The Travel Critic

I’ve done sightseeing, mate. I’ve done sightseeing. I’ve tramped through the rain-slicked alleyways of Edinburgh on an open-top bus in December – a tour made infinitely worse by a so-called mate who thought it hilarious to lob my headphones off the top deck somewhere near Leith. So I sat, soaked to the sternum, freezing my bits off, while some invisible disembodied voice explained the historical significance of… rooftops.

I’ve had the dubious pleasure of a walking tour through the Forbidden City in Beijing, the commentary crackling through a cassette Walkman in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Roger Moore doing a tax write-off. His smooth, Bond-lite narration wafted over tales of dynasties and eunuchs as I nearly lost consciousness from heatstroke and jetlag. It was, in short, hell in linen trousers.

And don’t get me started on Bristol, where I once endured a walking tour “led” by a failed drama student dressed as a pirate who gave it everything but talent. It was like being heckled by a hungover am-dram Jack Sparrow, pacing around a city that smells faintly of weed and wet concrete, pretending that Blackbeard once drank a Carling where a Greggs now stands.

So imagine my joy—my euphoria—when I discovered GoCar in Barcelona. Reader, this is not just another tour. This is the sightseeing equivalent of finding out your hotel minibar is free and fully stocked with Krug.

What you get is an electric yellow buggy. A go-kart, essentially, with a steering wheel, two seats, a sat nav, and a robot woman in the dashboard who tells you where to go and what you’re looking at—triggered by clever GPS waypoints. It’s like driving around in a toy, except this toy knows who Antoni Gaudí is and isn’t afraid to tell you.

You zip through the city’s mad little streets, hooting with glee, overtaking double-decker buses full of pensioners from Wisconsin, who are trying to figure out if you’re street legal. You are. Just. But the real joy? You can stop wherever you want. No set itinerary. No “15 minutes at the next stop, folks!” barked by a jaded tour guide. No gentle coercion to buy a fridge magnet made of paella. You go your pace. And you don’t have to make polite conversation with octogenarian Americans who, upon learning you’re British, want to tell you about that time they saw “Les Mis” in London in 1986, and how much they love Paddington Bear.

We tore through every major site—La Sagrada Família, Montjuïc, the beach, the Ramblas—and it was a joy. Actual joy. Sun on our faces, breeze in our hair, the GoCar narrating charming snippets of history in a voice that didn’t drone, didn’t hector, didn’t sound like it had just got back from a bad divorce in the Costa del Sol.

And this is where it got me: my 15-year-old, a creature usually allergic to enthusiasm unless it involves basketball, Nike trainers, or WiFi, looked up from the passenger seat, grinning like he’d just invented TikTok, and said, “This is the best sightseeing I’ve ever done.”

That’s the moment I knew: this is what modern city tours should be. It’s sightseeing for people who don’t like sightseeing. It’s educational without being preachy, flexible without being faffy, and most importantly—it’s actually fun.

So, would I recommend it? Absolutely. 100%. It’s the most fun you can legally have in a vehicle in Barcelona without being arrested. It beats walking, it beats buses, and it definitely beats any pirate-themed theatrics in the drizzle of Bristol.

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.