The Scenic Route

I came to driving later in life than most – I was 30 when I passed my driving test – which, added to an admittedly neurotic sense of loyalty and a deep-seated reluctance to spend money on cars, means I have owned relatively few cars over the years, all of them bought used (very used, in some cases), and kept until the end of their useful, lawful life. Let's see: two Minis, a couple of bangers – a Nissan and an Austin Rover, bought off people at work that lasted just a couple of months each – and a Vauxhall Nova, supplemented by my partner's cars, a couple of VWs and a Ford Fiesta, inherited from her parents. But in 2005 we bought together a Renault Scenic "Fidji" – a top of the range model, with a 1.8 litre engine, air-conditioning and two sunroofs, just a couple of years old – as a suitable car for family holidays with our two school-age children.

Scenics have a mixed reputation for reliability but we have loved that car, which rarely gave us any trouble at all. I still remember sitting behind the steering wheel for the first time at the dealership, and feeling that command of the road that even a slightly elevated seating position endows. After sitting with one's backside so close to the road in a series of small saloon cars it was a revelation. Much as I hate the current vogue for bloated SUVs, I can understand the motivation: simply being able to see more of the road is a safety bonus in itself, and then there is the better view of the surrounding landscape for passengers, always assuming the ones in the back seats haven't got their noses buried in their phones or, more realistically in those days, their Game Boys.

Then there is the storage capacity. Packing for a two-week holiday with children is always a challenge with the typical European-style hatchback; it becomes more of a case of what to leave behind rather than what to take (although sometimes "who" can be very tempting, too). But with the Scenic, it was just, "all aboard, and sling it all in the hold!" Even better, with the back seats removed you have the equivalent of a light van, capable of transporting a large chest of drawers, an 88-key electric piano, or numerous IKEA flatpacks. The car even has a cellar! Well, two storage compartments in the floor in front of the rear seats.

Like a faithful family retainer, wherever we wanted to go – Norfolk, Dorset, Scotland, France – it would uncomplainingly carry whatever burden we chose to stuff into it, mile after mile, trip after trip. Until, that is, in 2019 it started to struggle up the steeper hills in Dorset, and then in 2021 our garage warned us about a worn clutch that "might go in 10, or 10,000 miles, hard to say..." So, our children having moved on into adult life, our recently-acquired and remarkably fuel-efficient Skoda Citigo took over the longer journeys, and the Scenic settled into a comfortable retirement of short, local trips, mainly shuttling rubbish and garden waste to the municipal dump.

This year, however, our Scenic finally went for scrap. It would probably have scraped through its MOT test, yet again, but after 20-plus years everything had begun to fail. The speedometer was temperamental; I had bodged-up the screen washer tubing several times in recent years to get it through the MOT; rust was setting in and much of the plastic was decaying, so that on damp days your hands came away from the steering wheel and gearstick coated with a sticky black deposit. It was a sad moment, seeing an old friend driven away on a low loader, but I try my best not to be sentimental about the inanimate and mechanical members of the family.

However, as I have written before, an inclination to invest inanimate objects with thoughts, feelings, and personality seems to be one of humanity's more indelible characteristics; what you might call an animistic cast of mind. It takes a far sterner rationalist than me to bin a favourite cup when it cracks or its handle comes off, for example. Eventually I will do it, but there needs to be a suitable period of mourning first, while the cup lies in state on a shelf. Sometimes, this can take years.

Most young children, of course, seem to inhabit a permanently liminal world, where consciousness swirls in and out of things like a tide. My daughter was particularly susceptible as a toddler, occasionally entering a state we referred to as "goggling", which involved holding her breath and trembling visibly in an open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare of rapture, as (we presumed) the toys arranged before her came to vivid life. She was our little living-room shaman. But that animistic tide keeps going out further and further as we grow, until the crucial moment arrives as so poignantly (and hilariously) captured by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band: "Mummy, teddy's stopped breathing!"

But the idea that certain categories of object acquire a personality in use is not just a vestige of childhood enchantment. New instruments need to be "played in" to develop their tone, and the quality of their final tone may well depend on the quality and character of their initial playing-in. What could be more full of personality than a pair of old shoes, and more devoid of personality than a pair of new ones? And who does not keep an assortment of pebbles, conkers and the like in their coat pockets, that gradually over the years acquire a deep patina and "pocket polish"? What? Oh, OK; just me, then.

I am convinced that cameras, too, exert some kind of influence over the pictures that emerge from them that far exceeds their mechanical functioning. You have to meet a camera half-way, get to know it, make friends, and persuade it to do its best for you. You must have noticed how awful the first batches of images from a new camera are? You can set it on "auto everything" or on full manual, you can even use a cable release, spirit level and – gasp! – a tripod, and still get rubbish. Blurry, over-exposed, poorly-composed rubbish. Yet, a few months later, if you've played it in nicely, you can even forget to check what settings you're using, as you and your camera will have finally got your harmonious act together, and the magic can begin to happen.

I'm just about reaching that point with a used Olympus E-M5 iii I bought last summer. In some weird way, I have had to exorcise the ghost in the machine installed by the previous owner, who had clearly not made friends with the camera; after all, he'd sold it on "priced to sell" not so long after he'd bought it. I think it's a bit like buying a rescue dog from the kennels: it takes time for an abusive or unloving owner's traces to be erased. Sounds nutty, I know, but you can trust me on this one.

Eventually, however, neglected objects will become disenchanted. In the back of a cupboard or the depths of a drawer, you may come across a keepsake or a forgotten item that was once in everyday use; a cigarette lighter or a fountain pen, perhaps, or a postcard from a gallery you once visited. You'll look at it, and remember why you kept it, but nonetheless know that, as sung by B.B. King, the thrill is gone. Any remaining inner spirit has finally slipped away, and you can safely bin the thing.

Sadly, though, you can't leave old cars without tax, MOT, or insurance to fully disenchant themselves in the street before scrapping them. So, goodbye, old friend... It's been great, and we won't forget you!

Sling it all in!