The Famous Robertson Pie Shop has been a favourite of mine for many years. At the top of the ribbon of bitumen known as Macquarie Pass, it is a “must visit” destination for motorcyclists who are out to enjoy the southern highlands and all they have to offer. And I have been doing so for many, many years. I confess to not visiting it as frequently these days due to not riding but, every now and then, when the chores are done and freedom beckons, I will take run up there in the car, have some lunch and a coffee and shoot the breeze with whoever happens to be there at the time. Given that I have been actively involved in the motorcycle scene here for nearly ten years now it is almost a certainty that some of the riders I meet there will be guys and gals that I already know.
So as well as there always being someone with whom to pass a pleasant hour or so in conversation, there is nearly always some tasty machinery to admire, especially on weekends when TFRPS draws its biggest crowds. And the tasty machinery doesn’t all have two wheels. The southern highlands is home to an enormous range and variety of classic cars as well as the well-heeled gentry of Bowral and surrounds dust them off and take them out of the shed for a quiet trundle through the backroads.
Such a day was last Sunday when, on the promise of meeting a few friends there (which didn’t actually happen due to timing snafaus), I went up the mountain in search of coffee, sustenance and company. My wife was at a social gathering with her friends so what better opportunity could I get? At the bottom of the mountain I passed a Ferrari (pictured), pulled over on the side of the road. I figured he was part of that el-richo classic car club where you pay thousands of dollars every year for the “privilege” of driving Ferraris in a convoy at no more than 80 km/h and no overtaking allowed. It turns out I was right for, not long after I arrived at the top of the mountain he, and a stream of about 25 other late models from Modena steamed by in convoy, making lovely noises and straining to be allowed to do what their manufacturer intended them to be doing. I had a little giggle.
Interesting, but faintly ridiculous. Not long after, however, I heard the rich burble of another V8, this time a low-revving American one and I looked up to see two cars pull in to the car park. The burble came from this delightful Jensen Interceptor.
Your classic sixties British “special” it was a combination of British running gear, a fibreglass body and an imported Chrysler V8 engine. It looked and sounded wonderful. It was accompanied by this expensively restored Austin Healey 3000.
And, yes, it appears that the engine was supercharged but I couldn’t find the owner to ask him if I could have a look.
It made missing my friends by just a few minutes a little easier to bear. The pie was nice, as was the coffee. There were mates there with whom I could indulge in a bit of bench racing and the scenery was anything but unpleasant.
A very nice way to spend a few hours on a Sunday afternoon.
