Fresh from four days in Scotland driving the simply astonishing Ferrari F8 Spider, there are times in one’s life where you have to sit back, take some time, and genuinely let an experience wash over you. You need to take it in. Revel in it. The smells, the sights, the sheer visceral nature of it.
The grandfather of the segment is the Land Rover Range Rover. Not the Range Rover Sport, not the Velar, not even the Discovery. The full fat, bonnet at shoulder height, wafting armchair that is the Range Rover.
There’s something of a ruckus going on in classic car circles at the moment. There’s a growing breed of restorers who, rather than returning vehicles to their former glory, are daring to try to improve them and add modernity of design and technology.
As spring arrives in the UK, it marks six months since we started to plan the fettling of our Discovery 3 into a daily workhorse. The winter months were beginning to thaw and other than the cold, stark realisation that some of the six glow plugs might need replacing, all was well.
As far as statements of intent go, it doesn’t get any grander or more opulent than the Boat Tail. Having been sent the pre reveal press literature, I have spent an almost alarming time since, perusing over every detail, over every curve, every fixture, every decision taken, every whim that was answered.
There is sometimes a theme in automotive tests, where, for want of entertainment, a concept is created, one that rarely showcases any usable information on the car in question. ‘We hooked a caravan to the Urus and entered the Harewood Hillclimb’. I mean, what in the hell is that telling the intended purchaser? Unless it’s an Airstream, and the hill climb is actually the Tete de Chien, it’s normally well wide of the mark.
