Car collectors are the weirdest bunch of people you’ll ever meet. They’re secretive, with their cloak and dagger antics considered the best form of security. If a miscreant doesn’t know about a multi-million-dollar collection, they can’t steal it.

Bushfires might be another matter, but humans are dumb and the most secure place is in plain sight, sort of: a 100-car underground bunker under a fireproof hill-house that is all but concealed from humanity .

If it all seems a bit too James Bond, experiencing it for the first time is like walking onto the set of a spy thriller’s lair. The worst part is, in order to visit, I had to sign a contract forbidding pictures, or any idea of the secret location. It was beyond disbelief; it was stratospherically mesmerising.

This person is a hoarder of gorgeous things, automotive and otherwise. The residence is an off-grid museum, an altar to the magnificent, and the home of a hermit.

We entered via a fireproof façade that both monumental and invisible. The entire interior is polished concrete and venetian plaster, with the sound deadened with antique rugs and Active Noise Cancelling. Every room, a Zen retreat lit with a clever arrangement of solar tubes.

Power is provided by wind and solar, and stored in a vast battery array made of repurposed EV cells. The owner is prepared for Armageddon, with enough food for months, if not years, of isolation. It is regularly refreshed, with the contents donated to food charities.

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ABOVE: indicative images only, actual images of the event were forbidden

The Cars:

Despite the picture painted thus far, there is relatively little luxury. It is all either beautiful or functional, in true William Morris tradition.

The climate system uses heat recovery and ground source systems to keep the complex at a constant temperature and humidity. The conditions are perfect for textiles, paper, art, and of course, automobiles.

I had as much scope as I wanted, and could drive anything the collection offered, for as long as I liked.

I chose a 1937 Cord Phaeton, 1968 (ish) Mercedes 600 Grosser, and a 1980 Aston Martin Volante (all photos indicative only – credit to image owners)

Many of the cars are not registered in Australia, so can’t venture further than the extensive grounds. Fear not, there is more than enough tarmac to test on, only a short truck-transport-ride away if needs be.

First, the Cord, and its supercharged 127kw V8, FWD, 4-speed pre-select manual. The classics often disappoint, but the Cord is a minx of considerable charm and personality. It felt surprisingly modern, but the Cord is fairly rare and stayed firmly on the farm.  It was lovely, but I’ve done it once, and I’m just not that into Yankee pig iron.

The Mercedes on the other hand, had no such limitations, and graced a 100km section of nearby highway with all the elegance of a Chanel Pillbox. The Jackie O metaphors aside, the big Merc is one of a handful in the country. Its 6.3L 184kw V8 may sound fabulous, but the numerous hydraulics sap the ML100 engine Like Joan Collins at an all-you-can-drink. The 0-100kph is 10.5 seconds according to spec, but it feels more like a week.

That misses the whole point of the Big German Barge ethic: big, bold, wafty, and spacious.

This short wheelbase model wasn’t optioned with the hydraulic glass screen between the front and back seats, which made the cabin feel like a ball room. It was the last car of the day, so I spent some of the time in the back seat, consoled by a bottle of Cristal served in a 17th C champagne coupe. Sadly, I couldn’t fill the glass with all the wallowing done by the BGB being wielded by its becapped chauffeur like Excalibur at a slashathon.

The Aston was sublime, a proper gent’s carriage.

The weather had turned turtle and rather than raise the roof, I whipped the heater into a frenzy, and donned flat cap and scarf. I looked like a fat Biggles on furlough, but felt like Princess Di on acid. The ethereal experience was like looking at yourself, Roger-Moore-ing your way through an unseen episode of The Persuaders. The 231kw 5 speed 3-pedal was much more my style. It felt current, yet had that classic car smell. Old leather combines with machinery oil, the kind that professionally maintained equipment seems to earn as a badge of honour.

The brakes had been pimped, but the rest was stock. After the Cord, the Aston Martin was a palace. The Grosser was more luxurious but not as much fun, no, the Aston was perfection. It changed direction predictably, and had as much power as was advisable in an old car sans safety aids.

 Back to the Farm 

As I said, getting pleasantly pissed in the back of a Mercedes Benz 600 Grosser is a once in a lifetime event. The centre fridge only has room for a single bottle, so a roadtrip would need several stops. What if the local bottlo can’t accommodate the 600, and doesn’t have Cristal? Having open bottles of booze brings blokes in blue banging on the bodywork, depending on the state.

Although driving the Merc was fun, the back was better. We turned into the drive as the big gates swung open. Paving the full length of the drive would have cost more than most people earn in a lifetime, so 6 kilometres is tarmac with a granite-paved apron in front of the house. I rather hoped for the stately crunch of gravel, but apparently it had a habit of escaping into the lawn, to become deadly projectiles come mowing time.

As the sun slipped behind the dramatically jagged range, we sat on the terrace sipping single malt like the couple of cigar-smoking old molls we are.

After chucking a couple of logs into the pit, we shovelled its glowing embers into a pile over which foiled parcels of local fish caught in the creek, jacket potatoes from the cellar, and asparagus from the shops. Well, needs must. We washed it all down with a reasonably-priced bottle of local red, retiring to bed after hours of boozy banter and bawdy bullshit.

Next morning, I set off for home, meeting my driver in the local town to keep the location a secret. I’d like to say the whole thing was an appalling example of wonton excess, but it wasn’t.

My only regret is that my phone was kept in a safe for the duration, after all, I cannot trust myself, so how can anyone else?

You know what, no matter how much you dream about meeting your idols, sometimes it is better left in the realms of fantasy where it belongs. This was not one of those times.

I drove a few other cars the day before, including a Citroën SM, Maserati Merak, and a Citroën DS Décapotable by Chapron. All but the Citroën SM and Aston Martin failed to gird the loins, but it was fun trying.

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