It was a clear, crisp summer morning and I was walking the dog across a deserted Cornish beach when my phone rang. The number was Italian. No one likes these moments of solitude and contemplation interrupted, and I was angry at myself for even looking at the blasted device. But there’s something curiously exotic about an international dialling code on an Apple screen, and curiosity won – so I answered.

There was a slight crackle, a decent pause and then:

“Am I speaking to Chris ’Arris?”

“You are,” I said.

“I am calling to discuss a project I would like to speak with you about. It’s called F41.” (All delivered in accurate English, but with a perfectly Italian lilt.)

He continued, largely because I was silently processing whether this was an Amarone-fuelled Frankel playing a prank, or just a mad man.

“You see it’s like F40, but plus one. F40 was, of course, fantastic but I think we can add one more.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” was all the wit I could summon.

“Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, and let me tell you it is a pleasure to speak to you Mr ’Arris.”

My era of testing cars intended for road and competition use, of meeting those talented people who devised them and drove them, will be remembered as the golden era. I am certain of that. I sat next to Colin McRae at the Race of Champions, rode shotgun with Sébastien Loeb in one of his loony Citroëns. I raced a 911 GT3 RS with Walter Röhrl at the Nürburgring. I am easily seduced into hero-worshipping those I feel are superior to me – that being most adults – and yet I have only one real hero from that time: Luca Cordero di Montezemolo.

The origin of this man-crush was the Geneva Motor Show 1999. As a cub Autocar reporter I was charged with taking as many copies of that week’s magazine as hand luggage as I could, and delivering them to the show so the honchos could hand them to car company bosses. I’d never been to the Geneva show before and wandered around like some drunk Bisto kid until I ended up on the peasant’s side of the rope that guarded the Ferrari stand.

“It was bonkers and captivating. Pure theatre. He ended up banning me”

On it strutted and gesticulated a man I’d only ever seen on television and in magazine interviews – Mr Montezemolo. The name is important by the way. He is either Luca, or Mr Montezemolo, or Luca Montezemolo, or Luca Cordero di Montezemolo. But he isn’t the version most commonly attributed – Luca di Montezemolo. That’s incorrect.

Anyhow, this was the only human being within the vast Geneva expo halls who could rival all the shiny new metal for attention. And remember, this was still the era of the motor show girl. Journalists and customers queued for a whiff of his aura. He was the only rockstar in the building. He had so much charisma that he could have lent his surplus to the bosses of Lamborghini and Aston Martin and still left them invisible to others humans.

He was willing to engage, too. I watched him talk to anyone and everyone – even discussing the finer points of the 550 Maranello with quite junior hacks. I saw the great Peter Robinson (also hero material) have what looked like an argument with him, before it evaporated into joshing and smiles.

He was the pre-eminent car company boss of the next years. There were the stories – apocryphal or not – about Luca banning troublesome journalists or taking issue with minor aspects of road tests. Or, one of his favourite ploys, waiting for journalists to visit Maranello and then summoning them for a ‘chat’ about some of the opinions they might have offered over the past few months. Can you imagine another car company with the sheer chutzpah to bundle someone into a waiting Alfa, before being whisked away, not really knowing what was going on? This was the myth of Ferrari viewed through the goggles of a motoring journalist. It was bonkers and captivating. It was pure theatre. He ended up banning me.

In the early 2000s Ferrari was entering its greatest phase. The Schumacher/Brawn alliance was landing F1 championships and the road cars were exceptional – 430, 599, 612. These gave way to 458, FF and F12. We don’t recognise epochal greatness at the time, but it’s now clear to me that Ferrari will probably never again hold an advantage over its road car rivals the way it did then. And who was the boss at the time, what was the one common aspect of all of that greatness? Luca.

What did Luca want to talk about on the telephone that random morning? The prospect of a Ferrari SUV, the prospect of an electric Ferrari. He wanted to, respectfully, challenge some of the decisions the company had made post IPO. He was in his mid-seventies, sharp of opinion and instinct. The call lasted around 20 minutes. I assumed that was the last time I would hear from him or speak to him.

A few months later I met Manish Pandey, the man who produced Senna. He was in the process of telling Bernie Ecclestone’s story and I thought he’d be a fine guest on my podcast. Manish mentioned he’d been talking to Luca about telling his story, and that he would be in town soon – would I like to meet them both for tea and a chat? Afterwards, Manish mentioned that he wanted to try a different approach with Luca than the one he’d used with Bernie. For those of you who have watched Lucky!, the formidable first-person presence of Mr E is unforgettable and works perfectly. But English isn’t Luca’s first language – and this was to be an English film – and Manish wanted something different. Perhaps a second, background voice to tease out Luca’s frankly extraordinary story? Perhaps a recently unemployed BBC presenter with an unusually keen interest in the subject?

We set off to Rome a few months later. Obviously I thought this was a chance for me to decide if I wanted the job when the reverse was the case – I was being vetted by Luca. Either way, the drive from the airport to Luca’s apartment was one of those I will never forget. We were met at arrivals by a man in a dark suit and taken to a nondescript diesel Audi A6 which was parked where you shouldn’t park at an airport. Manish and I jumped into the rear seats.

