THOM WESTCOTT

Rov in g Repor ter

One of my oldest friends is without her lovely son for a day so we’ve planned an excursion out into the countryside. Sharon arrives in a spotty frock and a light grey coat, full of smiles. The outfit looks ill-suited for a winter’s day of Land Rover motoring. “Will you be warm enough in the Land Rover?” I ask. “Oh. Are we going in the Land Rover?” she asks, trying to conceal a fleeting look of horror with a broad smile. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be warm enough.”

We head up the hill, me carrying a large jug of water for the perpetually-empty radiator. I open the bonnet and pour in the water while Sharon stands just behind me saying conversationally: “It smells awfully of petrol around here. Is it coming from the Land Rover?” I confidently reassure her that it’s just generally a bit of a smelly vehicle. But, when I unlock the driver’s door, all I can smell is petrol. I walk round to the passenger’s side, where I find the odour of expensive unleaded is overwhelming. Glancing underneath, I see fuel dripping, literally dripping, down onto the road.

The tank, which I fitted with a friend back in 2006, has given up the ghost in a spectacular and inevitably poorly-timed fashion. There was no sign of any petrol leak two days before, when I filled the tank but, from my previous experiences, petrol leaks are the fastestgrowing vehicle leaks out there.

“What shall we do?” wonders Sharon aloud. The only thing I’m certain about is that I can’t leave the Land Rover, now a sort of potential time bomb, where it is.

I phone a man to troubleshoot. He assures me it will be fine to drive the Lightweight to the local garage, which is thankfully less than five minutes away, adding that I should park up on an absorbent earthy area, like grass. I relay this to Sharon and ask her if she wants to come with me or walk back down to my mum’s place. Standing there in her spotty frock, she stares at me and says in heartfelt tones: “I don’t want to die.”

I laugh, say I’ll meet her at my mum’s place in 20 minutes, and drive over to the garage. Being a Saturday, it is, of course, closed. And there is no absorbent earthy ground to be found on the offroad stretch outside the workshop, only slabs of concrete. I park it up and put a filthy old washing-up bowl underneath, weighed down with stones, to catch the dripping petrol. I watch £49 worth of unleaded exiting the tank via the path of least resistance, regretting for the umpteenth time that careless day when I left my ex-army jerrycan by the side of the road. All I have is a pathetic small green plastic version my brother donated which, now I am facing the prospect of relocating some 30 litres of petrol, is as wholly inadequate as it always looked.

I borrow my mum’s car and explain to Sharon that, instead of having a nice day out in the countryside, we’re going to have to trawl around petrol stations and car shops looking for a pump and a jerrycan large enough to contain most of an entire petrol tank. Thankfully, she is cheerfully compliant.

I stop at the first petrol station I see. “No, we don’t sell those little hand pumps,” the assistant says. “We’ve had quite a few people with petrol leaks come here and they always end up calling someone out to fix it.” We drive onwards towards the next, larger town which, at least, boasts a car parts and accessories shop.

And it’s a fantastic shop. Not only does it stock the pump for £4.99, but also those nice 20-litre military-style jerry-cans (£29.99). The shopkeeper also hard sells a new item he’s just got in – a filling-nozzle that clips onto the military-style jerrycan for ease of tank-filling, a bargain at £10.99. Now almost £60 lighter, we motor back to the leaking Lightweight.

I drain pretty much the entire tank, filling both jerrycans while Sharon stands by making flattering comments about my apparent capability for problem-solving. It makes me feel like a man.

The Land Rover has a second tank which I haven’t used for years, mainly due to the difficulty in filling it – via a custom-made system which is rather too high and curves rather too sharply, often spitting fuel back out at whoever is trying to fill it. There is also no way of knowing when the tank is full, other than by guestimate. Thinking I’ll leave experimenting with the other tank to the Mechanic. I sling the jerrycans into the back and Sharon and I recover a half- day to drive around in the countryside in my mum’s Nissan.

On Monday, my long-suffering mechanic Tim says he has such a backlog of work, it will take him weeks to get round to the Land Rover. I explain my fears about the other tank and, with a mechanic’s typically casual approach to petrol, he says: “Well, let’s fill it up and see.” The hard-sold nozzle does a great job of getting the fuel in with minimal spillage, and the tank seems solid. As seems so often to be the case these days, the ancient part plods resiliently on through the decades while its modern counterpart has a mere ten-year lifespan.

“I can’t leave the Land Rover, now a time bomb, where it is”