Classics represent a simmering cultural rebuke to the oncoming tide of sterile electric motoring. But there are caveats. My generation never went to school in the back of a Renault 4. Not once have I ever found myself waiting on the side of the M1 for a radiator to stop boiling over, I don’t know how to set a points gap and I don’t pause for oil to warm up before setting off.

I come from the age of convenience. At 27, I’m of a generation that was never encouraged to absorb even a basic comprehension of mechanical engineering, just to keep ourselves moving on the road. Modern cars are so reliable that we can get away with it. But be warned ye who enter the world of classic cars without an understanding of how they work. They don’t suffer fools, as I know to my cost.

You see, I’m the son of a classic Land Rover owner. In my case it’s a 1978 Series 3, and it’s stationed among gorgeous Snowdonia hills with quaint little lanes for me to trundle up and down. A Thomas Hardy-grade pastoral heaven that keeps me perpetually reminded of my so very good fortune. That is, of course, until the car breaks.

It’s a labour of love, running a classic. They require a ratified emotional contract to keep you keeping on, even in the darkest of moments. Radiator boiling over at 9pm on the way back from the Goodwood Revival? Suck it up.

For owners, though, the grief is a blessing. For my dad, the entrails of his Series 3’s 2.25-litre engine are sacred. They insist on a delicate touch, preferably wearing those white velvet gloves used to fondle commemorative coins.

My dad knows his car well, and savours the effort it asks. But me? I know bugger-all about Land Rovers, and to be honest I don’t really care. I get it out for Instagram-related purposes, or to prop up illusions of style and grandeur in the eyes of visiting girlfriends. Believe me, it works a charm. Until it does what all classic cars do and falls apart.

When it does that, I’m screwed. I don’t know anything about carburettors or spark plugs or low-range gearing. Hell, I don’t even know what kind of fuel it takes. I just drive it, and that’s fine. But to potter about in your dad’s classic purely as a poser, without any understanding of the mechanical workings or frailties of the car is to play oily dice with the devil. Eventually, you’re going to come up snake eyes.

I did just that a few months ago when I had friends over at the house for the weekend. We decided a pub visit was in order, and I, naturally, elected to drive my group to the nearby town in the Landy. I donned my finest Barbour and even set an old Land Rover cap upon my dainty head, just to let the locals know exactly what kind of berk had come to town. All was well, until about 4.30pm when I decided I was done with being the designated driver and duly announced it was time to return home so I could have a drink.

We piled in and I turned the key.

R r r r r r r r r.

Oh no.

R r r r r….

Oh God no.

My worst fears had been realised. The car wouldn’t start.

Quick, phone dad.

‘Yes?’

‘The Series 3 won’t start. I’m in the middle of Bala. This is a nightmare.’

‘Hmm, it might be a broken starter motor.’

‘A what?’

‘Open the bonnet and have a look deep on the right-hand side.’

‘I have to open the bonnet?!’

He directed me for a while over the phone, but he may as well have been talking in drunken Xhosa.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Seth,’ he humbly concluded. ‘Go to the garage at the end of the street. The bloke in there will help you.’

Mark hung up.

I set off down Bala’s busy high street with my tail between my legs. Luckily for me, the bloke in the garage was a fine fellow. He produced a remedy for what he suspected were my battery woes, despite me failing to correctly answer a single one of his mechanical questions. Useless. It was around this time I decided to surreptitiously remove my Land Rover cap.

The Series 3 came back to life with a zap from his jump starter pack and I breathed a sigh of relief. I duly thanked the man and with a look that summed up a thousand years of Welsh neighbourly contempt, he wished me luck and left.

‘Right chaps, back to base.’

Chug chug chug chug chooo…

Dead again. Back to the garage.

‘Hello, sorry to be such a pain but the Land Rover has died again on me! Mind if I get another zap from your thingamajiggy?’

‘Sorry mate, I only had enough charge for one attempt and I’m afraid we’re about to close.’

‘… what?’

This was turning into a nightmare of epic proportions. Miles from home, faced with the looming possibility of needing to herd several drunk mates back along a dangerous single lane and the ignominy of leaving my prized classic Land Rover stranded in town. At this point it no longer represented an endearing vestige of times gone by, charming in its patina and mechanical simplicity. It had become a pile of immobile junk.

Desperate measures were in order and so my friend, charged with the confidence vested in him by a few cold Heinekens, resorted to flagging down a local in the street. We conversed briefly, and he acquiesced to give us a jump start.

We got his jump leads hooked up, assumed our positions in our respective driver’s seats and, after a short prayer on my part, turned the keys…

R r r r r r r… chug chug chug… vrooooom!

Yes! It was back alive.

This time we took a minute to let the Landy’s battery charge, and I found myself reflecting on the grievances of my classic Land Rover experience.

I love my dad’s Land Rover, but that hour or so was a nightmare. They’re charming until they’re broken, and if you fail to learn what can or even will go wrong, it could be you stranded on the side a rural Welsh town, attempting to beguile a local into giving up his Saturday afternoon in the name of assistance. 

After a high octane blast back up to the house, Land Rover cap proudly and firmly back on, my right foot heavy on the revs lest the engine cut out again, the car lurching from side to side with my friends swaying from the frame like sailors hanging from the rails of a cutter through a hurricane, we made it home. Land Rover back in the garage, trickle charger on.

The lesson? Don’t work with animals, children, or classic cars.