Making new friends

HAVING successfully driven the Lightweight back to London, on the last day before Lockdown II, I’m enjoying the small freedom of sitting in a pub garden, typing away in the autumnal sunshine, with the Lightweight out in the car park. It’s something of a locals’ pub, and a couple of regulars, who I know by sight and polite nods of acknowledgement, come out for a smoke and stand beside the gate overlooking the car park. I hear the Irish regular say to an English regular: “What I really want to know is who owns that Jeep out there?” I stay silent while they discuss the Lightweight in admiring tones whilst continuing to refer to it as a Jeep, which is most unacceptable.

“C’mon guys, it’s not a Jeep, it’s a Land Rover,” I interject. The Irishman turns and says, “Oh right, well it’s a great vehicle.” I nod in agreement and he says: “Hang on, it’s not yours, is it?” I confirm that it is, with a proud smile. “No way. Really?” I nod. “I didn’t have you down as that sort of person,” he says. “What sort of person did you think I was?” I ask. He obfuscates, and then says: “Well, I thought you’d drive something like a Mini!” I try to curb my sense of outrage with a light laugh.

Since he’s clearly interested, I ask if he’d like to take a look inside but he says he already has, when he arrived at the pub. He asks for the Lightweight’s particulars, which I happily share.

The Irishman was clearly intrigued as, when I leave, he materialises in the car park, just in time for me to rather embarrassingly stall. I slide open the window and ask, laughing: “Did you want proof it was mine?” He compliments the vehicle some more and I enthusiastically point out some of the new Devonian bodywork, which I’m happy to wax lyrical about to anyone who will listen. “What this vehicle needs after such a long drive back is a few days rest,” he tells me. “What this vehicle needs now is to be driven around as much as possible!” I correct him.

“I’ve always wanted a vehicle like this,” he says, “well, one day I’ll buy one, for sure.” Before he walks away, he gives the wing an over-enthusiastic pat, which reverberates nastily. That kind of move doesn’t work as well on a Lightweight as any other Land Rover model, as the design of the Lightweight wing renders it considerably less solid.

Determined to make the most of the day, I motor over, now somewhat later than intended, to an Iraqi Kurd’s friend’s house for dinner, which in true Middle Eastern style is something of a banquet. Arriving late, I make my apologies and seat myself down at the table. When we’ve progressed to the supping-cardamon-tea-on-the-sofas phase of the meal, I say: “Do you want to see my car? I drove it up from Devon a few days ago.”

After glimpsing the Lightweight through the mansion doors, my friend is getting her shoes on like a shot. “Hahaha, you’re like an Iraqi!” she says, spilling out onto the driveway. Despite being a middle-aged lass, she’s full of Iraqi enthusiasm. She prowls around the Lightweight, insists on opening all the doors before saying approvingly: “This car is worth money!” She then summons her son to take a series of photos of her posing with it, which she promptly and proudly posts on Facebook.

Once lockdown commences, since essential shopping, as well as exercise, is one of the few reasons we are now allowed to leave our homes, this provides a muchneeded jaunt. And having the Lightweight this lockdown is a real boon, purely because I love driving it so very much. So, off we go, to motor down to the local Lidl, which is a very long walk or a fairly short drive away.

I park up and stroll into the shop. Returning to the Lightweight with my shopping, I hear a voice shout: “Excuse me!” I turn and see a parking attendant ambling towards me. In case you weren’t aware, this lockdown, traffic wardens – somewhat outrageously – count as key workers. “You know, you need to buy a ticket from me, in my little hut over there,” he says, in a broad African accent. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I thought this was a free Lidl car park,” I say. “Well, it is and it’s not,” he explains. “You need to buy a ticket from me for a pound and then I give you back the pound if you’ve got a receipt from the shop.” I apologise some more.

“I didn’t give you a penalty ticket because I watched you go into the supermarket and because that’s a very nice car,” he says, grinning. I thank him for his kindness and he says: “You don’t see many of these old military vehicles around any more.” I tell him how old the Lightweight is and he shakes his head in wonder that it’s still on the road, 43 years after manufacture. “You know, that car must be worth a lot of money now,” he says and I explain that I don’t care because it’s my friend, not an investment. Still smiling, he watches me start the engine and pull away and, when I give him a little toot-toot of the horn, he waves enthusiastically.

So London seems pretty welcoming to the Lightweight but, with all these comments about its monetary worth, this might be a good time to think about some decent vehicle security.

“Since essential shopping is one of the reasons we’re allowed to leave our homes, having the Lightweight this lockdown is a real boon