Rov in g Repor ter
“A Land Rover is a nest which offers sanctuary to the pest”
I’m reading this great book about minimalism called Goodbye Things. As a maximalist by nature, I’m reading it from the guilty perspective of having far too many possessions, most of which are scattered to the proverbial four winds.
But apparently it’s never too late to change, and the author of Goodbye Things claims to have formerly been a maximalist of the highest order.
As I become steadily inspired, or indoctrinated, by the book, I dutifully trawl through bags of possessions, managing to relegate a few items to the charity shop. It’s a shamefully modest start but, spurred on by illusory feelings of achievement and satisfaction, I decide to turn my attentions to the Land Rover.
The back of my Lightweight is a minimalist’s nightmare and frankly overwhelming, so I start by piling everything out onto the pavement. The surface layer is pure rubbish, which is satisfyingly easy to manage. Into black sacks go the 15 empty water bottles kicking around the back, thanks to the ever-thirsty radiator, a pair of emergency winter boots sporting a fine layer of mildew, multiple damp back issues of LRM and assorted pieces of wood.
The book urges the reader to remove the nest before the pest; the pest being possessions and the nest being any type of storage unit. The Lightweight is as full of nests as it is pests, mostly smeared with oily marks, and out they all come. An ammo box for tools, an old winecrate for bottles and cans, an unused portable car fridge of uncertain origin, containing a broken compass, a handful of coins and assorted wires, and a box between the front seats for essential tools and other useful items. The worst nest is the wine crate, which boasts four cans of WD-40, none of which have a nozzle, two almost-empty cans of de-icer, and one of quick-start which is a column of pure rust.
The ammo box is jammed full of spare parts: cables, fuses, light bulbs, a spare drive belt and a large pot of mainly rusty fixtures and nuts and bolts, numerous jubilee clips and assorted unidentifiable metal components. All of that is crammed on top of a bed of spanners, screwdrivers and sockets.
Everywhere I look there is evidence of the Lightweight owner’s desperate plight to be prepared at all times for a range of breakdown options, many charting my most frequent mechanical difficulties. There are umpteen spare hub gaskets and multiple brand-new mounting brackets in unopened packets, clearly ordered by someone (me) who, despite really trying to concentrate on the relevant pages of that essential tome, the Lightweight Parts Catalogue, had no idea which was actually the correct mounting.
Goodbye Things cautions against this kind of just-in-case mentality. But it does not take into account Series Land Rover ownership, where one simply must have a range of emergency mechanical items to hand at all times. I sort through everything, guiltily, convincing myself of their potential necessity.
And then, of course, there are the broken vehicle parts. A few of them – a broken fuel gauge and a old speedometer – might serve some future emergency purpose but the old heater hoses and dysfunctional brake parts have absolutely no use whatsoever. And I sadly admit that it is time to part with two bottle jacks that have served me well but are now rusted solid.
The front is better, but not much, with a sordid array of aged, discoloured cigarette butts in the footwell. Yes, I really do extinguish my cigarettes on the floor of my historic Land Rover, but, looking on the brighter side, at least I’m not a litter bug.
The useful box between the front seats is little short of a bin of sin, featuring another bag of rusty nuts and bolts, a months’ old half- drunk coffee milkshake, more tools, more Jubilee clips, and several sections of perished rubber hosing. At the bottom, there is a small blue toy Land Rover (not mine), a book listing edible plants in England (for truly desperate and remote breakdowns) and a dog-eared copy of the Lightweight user manual which has been soaked through and dried out so many times, it has transformed into a thin, solid brick, not one single page of which now opens.
Once everything is on the pavement, the Lightweight is gloriously empty, and surprisingly spacious. I guiltily survey items I feel I just cannot part with, strewn across the pavement. I pack them into a more orderly array of nests in which to more appropriately house the pests.
The results of what can be discarded are semi-successful. I end up with three massive carrier bags full of rubbish, another one of stuff for the recycling centre and a small box of items – an old battery and some broken former vehicle parts, for which I manage to broker a tenner from the local scrapyard. Glancing into the rear, which is at least considerably tidier, I reassure myself the day has been a very modest success.
Of course, a Land Rover in itself is a nest which offers sanctuary to the pest but the pest has been brought under control. The Lightweight’s age and requirements mean it will never be a minimalist vehicle but, inside, there is now at least a vague sense of order. And, although the Lightweight Parts Catalogue is infinitely more useful than the User Manual, it’s nice to have them as a pair, so I’ve ordered a new copy.