I fell for the Beetle first. Instantly. The sort of infatuation that makes you forget practicalities, logic, and all the sensible reasons you arrived with. My friend Saurabh Bhasin, meanwhile, stood a few steps away, eyes quietly tracing the lines of the Golf GTI. He wasn’t smitten, but he damn sure was impressed (there’s a difference). I was already emotionally compromised by a 60-year-old car with skinny tyres and charmingly incorrect ergonomics; he was calmly appreciating what six decades of progress looks like when done with purpose. It was also funny, because I was cooing over a senior car with an engine producing roughly the power of a hearty sneeze, while the actual owner of the vintage metal was fascinated by the brute force of its relative.
That was the point of today’s exercise. We had brought together the alpha and omega of the Volkswagen lineage for a trundle around north Goa. The Golf is, after all, the direct successor to the Beetle — and what a generational gap it is. The cream ’66 is the classic setup: an air-cooled engine hanging out past the rear axle, pushing the back wheels. The 2025 GTI is the modern blueprint perfected: a turbocharged liquid-cooled engine sitting sideways upfront, furiously pulling the front wheels. One is a hammock, the other is a catapult.
Bhasin’s 1966 right-hand-drive Beetle 1200 was bought from Mumbai in March 2025, already restored but still very much a living thing rather than a finished exhibit. Since then, he’s done what sensible classic car owners do: corrected a few compromises, and resisted the urge to improve things that didn’t need improving. The Golf (the newly-crowned Premium Car of the Year 2026 by ICOTY) was mine for a month, loaned to me by Volkswagen with the quiet confidence that it could handle whatever Goa threw at it. The plan was simple: some scenic roads in north Goa, and enough time to let both cars be themselves.
Goa is no stranger to Volkswagens. Long before hatchbacks became shorthand for sensible urban transport, Beetles, Kombis and even Karmann Ghias were buzzing around these parts in the 1950s and ’60s, perfectly suited to the Goan pace of life. There was a Volkswagen dealership here in Portuguese times, opened by a German man who understood that Goa would take to the Beetle instantly. Even today, the car’s silhouette feels at home here, like it never really left.
When it was time to hit the road, Bhasin would have had to pry the Beetle’s keys from my cold, dead hands; he wasn’t complaining, given how keen he was to drive the Golf. Getting into it is a small ritual: duck slightly, slide onto the thin seat and adjust yourself around the steering wheel. The wheel itself feels delicate by modern standards, the pedals are oddly placed, and the view forward is defined by that legendary, tapering bonnet. The windscreen seemed impossibly close to my face, upright and flat. The smell of the car was instant, a heady cocktail of old vinyl, petrol fumes and hot metal. It was all wonderfully analogue.
The engine sits at the back, where engines rarely sit any more, air-cooled, slightly rattly, sounding like it’s amused to still be around. You feel the weight bias immediately, especially at low speeds, with the front end light and the steering wheel constantly chatting with you. There’s no power assistance of any kind, which sounds like hardship until you realise how honest it makes the experience.
It immediately transported me back to my childhood, learning to drive in my family’s Fiat Millecento. It had the same honest, unfiltered mechanical feel; you felt like you were part of the process, rather than a passenger issuing commands. With cars like the Beetle, you don’t so much drive as manage momentum. You have to anticipate braking zones by about three business days, because the four-wheel drums are mainly suggestions to slow down.
Driving it was a physical conversation. The pedals hinged from the floor, requiring a distinct ankle articulation. The steering wheel was thin and unassisted by hydraulics, meaning low-speed manoeuvres required forearms like Popeye. But once moving, it was a delight. The little 1200cc flat-four chugged with that signature thrum, the four-wheeled equivalent of a golden retriever wagging its tail.
Bhasin followed in the Golf GTI, its presence in the mirrors calm and composed. Where the Beetle hums and fidgets, the Golf flows, totally sure of itself. Watching it from the Beetle felt like observing a different species, one that has evolved to thrive in a much faster, more demanding ecosystem. And yet, the roads seemed happy to host both.
North Goa is perfect for this sort of jaunt. Narrow, winding stretches flanked by laterite walls, sudden openings into green fields, glimpses of water through trees. Traffic ebbs and flows unpredictably, scooters appear from improbable angles, and dogs operate on their own timetable. The Beetle demanded patience and planning. You listen to the engine, work the long-throw gearshift with intent and commit to overtakes early and decisively. It’s slow by modern standards, yes, but it’s very far from dull. Get a rhythm going and it feels beautifully cohesive, rolling gently through corners, tyres talking constantly, body leaning just enough to remind you of physics.
We stopped during a photo break and swapped cars. Sliding into the Golf GTI felt like stepping into the present with a soft thud. The seats hugged in all the right places, the meaty steering wheel felt purposeful, the digital instruments were crisp and legible. Press the starter and the engine comes alive with a restrained, low growl. Pull away and the contrast is immediate. The Golf simply deletes distance — a flex of my right toe and the digital speedometer skipped numbers, the dual-clutch gearbox shifting faster than I could think. It was clinical, precise and devastatingly capable. The steering was razor-sharp, the all-round disc brakes equally so. It’s fast in a way that feels casual, and it always has more in reserve than you’ll ever need.
It didn’t feel cold, either. Yes, everything is assisted and managed, but there’s still a great deal of warmth here. The Golf hasn’t forgotten what it’s for. It’s still about moving people efficiently, enjoyably, without fuss. The Beetle did that for its time, and the Golf does it for ours. The GTI just adds a thick layer of sizzle on top. Still, watching the little Beetle bobbing along ahead of me, leaning comically into the corners on its skinny tires, I knew which one was working harder to put a smile on its driver’s face.
We spent the next few hours looping through quiet roads, stopping occasionally, swapping keys, letting each car shine in its own way. Everywhere the Beetle went, it attracted attention. The Golf drew appreciative glances, too, but the Beetle was the conversation-starter. As the day wore on, the contrasts became clearer, as did the similarities. The Beetle feels alive at low speeds, engaged in every moment. The Golf feels unflappable, always ready. One asks something of you, the other offers to do the work, but both feel honest in their intent.
By early afternoon, the heat had settled in. We pulled over near an old church to let the Beetle’s engine cool down (a necessary ritual). The two cars ticked as they sat side-by-side. ‘It’s amazing,’ Bhasin said, patting the GTI’s flank. ‘It’s so fast, so easy. You could drive it at double the speed limit and not even notice.’ ‘And that,’ I replied, nodding toward his Beetle, ‘requires your full attention just to keep it in a straight line at sixty.’
The two cars were quite the sight. One was shaped by post-war pragmatism, the other by decades of refinement and expectation. Rear engine versus front, rear-wheel drive versus front-wheel drive, mechanical simplicity versus technological wizardry. Somewhere between that air-cooled hum and the muted turbo surge lay a half day that felt perfect. It was not trying too hard to be memorable, and it would be impossible to forget. Goa has a way of doing that, come to think of it, and so do great cars. And when a father and son share the same road, however briefly, the conversation between them doesn’t need to be loud to be meaningful.
