Type 7

The whole thing was the brainchild of Stephane Vrinat, a Porsche collector based in Barcelona who attempted, and then “failed”, to run a commercially sustainable restoration workshop with his network of ex-Porsche mechanics. After persisting for a while, Vrinat was left with a small handful of immaculately restored Porsches and no way to sell them without making a substantial loss on the labour he’d put in, so he pivoted to another idea.

Instead of selling his cars, Vrinat decided to share them with the public, inviting attendees to drive each and every one of them back-to-back on a predetermined route through the achingly beautiful canyons of Catalonia, stopping to swap cars at some of his favourite restaurants, hotels and viewpoints along the way.

When someone claims that they can offer something like that, several reservations run through your mind. You become braced for disappointment, some caveat or set of conditions to show up that might ultimately dampen the experience. I can safely say my concerns were expunged at dinner the night before the event when Stephane handed me the keys to his Speed Yellow Porsche 964 Speedster for the hour long drive back to my hotel. It was midnight, the air was still warm, the top was down, the hills above Barcelona were empty and he insisted on just one thing, that I have fun. We’d met for the first time just an hour earlier.


The Rolling Museum experience begins at the Terramar Autodrome, an old oval circuit among the first purpose-built racetracks in the world. Here instructors are on hand to teach you the basics in a safe environment. I got the hang of drum brakes vs disks, the intricacies of the different gearboxes, the handling behaviours of different engine layouts and suspension systems, and how to safely spool up the turbo in a 930. By lunch time, we were ready to hit the road.

The route was planned immaculately, hundreds of kilometres of challenging Catalan backroads with virtually no traffic and a lead car with a radio to warn us in advance of any upcoming hazards. Meals were reserved at idyllic mountaintop restaurants or sleepy old towns and fuel-ups were performed while we ate so we never even thought about it. Logistics are everything on events like this and the team ran like clockwork, leaving little left for us to argue over besides which of the 14 cars we were enjoying the most.

It's a fool's errand to decide on the best among the collection: they’re each enchanting in particular ways. The earliest 911 there was a 2.2 E, a revvy high compression 6-cylinder with narrow tyres and brakes that would happily lock up if you weren’t concentrating. A few cars later I was hustling a Carrera 2.7 up a twisty mountain pass, living out Targa Florio fantasies as the flywheel blitzed through 7000 RPM. That car runs essentially the same fuel injected engine as found in the 2.7RS and the front end had a distinctly darting, eager quality to it that yearned for constant turns.

The 914 was a true delight and I will never again hear it be downplayed in the face of its rear-engined cousins. Though only a 2.0 4-cylinder, it more than held its own against the 2.7 it was chasing, tearing through turns like a housefly. By the time you get to the SC and the 3.2 Carrera, you begin to notice the 911 reaching a state of maturity. These later G-bodies have an obvious refinement to them that makes driving fast an effortless experience, particularly in those with the improved G50 gearbox.

Eventually, it was time for the 930 Turbo. The car’s reputation weighs heavy on you before you get in but so long as you know where the power band is and when to properly use it, it’s a perfectly approachable experience. The day before I’d familiarised myself well with it on the oval circuit. Flanking blue sky on the century-old banking in that car before experiencing the full dropkick it could give on the straights is a feeling that will stay with me forever.

My final drive was in a 944 Turbo, which was a very strong contender for my personal favourite. With a buttery smooth gear lever, instantly accessible boost and a pin-sharp, perfectly predictable chassis, it’s very difficult to beat. Hunting down the Speed Yellow 964 Speedster in that car through a serpentine lakeside road is a memory that’s practically imprinted in my bones, tyre squeal reverberating off the cliff walls as the boost gauge danced and the tacho wailed past 6, a drive only made possible by the ease with which that car can take flight.