The Jaguar That Turned More Heads Than I Ever Did

I’ve never been particularly good at keeping cars for very long.

Even as a young man I seemed to move from one to the next with surprising regularity. There was a Mini, then a Volkswagen (mercifully not for long), a Mini pickup, a Mini Cooper, a Ford Cortina, a white Triumph Spitfire and an MGB. Each reflected where I happened to be in life at the time, and each taught me something different about driving.

But none of them prepared me for my first Jaguar.

The seeds of that obsession had actually been planted much earlier.

When I was still in my late teens, I worked for George Kidd Motors in Royal Leamington Spa. One of my jobs was collecting new cars from the manufacturers and delivering them back to the dealership. Some mornings it would be Rover. Other mornings, if fortune happened to be smiling, it would be Jaguar.

Jaguar’s Browns Lane factory in Coventry soon became my favourite destination. Rover’s Solihull factory built perfectly respectable cars, but whenever I climbed into one of their new three-litre saloons I couldn’t wait to hand it over to its new owner. They left me completely cold.

The Jaguars were different.

The newly introduced XJ6 felt unlike anything else on British roads. It seemed to glide rather than drive, cornering with an effortless confidence that made every other saloon feel clumsy. The steering was beautifully weighted, the ride almost magical, and there was a quiet refinement that made even an ordinary journey feel important.

For a teenager being paid to drive brand-new Jaguars, life didn’t get much better.

It was impossible not to dream.

Of course, films didn’t help. Whenever there was a bank robbery or a getaway driver on television, sooner or later a Jaguar would appear. The MkII, in particular, had become the unofficial transport of cinematic villains and real-life bank robbers alike. Whether deserved or not, it carried an irresistible reputation for speed, elegance and just a hint of danger.

Somewhere between Browns Lane and the cinema, I fell hopelessly under Jaguar’s spell.

Unfortunately, dreams usually cost money.

The car dealer I eventually visited had two Jaguars parked only a few yards apart.

One was magnificent.

A metallic blue Jaguar Mk10—an enormous, stately machine that looked as though it belonged outside a stately home rather than on a used-car forecourt. It possessed a kind of quiet authority that few cars have ever matched. I wanted it the moment I saw it.

Unfortunately, wanting and affording are two entirely different things.

At £495 it may as well have cost five thousand.

Then I noticed the other one.

Smaller.

Sportier.

Silver.

A Jaguar 3.4 MkII with beautiful red Connolly leather upholstery and a manual gearbox.

It wasn’t the Jaguar I’d gone to buy.

It was the Jaguar I could actually afford.

At £195 it still represented a considerable sum for me, but compared with its original list price of well over £1,200, it felt like the bargain of the century.

Looking back now, I think fate knew better than I did.

The first time I opened the driver’s door I understood why people become emotionally attached to cars.

Before the engine even fired into life, the cabin greeted you with that unmistakable Jaguar perfume—a rich blend of polished walnut, thick leather, warm carpet, engine oil and decades of accumulated character. Modern cars smell clean. Jaguars of that era smelled alive.

It reminded me of my grandfather’s old cars. Add the lingering aroma of a previous owner’s cigars and the whole cabin became almost intoxicating. Rich, warm and comforting, it was a scent that instantly became part of every journey.

Then there was the dashboard.

Modern designers talk endlessly about minimalist interiors, but this was theatre.

A sea of polished timber stretched before me, interrupted by beautifully crafted gauges, elegant chrome switches and controls that clicked with satisfying precision. Flicking a switch wasn’t simply functional—it felt mechanical, deliberate, almost aircraft-like. Even sitting in the driver’s seat without turning the key felt like an event.

Driving it was even better.

People noticed Jaguars in those days.

Everywhere I went heads turned. Children pointed. Adults glanced twice. For a young bloke who probably thought he was cooler than he really was, it felt as though I’d somehow won life’s lottery.

Of course, she wasn’t perfect.

She had an appetite for engine oil that bordered on alcoholism.

Any journey much beyond twenty miles required at least one spare container in the boot. Curiously, she wasn’t leaving clouds of blue smoke behind, so I suspected an oil leak rather than worn piston rings. Whatever the cause, topping her up simply became part of owning the car.

Friends would often ask, “How many miles per gallon does it do?”

“Petrol or oil?” I’d reply.

The answer usually got a laugh, but it wasn’t far from the truth. I seemed to buy almost as much Castrol as I did petrol. Somehow, though, it only added to the Jaguar’s eccentric charm. You forgave its faults because everything else about it felt so wonderfully alive.

I never minded.

Love has a remarkable ability to overlook mechanical imperfections.

Then came my final day in England.

Australia was waiting.

So was an unexpected farewell.

Driving through Stratford-upon-Avon, I suddenly found blue lights appearing in the mirror behind me.

The police pulled me over on the busy high street, in the centre of town

Within minutes every door of the Jaguar stood wide open while officers methodically searched every corner of the car. A sizeable crowd gathered to watch the performance. I suspect they were enjoying it almost as much as the police.

Apparently, a young, long-haired bloke driving a Jaguar fitted somebody’s idea of a drug dealer.

Or perhaps a bank robber.

After all, weren’t Jaguars supposed to be getaway cars?

They searched everywhere.

Seats.

Boot.

Glovebox.

Under carpets.

Every compartment they could find.

Eventually they discovered my carefully stocked supply of spare engine oil.

That was it.

No drugs.

No stolen money.

Just enough oil to keep an ageing Jaguar alive for another few hundred miles.

I don’t think they quite knew what to make of me after that.

So, with my pride only slightly dented, I climbed back behind that polished wooden steering wheel, listened once more to the reassuring click of those beautiful switches, and drove away.

Not long afterwards I left England for Australia.

The Jaguar stayed behind.

The memories never did.

I’ve owned plenty of wonderful cars since then, including several more Jaguars and, eventually, a long succession of Mercedes-Benzs. Logic eventually persuaded me that reliability had its own charm.

But whenever someone asks me where my affection for Jaguars began, I don’t think of the newer XJs or the luxury models that followed.

I think of that silver MkII.

The one with the red leather.

The one that smelled of walnut, leather and possibility.

The one that made a young English lad feel, if only for a little while, as though the open road belonged entirely to him.