We’re somewhere near the summit of the Col de Menté, wondering when or where things started to go wrong. Maybe it was the second time we switched the Rafale into Sport mode, drunk on torque and hairpins. Whatever, the maths isn't adding up. The plan – to drive from Istres in France to Palencia in Spain on a single tank of fuel – is crumbling faster than a brioche.
On paper, 683 miles of WLTP range should have seen us glide smugly into Palencia without so much as a raised eyebrow from the fuel gauge. But this wasn’t a journey made on paper. It was made on flaky Google Maps logic, a diet of croissants and curiosity, and a growing obsession with spotting unloved French cars in dusty lay-bys and forgotten villages.
So why Istres to Palencia? It’s not quite Route 66 or even Toddington to Tebay. But it is where the Rafale story begins and ends: the French air base where Raymond Delmotte broke a land-plane speed record in 1934, and the Spanish town where the SUV named after that aircraft is assembled today. Delmotte did the journey in spirit at 314mph. We did it in a hybrid SUV at 80mph tops, usually less, frequently much, much less.
Day one: Brittany, B-roads and Bergerac
The journey begins with a gentle and supremely comfortable overnight sailing aboard the Pont-Aven, a Brittany Ferries stalwart that delivers us from Plymouth to Roscoff at silly o’clock. From there, we set course for Bergerac – not because of any great strategic value, but because we thought there might be a statue of John Nettles. There isn’t. Not even a plaque. Shame.
Google Maps is told to avoid tolls and motorways, partly to stretch the tank but mostly because rural French roads are a car-spotter’s paradise. Over the course of the day, we spot half a dozen Renault Safranes (five of which are glorious pre-facelifts), a dozen Peugeot 406 Coupés, and a car park containing a Peugeot 309, Citroën Xsara (facelift, sadly), Citroën 2CV Fourgonnette, Citroën Ami and a Renault 19. That's not a car park; that's a museum curated by the Gods of Petrolblog.
After 430 miles of back roads, bakeries and Safrane-induced swooning, we roll into Bergerac with 150 miles of range remaining. Good practice for the eco drive. It feels like a win. Until we remember there’s no John Nettles statue.
Day two: Rain, viaducts and the realisation
The second day throws everything at us. From the rolling hills of the Dordogne to the mighty Millau Viaduct, it’s a greatest hits album of French scenery. Rain lashes us on the approach to Norman Foster’s masterpiece of bridge design, but 90 minutes later we’re basking in sunshine and throwing the Rafale into hairpins in Sport mode. Again. Oops.
It’s here that the Rafale starts to show its character. Comfortable, quiet, refined – yes, all of those. But also surprisingly agile for a car that looks like it should come with complimentary yoga classes. Four-wheel steering helps, making the car feel one size smaller when threading through bends or reversing out of a French village you didn’t mean to enter.
We end the day in Salon-de-Provence, where the only notable car spot, aside from several Mk1 Twingos, is a clapped-out Renault Modus (sans Boot Chute) looking forlorn outside a pizza takeaway. A sign, perhaps.
Day three: Istres to Canfranc, via everything
A short hop takes us to Istres-Le Tubé Air Base, where we brim the tank and start the 13.5-hour drive to Palencia – though not in one go. Our destination is a hotel near the French-Spanish border, mostly because I have a thing for border crossings, especially those with derelict buildings, rusty flagpoles and faded signage. In a previous life, I probably starred in a Robert Ludlum novel.
We head southeast along the A9, past Montpellier and Béziers, before ducking onto the A61. It’s here we hit our first existential crisis. The traffic is thick with caravans and motorhomes. The speed limit is 130km/h. And the fuel range is falling faster than a Vel Satis’ resale value. Comfort mode proves more economical than Eco – probably because the car stops trying so hard to be clever and just chills out, and dropping to 110km/h helps, too.
