When a Fiat 500 met the North Coast 500

The majestic drive from Bettyhill to Ullapool is rowdy this morning. Single-track etiquette is more ballet than traffic and our little yellow 500 – Italian plates, roof rack full of spares – has just upset the chorus. We wave, reverse, attempt to reverse again, breathe and roll on. Patience is performance.

But at least we'd made it: the culmination of a stubborn ambition to take a classic Fiat 500 to Scotland's famous North Coast 500 – or NC500 – route.

The whole idea started about three years ago. I'd come from Hawaii wanting an alternative piece of Italy that wasn't a villa with a pool or even an apartment, but something properly alive: small, noisy, full of temperament. Within months I was driving the bare bones of a 1971 Fiat 500L (which hadn't moved for the previous five years) through the hills of Tuscany, with just a tent and a dream.

But the path of love at first sight doesn't always run smoothly. It took two more summers of restoration, three blown engines, six or so tow trucks and many hours spent in the Real Italian Cars workshop in Lucca to shape an ‘endurance-spec' icon that would hold a tune longer than a holiday romance.

A series of upgrades were introduced to enable the 500 to conquer the top of Britain, including Pirelli Collezione whitewall tyres that housed modern technology within period looks. Punctures, all too common when the car was new, would no longer be a problem.

The route north was sketched out on a napkin at a party hosted in the Pitti Palace in Florence by Matt Hranek, founder of men's lifestyle magazine Wm Brown. He found the whole escapade most amusing – and he was far from the only sceptic. A few negronis in and the route looked even more challenging: Tuscany to the Highlands, incorporating 2,500 kilometres of hope, hedgerows and a dozen versions of rain. It's fair to say that Dante Giacosa, designer of the original Fiat Nuova 500 back in 1957, never had this in mind.

I was told to pack prayers, a sleeping bag and a very good book to while away the hours stuck by the side of the road. Not to mention plenty of dog treats to keep my reluctant co-pilot on side. The roof bin was stuffed with every spare available: tools, a spare clutch, cable ties, spare wheels and the essential accessory that can fix more or less anything – duct tape.

Then I turned the key, tugged on the starter lever between the seats and the 500 pottered its way out of Tuscany and towards a new horizon. As if it knew that it was about to embark on the biggest adventure of its 54-year-old life.

There's a certain kind of driving that is best enjoyed at 50 kilometres per hour. Human speed, in other words. You don't bully the road; you listen to it. The Alps at night taught how hard-won momentum is a currency you spend carefully. The French Champagne region offered a different pace of life. By the time we reached Inverness in the north of Scotland more than a week later, the air tasted tidal and this smallest of cars felt exactly the right size for what lay ahead.

The NC500 is a wayward loop on a map, but it behaves like a story. Heading north from Inverness in an anti-clockwise direction the land is polite; an invitation to find a rhythm. We passed market stalls and haggis vendors, following the road to Cadboll, where Glenmorangie House, moments from the legendary whisky distillery, folds travellers into a familiar embrace of warmth, earth and wood.

In this Fiat 500, your senses don't switch off. Similar to aged whisky, the cabin is a cocktail of leather, smoke, heat and scenery – with the bracing Scottish wind acting as a constant air-freshener. Every mile reads empathetically through the tyres like Braille: crown, camber, stone, spray. It's all there and instantly communicative.

True north does something special to the mind. Dunnet Head is the cartographer's proof that you've touched the top of Scotland. Thirteen miles on, Thurso supplied a breakfast of herrings and a conversation with a hillwalker who spoke wistfully about his younger days in Fiji. Strathy provided a lesson in weather: one moment a postcard, the next a curtain of sleet. At Bettyhill we found humour, two hoteliers in kilts toasting retirement and a gift of Scotland's second-most famous beverage: Irn Bru, a popular local soft drink.

This little car really brings people to you. The questions are always similar (“how fast?”, “how far?” and – most understandably of all – “why?”) but the smiles are unique.

Heading south down the west coast of the NC500, the road narrows and the scenery grows teeth. Durness, Kylesku, Ardvreck Castle: place names that feel like weather. Single-track ballet turns to a careful waltz. We pull into passing places early, let the hundreds of holiday caravans thunder by and keep the little engine in its mostly happy hum.

In Ullapool, there was a home-made mutton pie served on a paper plate that tasted more memorable than many creations from the world's finest chefs, eaten with wind-stung hands while a football match folded into the evening.

In moments like these I understood why people kept stopping us. The car is a hinge between nostalgia and the present; it reminded me that scale has more to do with attention than size.

Further south, the romantic Highlands painted mental pictures that will remain indelible. Poolewe blurred into sea and stone. Strathcarron tipped us towards Plockton, where the air found a softness that even Oliver the dog noticed. Hairpin bends were scrawled across the land like old handwriting; we deciphered them politely but skipped through the most illegible sentences. Performance in a Fiat 500 is mostly about planning. The landscapes of Glencoe stand like a cathedral built from mountains and history. We stopped in our tracks; not only because we were stupefied, but because the clutch had decided so.

Then it was time to hit the long road south to Glasgow, where cobbles rattled the vivid yellow bodywork that had been thoroughly redecorated by miles, mud and spray. It never looked more beautiful, or indeed, more Italian.

What did this journey change? The definition of comfort, for one. Risk, heat, damp, Oliver's heavy breathing, not to mention a thin coat of 20W-50 motor oil that never really goes away, make life feel earned.

A journey in a car of this size also teaches you how to pack and prioritise. Minimalism isn't merely an aesthetic when you're counting every kilo and learning which spare can sleep beside the dog.

Yet there was luxury everywhere; of a kind that lasts for as long as the road continues. A seat warmed by sun through glass, a stretch of single-track scenery to yourself, unexpected conversations between kind strangers. In life and in cars, the lowest rung of access sometimes gives the highest view.

Mostly, though, a trip like this shows you the value of time and connection. Passing-place etiquette is a proxy for how to be with other people: wait, wave, go. Patience always wins. The NC500 is famous enough now to feel busy in places, but in a tiny car you don't force your way through it. You make time for the family at the petrol station who want a picture. You learn to say yes to questions and no, gently, to ambitions that don't match the car's capabilities. You listen for the sound of a missing oil cap or a slight change in engine tone.

If there's a moral at this human speed, it's that the world is friendlier when you arrive small. People step into your day with tools, warmth and stories; drivers who at first wanted the whole road to themselves end up giving you a piece of theirs. But you're never in a hurry. No matter the distance, the power of a mere 18 horses – plus one dog – is sometimes all you need.

Photo by Chandler Carlson