal steering wheel and a ‘long arms, short legs’ driving position. Whilst this may be uncomfortable for a trek up the motorway, when you’re using proper roads it actually proves a good position for controlling the pedals when you’re really getting jiggy with it.
On the right roads, you could drive this junior Ferrari all day, with a stupid great smile on your face. And when you get out, sneak a look back at it over your shoulder, with the engine popping as it cools, its sides covered in road cack and brake dust on the wheels, you’ll want to get back in and do it all again…

RADIOCAFE APPROVED
Radiocafé would like to thank Parc Ferme for the use of its immaculate 1973 Ferrari Dino 246 GT to produce this feature.

To experience the Dino for yourself, together with a stable of other true thoroughbred classic cars, ask for more information on joining Parc Ferme by contacting Philip and Sharon Moir on 01784 470002.