Grand touring in the golden age: Europe’s finest GT cars of the 1960s

The difference, broadly speaking, is that one involves a sat nav, a service station sandwich, and a vague sense of obligation. The other involves crossing entire countries in a single, elegant sweep, preferably with a V12 somewhere ahead of you and a leather-trimmed interior doing its best to make the whole thing feel effortless.

The 1960s, as it turns out, were rather good at this.

It was a decade when Europe still felt properly connected by road, when borders were more of a suggestion than a queue, and when a fast, comfortable car wasn’t just a luxury – it was a tool for getting from one interesting place to another without losing your appetite for the next one.

Manufacturers, particularly in Italy and Britain, leaned into the idea with enthusiasm. The result was a collection of GT cars that didn’t just look the part outside a hotel in the south of France, but could actually get you there in one go, without arriving in a state of mild regret.

Ferrari, naturally, had already grasped the concept. The 250 GT Lusso is often held up as the definitive example, and for once the cliché holds up rather well. It’s a car that manages to look fast while standing still, all long bonnet and perfectly judged proportions, but the real appeal is how it goes about its business.

This wasn’t a stripped-out racer with number plates hastily attached. It was designed for exactly the sort of journey you’d imagine – Milan to the Riviera, perhaps, or a long run through the Alps with just enough luggage to justify the trip. Steve McQueen owned one, which is usually a reliable indicator that something is both cool and slightly impractical.

What’s less talked about is how civilised it was compared to Ferrari’s more overtly sporting machinery. The Lusso wasn’t trying to win races. It was trying to make you feel like you could, if you fancied it, but without ever needing to prove the point.

Maserati took a slightly different approach with the 3500 GT, which arrived at the start of the decade and quietly did something quite important for the company.

Up until then, Maserati had been better known for racing and low-volume exotica. The 3500 GT was an attempt to build something more usable, more refined, and crucially, something you could sell in proper numbers. Touring dictated the bodywork, which meant it looked exactly as elegant as you’d expect, but underneath it was engineered with long-distance driving in mind rather than outright performance.

It’s the sort of car that doesn’t demand attention, but rewards you the longer you spend with it. Owners often talk about how it settles into a rhythm on a long journey – not rushed, not dramatic, just quietly covering ground in a way that feels entirely natural.

If the Italians were masters of style and theatre, the British brought a slightly different flavour to the idea.

The Aston Martin DB5 is the obvious name, and yes, it does come with a certain amount of cinematic baggage. Strip away the ejector seats and the number plates that flip over, though, and what you’re left with is a genuinely accomplished grand tourer.

It has presence without being ostentatious, performance without feeling aggressive, and an interior that suggests you could happily spend several hours in it without needing to stretch or apologise to your spine afterwards. It’s also one of those cars that seems to suit almost any setting – city street, country road, Alpine pass – which is rather the point.

Less obvious, but arguably more interesting, is the Jensen Interceptor, which arrived towards the end of the decade with a very different interpretation of what a GT car should be.

Where Aston Martin leaned on refinement and tradition, Jensen went for something a bit more transatlantic. Italian styling, British assembly, and a large American V8 doing most of the heavy lifting. It’s a combination that shouldn’t quite work, and yet somehow does.

The Interceptor feels less delicate than its contemporaries, more muscular, but no less capable of long-distance work. If anything, it leans into the idea that a grand tourer should be able to cover serious mileage without ever feeling strained, even if that means using a slightly larger hammer to do the job.

A silver 1971 Jensen Interceptor parked on a driveway

And then there’s Lamborghini, which spent much of the decade redefining expectations entirely. The 400 GT doesn’t always get the same attention as the Miura, which is understandable given that the Miura looks like it’s arrived from a more exciting future. But as a grand tourer, the 400 GT arguably makes more sense.

It has the V12, of course – because Lamborghini wasn’t about to do things by halves – but it’s packaged in a way that prioritises usability. Proper seating, a usable cabin, and a driving experience that feels more composed than the mid-engined drama that would follow.

It’s a reminder that Lamborghini, before it became synonymous with poster cars and bedroom walls, understood the appeal of crossing continents in something that didn’t require constant attention.

What ties all of these cars together isn’t just their performance or their styling, but the way they approach the idea of travel.

They’re not about getting somewhere as quickly as possible, nor are they about making a spectacle of the journey. Instead, they sit somewhere in between – fast enough to feel special, comfortable enough to be enjoyed, and distinctive enough to make the whole experience feel like something worth doing in the first place.

It’s a balance that’s surprisingly difficult to achieve, and one that the 1960s seemed to manage with a kind of quiet confidence.

Perhaps it’s because the expectations were different. Roads were less crowded, journeys were less rushed, and the idea of driving for the sake of it didn’t need much justification. A good GT car simply made that experience better.

And that, really, is why the decade still feels like a golden age for grand touring. Not because the cars were perfect – they weren’t – but because they captured something that’s a little harder to find now.

The sense that the journey itself might be the best part.