The Miura briefly stutters into life before a quick blip of the throttle clears its throat with a blood-curdling shriek that’s more racer than road car. You only need to stab the throttle once, but you’ll want to do it so much more.

The road ahead beckons, and from my vantage point it looks like a rollercoaster. The joy is especially potent because the car in which I’m about to attack this deserted piece of moorland blacktop is the original supercar – a Lamborghini Miura P400S – and Martin Kent, its generous owner, has given me but one instruction when he hands over the keys: go and enjoy myself. Who am I to argue?

Whether enjoying yourself in a Miura is as easy as it sounds is something few people will ever be lucky enough to find out, due to its rarity. But given that it’s arguably the most beautiful car ever built – correction: it is the most beautiful car ever built – created by a team of engineers focused on delivering absolutely the best high-performance car ever made, and honed by some of the most accomplished test drivers, it’s difficult to see it not happening.

When Ferruccio Lamborghini set out on his mission to dethrone Ferrari from its position at the top of the performance car tree, he knew it would take something very, very special to realise that ambition. His first car, the Touring-bodied 350GT, might well have been an incredibly good place to be in at speed, and it had the quirky looks of a car that grows in your affections, but ultimately it was his starting point. He knew that reputations are hard won, and easily lost, and following up the 350GT with the right car was always going to be vital. He needed to go one better, to completely va quish Enzo’s finest.

But Ferruccio was in luck. When it came to his big V12 road cars, Enzo Ferrari was conservative, and as the 1960s pushed on he continued with the front-engined layout that had served so well for cars such as the 250GTO and 275GTB/4. Ferruccio’s ambition of producing a mid-engined racing car for the road would ultimately lead to Lamborghini making a technological leap beyond Ferrari.  

The mid-engined layout was unusual for road cars and was still in the throes of proving itself in the sports racing arena, even if Formula One had long since been sold on the idea. That made the Miura something of a risk – could it be made to handle as well as Ferrari’s balanced GTs? Would status-conscious buyers go for something so obviously race car inspired? That risk was minimised thanks to Ferruccio’s decision to commission Carrozzeria Bertone to style his new creation – a task that was left to its ambitious young designer, Marcello Gandini. What he produced was magic.

When it was unveiled in Geneva at the spring 1966 motor show, the world stood agog. Previewed the year before in chassis form – itself a thing of beauty – the Miura’s centre section was dominated by Bizzarrini’s 60-degree quad-cam V12, transversely mounted. Once it was shown complete with Gandini’s body, the world was convinced, and grown men couldn’t stop themselves stroking it. Lamborghini was no longer the arriviste; it was part of the establishment.

During its seven-year production run, the Miura changed everything. Rivals clamoured to build their own versions, some with more success than others. But it wasn’t without its faults – it went on sale prematurely and, although dynamically it was spot-on, its aerodynamic failings became legendary. Tales of its propensity to take off at 170mph spread like wildfire. But, despite the shortcomings, the Miura was the future.All thoughts of that future are brought into sharp focus on the moorland road that lies ahead. Any worries about the Miura’s gorgeous body acting like an aeroplane wing are countered by UK speed limits. That leaves me free to concentrate on the real-world tactile pleasures on offer.

Even before the off, things are looking very good indeed. For one, the driving position, so glibly described throughout the years as being tailored for the long-armed, short-legged ‘Italian ape’, is actually perfectly acceptable for an understanding Anglo-Saxon. My legs might splay around the low-set steering wheel but that merely adds intimacy, and, as for the offset pedals, after a couple of miles they don’t even register. The deep, wraparound windscreen and low-line dashboard afford a fantastic view, framed by seductively curvaceous front wings. You know they’re going to make the Miura so much easier to place in the bends.

Starting up is explosive: first prime the four downdraught triple-choke Weber carburettors, then leave your feet off the throttle as you turn the key. The Miura briefly stutters into life before a quick blip of the throttle clears its throat with a blood-curdling shriek that’s more racer than road car. You only need to stab the throttle once, but you’ll want to do it so much more. Leave that temptation for the open road.
The Miura initially feels light and delicate to the touch. The steering requires minimal effort, even when parking, and the gearchange is positive and wonderfully mechanical in feel. The pedals are also ideally weighted – if you like a meaty clutch action – and nicely spaced, despite the offset.

But as much as the Miura likes to pleasure its owner by feeling ‘right’, it’s the soundtrack that will haunt you forever. Explore the rev range more thoroughly, and accept that it does its best work beyond 3500rpm, and you’re in for an almighty treat. As speeds rise, the shrill V12 takes on an altogether harder edge that’s overlaid by the howl from the straight-cut transfer gears. It’s loud, but an oh-so musical soundtrack that the exhaust system can’t help but get involved with by spitting and popping furiously.

Accelerating away, the P400S is as bracing as you’d expect with 370bhp and 289lb ft on tap. Even the hottest of today’s GTIs couldn’t keep up in a straight line. As for its ultimate ground-covering ability, let’s just say that it feels more than capable of hitting 170mph in the right conditions. And surprisingly quickly, too.

However, the Miura’s ultimate talents lie in the twistier stuff. Throw it into a series of tight bends, using the classic slow-in, fast-out approach, and it’s still devastatingly effective. The steering is idiosyncratic, though. Such is the intensity of communication, you’ll be forever making course corrections on account of its propensity to follow every surface and camber change. It also has minimal self-centring, and the result is that you’ll find yourself unable to relax, keeping a decisive hold of the wheel in order to ensure the car is going where you want it to.

In essence, it’s a proper driver’s car, one of the greatest ever. And one that’s as good today as it ever was.