“Manish Pandey mentioned he’d been talking to Luca about telling his story”

The car then made for Rome at alarming speed. The driver kept his left hand on the wheel, his right behind the atomic transmission lever where he appeared to be twiddling with something. Nothing unusual within Roman driving rules there. However, judged against the lawless madness of Rome’s road network we seemed to be taking even more risks than the other lunatics, yet always emerging unscathed. Cars moved out of our way. I was busy adding this to my list of great passenger ride experiences when we arrived and my door opened – and I saw the suggestion of a gun holster under the driver’s suit jacket. The car’s cupholders had two auxiliary switches: one red, one blue. Carefully hidden in the Audi’s front grille were a bank of blue and red LEDs. It’s at this point you remember Luca Montezemolo isn’t just the ex-boss of a car company. Not even the ex-boss of Ferrari. He’s one of the most famous Italians, his standing so far beyond national-treasure status that, as I’d discover, his fellow countrymen and women can’t hide how much they love him.

We stayed for a few hours. I must have passed the test because soon after we agreed terms to make a film about Luca’s life. Matters moved quickly and, a year later, we began filming. Film doesn’t move quickly.

I don’t want to paraphrase the doc’s contents here – of course I want you to watch it! Luca is now 77 years old. It is still difficult to comprehend how much he has crammed into those years on this planet. I want you to watch this film to learn about all the things you didn’t know he’d been involved in. This isn’t some biopic crammed with facts, it’s a love letter to a man both Manish and I feel utterly privileged to have spent time with. Like anyone overburdened with charisma and skills, he’s complicated and inspiring. He doesn’t suffer fools and he’s very clear on what he thinks is right and wrong.

I spent several weeks with him, in Rome and his villa in the hills above Bologna. He reflected on his many successes and his few failures. He’s a smiler. He loves to laugh and joke. He wants to leave a room knowing he made everyone feel better than when he arrived. Perhaps above all of his other skills, that’s his ultimate gift? People just love him.

This, after all, is the man who once phoned Sergio Pininfarina early one morning with an urgent message. “Sergio,” he said, “I am convinced the next Ferrari should have three wheels. This is the future for Ferrari!” Mr Pininfarina was strung along for some time before Luca could no longer suppress the giggles. He’s impish and human. He’s unlike anyone of his status and stature I’ve ever met. When I introduced him to my girlfriend, he clasped her hand, looked at her, then looked at me. “This is not the same person you introduced me to in Rome.”

There is a sadness at how his time at Ferrari ended, and this is explored in the film – I think with sensitivity and balance. From my interpretation of events – how Luca was jettisoned from the place he adored – he would be well within his rights to try and lob some bombs, but he’s a much bigger man than that. Regardless, he knows his legacy rests untarnished. He was the boss the greatest brand of them all deserved; he alone had the charisma to carry Ferrari and it’s clear the company currently misses the luxury of a figure like him. Don’t get me wrong, Ferrari is a great car company creating amazing motor vehicles, but I believe it would be better still if had someone like Luca at the very top.

There are two memories I’d share as a lens through which I’d like you to see Luca. The first was after another exceptional Bolognese lunch. We jumped into his little Toyota and he said he wanted to show me something. We stopped outside an ordinary clothes shop and went inside. Everything was end-of-line or discounted. He was so excited! “You can find real bargains here, and then you can negotiate the price further when you pay!” Sure enough, he did. The shopkeeper loved haggling – Luca loved striving for a bargain. This is a man happiest among ordinary people. He is interested in people’s lives. Of course he loves Ferraris but when we’d head into Bologna for dinner, we’d go in his Renault 4 and talk about the genius of making cars that appeal to millions.

And he adores animals. The villa is home to Alex, his huge Bernese mountain dog, and his herd of Angus cows that his youngest child Lupo tends to. He knows every sheep, goat and chicken by name and he so clearly adores them all. And then there is Gina the donkey. “She is fantastic,” he always says when her name is mentioned, with a huge grin. Gina has his number too, rarely doing what he requires of her. I first met Luca as he played rockstar on the Ferrari stage, I last saw him hollering, “Gina, Gina!” at a naughty donkey. Combine both scenes and you have the essence of the most interesting man I’ve met in my professional life. I do hope you enjoy Manish’s beautiful film.

Luca: Seeing Red is in post-production and will be in cinemas later this year.

The man with the Midas touch 

• Joined Ferrari in 1973 and by the following year had been entrusted to run the ailing F1 team. In alliance with a like-minded Niki Lauda, team fortunes were revived. Lauda won world titles in 1975 and 1977.
• A close ally of Gianni Agnelli, Montezemolo became head of all Fiat competition activities in 1976, then was promoted a year later, becoming Fiat’s youngest senior manager.
• In 1984 Montezemolo was appointed managing director of the Cinzano drinks company. Early in the decade, he also managed Azzurra, the first Italian yacht to take part in the America’s Cup. He also presided over Turin’s Juventus football team.
• Between 1985-90 Montezemolo was general manager for the organising committee behind the 1990 FIFA World Cup.
• Montezemolo returned to Ferrari – as chairman and managing director in November 1991. Once again, a priority was to revive the fortunes of the down-at-heel F1 team.
• In 1993 he also became vice-chairman of Bologna FC, and in ’97 was handed control of Maserati with a brief to revive an ailing marque.
• Having appointed Jean Todt to run the F1 team in 1993, Ferrari won its first constructors’ title for 16 years in 1999, then Michael Schumacher ended a 21-year drivers’ title drought in 2000. Schumacher and Ferrari would dominate F1 for five years.
• In 2010, Montezemolo was replaced by John Elkann as chairman of Fiat. In 2014, in the wake of tension with successor and Fiat Chrysler CEO Sergio Marchionne, he resigned as chairman and president of Ferrari.