Soon, we’re back on the back roads, heading for Pamiers and into the Pyrenees. The D119 is glorious: a B-road in spirit, but without the potholes, Honda Jazz drivers or Deliveroo scooters. The hills rise, the sky looms, and we begin to ponder why we don’t spend more weekends doing seemingly pointless challenges on the roads of Europe.
At the top of the Col de Menté, we stop for photos, a breath of thin mountain air, and the realisation that we’re going to fail. The range says 185 miles. The destination is 230 away. Maths has spoken.
But wait. A glorious descent from the Túnel de Bielsa-Aragnouet into Spain, glued to the back of a Citroën C3 using adaptive cruise control, recovers some range. By Canfranc, we’ve clawed it back to 250 miles. Is this a comeback?
Also spotted today: an original Dacia Sandero, a dumped Opel Calibra that may have been modified in 2003 and left to die in 2004, a Renault Mégane Scénic, a bevy of Peugeot 205s and, improbably, an Opel GT. The towns were deserted. It felt like being stalked by ghosts of motor shows past.
Earlier in the day, we tried a roadside pizza. We'd passed enough vending machines in France to know better, but with the hotel restaurant likely to be shut and hunger gnawing, we gave in. Four minutes and too many euros later, we were served what claimed to be a four-cheese pizza – but tasted more like an apology in cardboard form. Not worth the wait. Not even worth the electricity. Even the ducks swimming on the river that forms a border between France and Spain rejected a slice.
Day four: Palencia or bust
We wake in Canfranc with 165 miles of range and 270 to go. But by the time we’ve coasted into Jaca, regenerative braking and some downhill optimism have boosted our hopes. For a while, it looks doable. The Rafale is quietly sipping fuel. The road is quiet. Spirits are high.
After enjoying the deserted roads to Pamplona and beyond, the range drops to 65 with 170 to go. We admit defeat. Pull into a fuel station. Fill up. And immediately begin to make excellent time. Breaking free of the eco shackles lifts a weight from our shoulders. Hypermiling is not our bag.
The final stretch to Palencia is quick and oddly melancholic. The challenge is over. The Rafale is still being brilliant. And we find ourselves actually enjoying a modern Renault SUV. Who saw that coming?
The Safrane connection
It takes a while, but eventually it clicks. The Rafale isn’t trying to be a Cayenne. It’s not an Audi rival. It’s a Safrane for 2025 – big, rare, quietly luxurious, and bound to be misunderstood. Like the Safrane, it’ll sell modestly, age gracefully, and probably be loved by a small cult of loyalists who use words like ‘waft’ and remember when Renault had an executive saloon with a V6.
It might not be fast, and it might not make any sense, but there wasn’t a single moment on our 1,300-mile trip when we wanted to be in something else. OK, maybe a Clio Williams or AX GT for the hairpins – but that’s nostalgia talking. For wafting quietly through deserted villages, whiling away a few hundred miles on a former French trunk road, and keeping us cool when the temperatures hit the 30s, the Rafale was tough to beat.
It’s a shame the Rafale won’t sell in huge numbers and is likely to be remembered for little beyond its appointment with the French president. It deserves to do better.
Final thoughts
Could we have made it on one tank if we’d stuck rigidly to the most efficient route? Probably. Would we have had as much fun? Not even close.
We came for a fuel economy challenge. We left with baguette crumbs in the door bins, 1,300 miles of memories, and a newfound respect for a big French SUV with an identity crisis – not to mention a reminder that ferry travel is far superior to flying. But more on that soon.
We’d do it again tomorrow. But maybe without the pizza.
A more sensible version of this story first appeared in the pages of Diesel&EcoCar magazine, where references to Safranes, vending machine pizza and the emotional power of a Citroën Xsara may have been toned down slightly. Big thanks to Brittany Ferries for getting us (and the Rafale) across the Channel in civilised fashion – full marks for croissants, Commodore suites and not making us take our shoes off at security.
