The clutch pedal is tiny and sited lower than its cousins. Its travel is short and its take-up right at the bottom of what movement there is. There is no detent spring on the gear lever so I glance down at the gate by my right knee as I carefully select first. It goes in with a satisfying kerchonk. The cars up on its toes, and before I know it we’re away with a crunch of gravel. Did I let the clutch out?
Another Ettore quirk was his insistence on a separate gearbox rather than an in-unit item. It’s here by my left thigh, looking like a large screw-top tea caddy. It is, in fact, a ‘box of jewels. With a layshaft that runs at higher than engine speed, the lower ratios are sucked out of fingertip changes. Get it right and it’s seamless; get it wrong and there is only the slightest metallic protest.
Second gear is all that is required up this twisty hill, though — that and a heap of muscle at its hairpins. The large four-spoker sits in your lap rather than at your chest and you have to lean into it at slow corners, where you will find yourself with both hands in the same quadrant as you tug the Bug around. It is extremely direct, though, perhaps a turn from lock to lock, and the quicker stuff would require very little input.