THOM WESTCOTT

WHOEVER thought an automatic handbrake was a good idea? I didn’t mind it when I first started driving The Fella’s Discovery, once I discovered it automatically released with acceleration. But that particular feature started playing up and, for reasons known only to itself – although the mechanic who replaced the hand brake system under the previous owner thinks it’s a small flaw with the switch – now no longer works.

Regardless, to me it always feels as though something’s missing. And that something is the reliability of pulling on a proper handbrake nice and hard, and feeling confident the vehicle is going nowhere.

I somewhat unwillingly take the Discovery out alone on a Friday evening, to try and catch a shop before it closes. The traffic’s quite heavy (although not yet up to its pre-covid rush-hour levels), but I plod on, selfconsciously trying to maintain a decent road position as I still find the Discovery’s size hard to gauge.

On the approach to some traffic lights– a one-way, two-lane stretch on a steep hill – the lights turn to red and I stop nicely and apply the handbrake. I am competent at hill starts and well remember my driving instructor’s command, many years back, to never attempt one without the handbrake. This habit has been compounded by driving my Lightweight for the last 15 years, which is heavy on the clutch, heavy on the brake and basically just all-round heavy, meaning the handbrake provides relief to leg muscles when waiting at lights.

So, here I am, third car back from the lights, waiting for them to change. When they do so, I attempt to move away but something goes wrong. Dramatically and loudly wrong. The Discovery does not move and instead emits a terrible loud screeching noise. I deploy the hazards, turn off the engine, turn it back on and try again. Or rather try and turn it back on. What should be the familiar throb of a diesel engine awaking has been replaced by this terrible screeching noise. A whine. A wail. It’s awful. And some sinister message flashes up on the dashboard saying something along the lines of: TOTAL BRAKE FAILURE.

I hastily turn off the engine again, and am greeted by an angry chorus of horns from all the cars now stuck behind me. It’s so embarrassing. What formerly seemed like sensible road positioning has now become an inconvenient blockade.

I try a few more times with the engine but the noise is so awful, and so horrendously loud that I just have to stop. It sounds terminal. And this is my fella’s new (secondhand) vehicle.

I phone him to say I’ve broken down, give him the location and patiently explain what happened, while the angry horn chorus gathers more steam around me. “Should I come out?” he says with a sigh. “Yes!” I say, adding dramatically: “I think your Land Rover’s totally f**ked!”

Two charming young faces appear outside the window, with mops of blonde hair, wide blue eyes and broad smiles. They heard my predicament from the pub across the road (which tells you how loud the noise was) and have come to offer help. “Hello!” They chorus, brimming with enthusiasm for the anticipated task of helping a damsel in distress. “Would you like us to push you off the road?” Men are the best sometimes.

“I wish you could,” I say. “But this vehicle has an automatic handbrake, which has failed.” They shake their blonde heads sadly, and one says, with deep empathy: “Oh dear. We can’t help you, then.” They espouse the general failings of automatic handbrakes before one offers to “give the car a try” for me. I would ordinarily agree, but this is someone else’s vehicle, it’s on a hill with some unknown but seemingly terrible brake fault, and these charming chaps have just come from the pub, where they have most likely been quaffing back booze in unknown quantities over an unknown time frame. It’s around 7.00 pm on a Friday. They could have been there a while.

Somewhat reluctantly they depart while I phone the RAC and struggle to identify myself, as I’ve changed addresses, forgotten both new and old postcodes and have lost my membership card. Eventually they track me down on the system, while I utter silent thanks for continuing to shell out that annual subscription. Covid means longer waiting times than normal, of course, but someone should be with me in approximately two hours.

Two other fellows appear from another (out of sight but clearly not out of sound) pub and are in the process of offering the same kind of help as the first two when The Fella pulls up behind me in his work van. While I‘m politely fending off these chaps’ offer of help, a familiar sound emanates from the Discovery. The bloody thing has started perfectly for him.

I feel like such an idiot. Everyone from the pub across the way is staring at me, now reduced to the sort of imbecile woman who doesn’t know how to handle her boyfriend’s oversized 4x4. It’s utterly shameful, and now I have to drive the damned Discovery back to his place.

The Fella later explains that the handbrake control is temperamental and that he has also had a few problems with it but, overall, he believes that I was just too heavy-handed with it, describing it as a “gentle mechanism” that requires a gentle touch.

Land Rovers having gentle mechanisms seems all wrong. I thought Land Rovers were supposed to be able to handle heavy treatment. But, despite my relatively petite frame, I guess I really am too heavy-handed for modern Land Rovers.

“I attempt to move away but something goes wrong. The Discovery does not move and instead emits a terrible loud screeching noise”