As we pulled away from Kingston, the Jaguar’s warning panel lit up like a Christmas tree. Every fault appeared except ‘Abandon all hope’. Five country houses, hundreds of miles, dinners and deadlines suddenly depended upon a dashboard which had selected the first minute of the journey for mutiny. We pulled over, switched it off, waited, and switched it on again. The warnings vanished; they never returned.
Our 2007 Jaguar XJ6, Lunar Grey with an ivory cabin, had travelled 70,000 miles and returned to Britain from Japan in better condition than many humans of comparable age. It is the opposite of the slab-sided, high-riding boxes multiplying across British roads, cars designed as though their chief duty were storming a retail park. Walnut crosses the dashboard; an analogue clock keeps company with a speedo converted to miles per hour; Japanese decals survive beneath the bonnet. Modern cars ask drivers to master menus. The XJ asks only to be driven.
