Oh you pretty thing! When I first saw the photo of the fabulousness I would be driving, I may have squealed. It was the gorgeous Mazda MX-5, in the pearliest greeny-grey colour, complete with a cool retro vibe of low slung, slinky roundedness with not a jarring line on it.

This baby looked like nothing else on the road – far removed from the yawn-inducing conformity of most modern car manufacturers. It had cheek and flair and wit and looked like it was built for roaring and laughing and prowling in, for sheer delighting in.

This was a car for Audrey in Roman Holiday and Grace in To Catch A Thief, but with all the latest tech encased in its petite little body. I could, possibly, drive through Paris with the warm wind in my hair in it. It demanded driving gloves, vintage scarf and singular sunglasses. Did I have any of these? Two out of three, as if waiting for this very moment; excitement levels were building, I couldn’t wait.

Then I was alerted to an incontrovertible fact: my Mazda was a manual. Gulp. I hadn’t driven manual for 14 long, kid-crammed years, during which time the brain had been scrambled by early morning school runs and full-time work and cooking dinners that no one ever seemed to like. How would this weary old head cope with gear shifts and heel-toe riffs? Was I too old for this?

Incontrovertible fact: the prettiest modern car I’d ever set eyes on was now giving me nightmares of hill starts and kangaroo hops. Could I remember what order the pedals go in and which foot danced across two of them? I had memories of my dear, departed father instructing me decades ago to “listen to the car talk” when he sold me his old Holden ute, my very first car. What did he mean again? The brain hurt with worry. Could I actually do this?

I said yes. Gulp. The Mazda MX-5 was just too seductively luscious to refuse. I rang my daughter’s driving instructor. Panic. Could he squeeze me in for a quick brush up? No, he could not. Because he didn’t own a manual, but he suggested I borrow one from a mate and he’d be over like a shot. I couldn’t think of a single friend who had one. Cortisol levels rose higher. Should I cancel my longed-for day with this sweetest, prettiest baby? I could not, the Mazda was just too gorgeous to resist.

D-Day. The most beautiful little sports car I’d ever seen was waiting for me at the pickup point, and I did indeed squeal; it was even lovelier in real life. I wanted to instantly drape myself, with scarf, across its long, curved bonnet - but not inside it. And especially not in the driver’s seat (beautifully appointed in snug black leather, a temptation I wanted to resist.) The photographer and my driving partner (a motoring journalist) suggested I head to an obscure local car park for a quick refresher on manual driving. Ok, I said weakly, and off we headed (me feeling secretly sick.)  

Deep breath. Relax. Exhale. Find pedals. Familiarise yourself with gears. Remember the order of pedals; right foot does the dancing. Press start button - hang on, an adolescent possum was now doing delirious circles in front of the car, as if mesmerised by the Mazda’s beauty and unable to escape its siren lure. Focus, focus, shoo possum. Deep breath. The possum finally shuffled away from killer wheels; I pressed the start button aaaaaaand ...

It worked! Muscle memory kicked in! I listened to my car talk and then responded, instinctively. The gear change was smooth, the lightest and easiest I’d ever experienced. This car was so beautifully constructed, it all felt effortless. Driving a manual was like getting back in front of a sewing machine again - you do not forget, your limbs lead the way. Even the possum was still, poised by the side of the road and staring as if entranced by the madwoman in scarf and sunglasses now doing gleeful little loops, accompanied by whoops, in her shiny new car.

Then the piece de resistance: a button was pressed and the roof disappeared like a giant spider drawing up its web. Air! Light! In all my years I’d never been in a convertible and now I was actually driving one.

Up shot my hand in exhilaration; I instantly felt closer to nature, to soil and sky. Instantly felt younger, free-er, all my cares in the world forgotten. Blown away by the sheer bliss of this Mazda MX-5, my smile as wide as a watermelon split.

The lads urged me to head to the most beautiful driving spot near Sydney, the sinuously stunning old Pacific Highway in Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park; delight of bikers and classic car enthusiasts. I only stalled at city traffic lights, er, twice, yet not a single vehicle beeped or blared impatience - I suspect because they were as entranced by the beauty of the MX-5 as I was. Ditto the possum.

Where we were headed has one of the most beautiful train rides in the world, winding around the dramatic shores of the Hawkesbury, and I now discovered that it’s a gorgeous car ride, too.

Out on those open roads I discovered the true delight of this car – its engine. The security of its grip as it rounded the bends of the old bush roads, among towering gums and ferns and moss-dappled rock ledges with stunning water glimpses and at one point the panoramic breadth of the mighty river unfurling right next to us, which of course demanded a stop and a stretch.

I met John, a Cowan local most splendidly attired in paint-spattered white overalls, helmet, sandals and socks, and ended up being invited back to his workshop to check out his world-leading patent for rowlocks. Fabulous, and typical of this gloriously eccentric legend of a place (it was originally a railway canteen for fettlers as they worked on the great northern train line.)

Then my photographer took over the driving, because, well, he was gagging for a go. The MX-5 is like that; everyone just wants to dive in. It is so seductively sweet, but with a muscular roar underneath. Which Thomas of course duly demonstrated. Let’s just say I pootled around those bends - and he thrust. The car was driven with a new assurance, a fresh confidence, and like a thoroughbred under the expert jockey’s hand it obediently roared into a new realm of life.

Ah, so this is how you do it; this is what it’s made for.

The Mazda MX-5 is not a car for shuffling kids and cricket kits – it’s like a state of the art house in Architectural Digest but without the cupboards. And only two chairs.

It’s utterly, marvellous. In other words: no kids allowed. Sorry, you just won’t fit. Nor will school bags or soccer balls.

And in the ballad of Nikki Gemmell I was suddenly not that mother with the leaking dishwasher and the dog that needed clipping and the “what’s for dinner” texts on my phone - I was driving an MX-5 with no roof on one of the most beautiful stretches of Australian road, with my hand held high in transporting exhilaration and the warm wind in my hair.

This was the car’s true elixir; happy pill, master distracter, drug of loveliness and forgetfulness and if only every day could be like this. Because on that road, in that Mazda, I turned into someone else. Goodbye to my old life for a blissful moment.

This was a car for vintage scarves and oversized sunglasses. For leisurely weekend drives with hot new dates. For picnic baskets with chocolate covered strawberries and champagne mixed with mango juice. For leather overnight bags containing Moleskin notebooks in the boot. For powering under a cathedral of trees with shadows dancing in golden-hour light. For winding along ocean cliffs in salt-laden air you could almost lick. For smelling the sunset outback earth opening up to receive its benediction of soothing dark. For gazing up to a breathtaking canopy of stars on a clear, still night. This was a car for when the kids were somewhere else. A grownup car, for a grownup world, and frankly I did not want to give it up.

But as the day of being someone else somewhere else wore on, my phone lit up with children and tradies and all their quotidean demands and I knew that soon, soon, my fairytale with scarf and sunnies would be vanished. Soon, soon it would be back to the suburban bedroom in the suburban town.

And so as the light dropped, we headed home. Reluctantly I pressed a button and the giant spider went into reverse, neatly enclosing me once again in (relative) normality. Reluctantly I handed back the key to my magic Mazda chariot. The fairy tale was over.

Time for the real world, for school lunches and soccer runs once again. But for one enchanting day – oh, what joy. For one enchanting day I had the warm wind in my hair, even if it wasn’t quite Paris. But I’ll always have this. The memory of my MX-5 powering along those winding bush roads and of butting the breeze with my outstretched hand, the memory of the sheer, utter bliss of it.

Want to keep reading? Explore Nikki Gemmell’s snow trip in the Mazda CX-60.