Meet my so-called summer car. A 28-year-old Jaguar XJ8. Not exactly designed for full winter-duty service. But here we are. Because my 16-year-old Range Rover – its usual cold-weather companion – broke down just before Christmas.. the Jaguar has been promoted. Or perhaps drafted. And it’s now responsible for the weekly commute between an icy Shropshire driveway and Surrey Research Park.
The Jaguar is enjoying this more than I am. Cars never like to sit around. They get grumpy when left unused. Being driven, exercised, warmed through.. that’s what they’re built for. It’s me that’s uneasy. Because once you’ve had a proper mechanical failure – thank you, The AA, for rescuing me – something temporarily shifts in your head. Your confidence takes a knock. And suddenly every vibration, every unfamiliar noise, every minor pothole or icy stretch of major road carries a question mark. Will we make it there? And will we make it back?
If you’re thinking, “well, what do you expect when you own old cars… you need a Plan C,” I’m with you. Because sitting quietly on the same driveway is exactly that. A 24-year-old Nissan Micra. The cute, rounded one. In fine, fingers-crossed fettle. Yes, it rattles. Yes, the sunroof leaks. Yes, it was bought for characterful local trips rather than heroic cross-country missions. But if it comes to it, there is a motorway odyssey in that Micra. I’m certain of it.
Andrew Greenhalgh 