Today, the chances of pulling up beside a similar car stand at comfortingly long odds. And not just because the car I am driving is parked on a cliff - though, if we’re being completely honest, that might have something to do with it. No, today we find ourselves in a place where eight-speed DSGs and computer-aided skill sets are noticeably absent, where the noise from a lightly silenced V8 is a physical pressure and the handling kinematics are, frankly, a very steep learning curve.
We are in Cornwall in the only fully road-spec Qt Wildcat in existence. A midnight black car, lacking the sponsors graphics usually associated with these desert rally monsters. And mooching a vehicle that looks like the physical manifestation of pure evil through the lightly geriatric flocks of Rover 25s that seem to inhabit this part of the world is extremely odd. Like piloting an F-16 through Tesco’s car park.
Story by Tom Ford
Photography by Justin Leighton