This is Countach country. The road could have been built for my amusement, with its heady mix of inclines and sweepers

The sun is setting above Switzerland’s Oberalp Pass, and the sky’s trying its best to divert my attention from the small matter of driving hard before I lose the light completely. The road stretches out before me, traffic-less and meandering – snow-capped mountain to the right, rich green valley to the left.
And behind, Lamborghini’s bellowing V12 reminds me that I’m savouring one of life’s truly great experiences.

The adventure started weeks before with a single word – Countach – and the seed of an idea. It’s 40 years since the covers were thrown off the original LP500 prototype at the Geneva Auto Salon, and Octane decided that this landmark birthday needed to be celebrated in a style befitting the car’s iconic status. A plan was rapidly hatched. We would gather the most important Countach variations Lamborghini produced during its 17-year run, and enlist the company’s test driver Valentino Balboni to pronounce his verdict: which is the greatest of all?

So now I’m en route to a private airfield near the factory in Sant’Agata Bolognese, and a trio of Countaches: a 1974 LP400, a 1984 LP5000S and a 1990 Anniversary – all I’d had to do was find a 5000 Quattrovalvole.  Which is what I’m driving. Harry Metcalfe, editorial director of Octane’s sister magazine evo, bought this 1987 example in September. How would he feel about Octane taking it down to Italy and the chance for Valentino to pronounce a verdict on his car? It took him a nanosecond to volunteer.

The drive down to the Channel crossing has been as close to uneventful as is possible in a Countach. Re-familiarising with an exotic can be a lengthy process; simple matters such as working out the location of the fuel filler, light switches or bonnet release take on real significance, but are attended to only after you’ve spent time drinking in the Quattrovalvole’s astonishing styling. Even when saddled with the wheelarch extensions that its ultra-wide tyres demands, it still has the power to paralyse at 50 paces. A rush of excitement that I’ve not felt in a very long time does its best to overwhelm me.

Getting into a Countach is undignified unless you’re an Italian playboy: you fall into the single-piece driving seat after contorting your way around the scissor doors and over the wide sill. Once you’re ensconced in the leather-lined cabin, and adopting the reclined driving position it forces upon you, a feeling of well-being descends. But that’s rapidly shattered when the Lamborghini is stoked into life.

Flick the ignition, prime the fuel pumps for about 15 seconds, dab the throttle, then engage the starter. The V12 coughs, splutters… and after a couple of blips on the pedal explodes into life. Considering
the end of the crankshaft is about three inches from my head and is forcing cold oil around the block, it’s remarkably free of vibration. As for the noise – even at idle, it’s loud and seriously addictive.

The fat-rimmed vertical steering wheel, cramped but nicely positioned pedals, and the cylindrical gearknob seem perfectly positioned for those in a hurry, but the steering is heavy to the point of distraction when parking, changing gear demands a physical effort that originates in the shoulders, and all three foot controls require considerably more effort than the brake pedal on your average family saloon.

Yet, surprisingly, it’s a consummate motorway cruiser – a welcome fact, as I am facing a 400-mile run down to the first stop-off near Strasbourg. But even before the Countach and I have left the UK, I’m becoming accustomed to being treated like a film star: at the first refill, cameraphones appear from nowhere, inquisitive drivers ask ‘What’ll she do?’, and children stare unashamedly. It happens all the way to Italy.

Daylight has gone when I disembark in France, and my red-eye to Strasbourg will be the car’s first real test. I’m spearing through Belgium and into Luxembourg, so there’s no flattery by France’s billiard-smooth autoroutes, and less chance of being apprehended by over-officious flics.

By the time I rumble round Lille’s frantic Boulevard Périphérique and head into Belgium, the Countach is really starting to impress. Compared with a modern supercar, the Lamborghini rides amazingly well . At no point do Belgium’s pock-marked motorways destabilise it, even though the tyres roar their disapproval. Directional stability is superb, and the steering full of feel – around the straight-ahead, it telegraphs road surface nuances beautifully. Obviously, the V12 dominates proceedings but at constant throttle openings it’s far from fatiguing and, at the 3000-4000rpm required to hold legal European speeds, it buzzes along with a sound like a light aircraft’s.

The rain comes in Luxembourg. I’ve worked out how to stop the cabin steaming up, learnt to live with the headlights’ feeble dipped performance, and the new Toyos up-front are especially well-suited to clearing standing water, so my confidence continues to build all the way to Strasbourg. Tired, but far from spent, I arrive at my hotel at 2am, hoping the weather will improve as the dawn arrives.

It’s amazing how different things appear after a night’s sleep. It’s cold but the sky is blue, and the distant hills look inviting. Sant’Agata beckons tomorrow, so I head for the Swiss Alps. Near Basel, the sheer number of drivers who slow down for a closer look is unnerving – if only because, when they’re alongside, they can’t be seen, thanks to the Countach’s Transit-sized blind spots. Good mirrors would help. But good mirrors don’t look sexy.

By the time I’m past Lucerne’s industrial hinterland, the Alps are reshaping the scenery. Villages, railway lines and the motorway cower in the valley, and tiny roads wend their way up the mountainsides into the clouds. Enough! I dive off and head for the skiing resort of Andermatt.

This is Countach country. The road could have been built for my amusement, with its heady mix of inclines and sweepers. Out of dogleg first and into second, time to floor the long-travel throttle. Lowish gearing and ample torque mean pick-up is instant, and the action is accompanied by a charismatic, deep-chested induction roar. From 4500rpm the V12 bellows all the way to the natural change-up point at 7200. Snatch third, do the same – and suddenly I am going very quickly indeed.

Pitching into corners, the lack of roll make this a car you turn with real determination.  Any thoughts of the massive V12 nestling behind, upsetting the weight distribution, are filed under ‘not relevant’. This road surface is unfeasibly grippy, and understeer is a word that just doesn’t feature in the Countach’s vocabulary.