WHY I LOVE MY LAND ROVER

The new Range Rover Burford Edition costs 275 thousand quid and has LaStone massaging machines embedded in its seats. I'd still much rather have my old Series III. Here's why.

Driving along the high sided, single track lanes of west Oxfordshire in my

military spec, ex-Bosnia serving Land Rover Series III, I look ahead and see

a light blue 1980s Land Rover Defender fast approaching in the opposite

direction. He’s clocked me too - Land Rover owners have the 20-20 vision of a

sniper assassin when it comes to noticing other Land Rovers.

   

 As we pass there’s the usual, stoically observed indication of belonging and

cult like devotion; a respectful nod and the merest raise of a hand off the

steering wheel. I do the same. Of course, I do. It would be rude not to. 

  

 This “Landie Hand” ritual is repeated all over the world, wherever men and women

and Land Rovers go. Which is pretty much everywhere. I’ve done it in Dorset,

Yorkshire, London, France and Africa. I think I am correct in saying that no other

vehicle inspires this sport of cliquey, quietly semaphored communion. 

      Don’t try the “Landie Hand” if you are in the cockpit of a Porsche, a Nissan or a Ford. Or a Range Rover or a posh new Discovery (both, until recently badged as “Land Rover” cars). Luxury extras, like “locking doors” or “working wipers” won’t wash with us snooty, inverted snobs in series IIs and IIIs . We don’t “Landie hand” brand new Defender models with their fancy air con, DAB radios, sat nav and clean paintwork either.

   I took mine to the Soho Farmhouse the other day. Hot lunchtime, massive car

park full of Ferraris, Range Rovers, BMWs etc. but the young lad on arm-waving duty, directed me straight to the front of the huge lot.  My Land Rover may be worth about as much as a Range Rover Burford edition’s spare wheel, he told me, but it was ten times cooler.. I skipped off to lunch like a proud dad.  The recently launched Range Rover Burford edition by the way, costs 275,000 quid and is fitted with a LaStone, hot and cold massage facility in its seats.    

    How does my old lump drive? On a good day, like a noisy, waywardly disobedient walrus on knobbly wheels.

Even when it has been serviced and running sweet (ish) the Series III wanders all over the road like a razzing, hen night bride and if you want to keep its bomb-proof, long wheel base heading in a vaguely straight line, on a perfectly flat road, you have to make like Jimmy Stewart pretend-driving a Cadillac in a 1953 rom com, resigning yourself to constant, minor adjustments via its comically large, London bus steering wheel.

    On long A-roads you soon find a kind of 35 mph rhythm, your hands mimicking a

repetitive udder-milking manoeuvre, while all around you more conventional

pilots are doing 80, their guidance nonchalantly controlled with just the tip of

their pinkies. Not to worry though, because , through experience, you know there’s nothing actually wrong with the “recirculating ball” steering system on the car. Why? Because pretty much every Land Rover you’ve ever been in does the same olde Hollywood sway.

   Certainly, you get used to it after a while. From what has to be the most

uncomfortable, anti-ergonomic driving position imaginable – basically, just a

cramped, un-adjustable right-angle, softened only by a bit of foam and vinyl -

you lay your mitts on loosely, now wise to the notion that the combination of a

death grip and a pot-hole could easily sprain your wrist. Free of

namby-pamby power assistance, the Land Rover turns like an oil tanker and

rides like a tractor. Changing gears is akin to throwing the lever on a railway

siding.

    Attempting anything but the gentlest of uphill gradients is akin to

manhandling a mule up a cattle ramp. On steep downhills, it’s a runaway train.

On a motorway it will always be the slowest vehicle for miles, while in town it

will smoke like Dot Cotton at a bus shelter and make rude agricultural noises

when you miss a gear. Then when you pull up to park, every tube and manifold

under its clattering bonnet might well decide on an impromptu bout of

oily incontinence. Like Stephen King’s “Christine”, the Land Rover has a moody and capricious personalty. It’ll start first time when you get back in. Or maybe it’ll be play dead.