Rule Britannia and fix the rest

Photos Kimm Saatvedt | text Christer Lundem

The fields around the roads close to Hamburg are blurry and we are moving along quite rapidly. Oh yes, my language becomes hopelessly British and posh – this is what a Jaguar XJS 3,6 with manual gearbox does to you.

On the unrestricted German Autobahn, on our way to the Old-timer Grand Prix historic racing event at Nürburgring, the XJS really feels ever so planted and at home. Very little wind noise enters the luxurious leather and thick carpet-filled cabin. The engine is barely audible. With a smooth straight six with roots from the iconic Jaguar E-type, and a strong five-speed Getrag gearbox made by pedantic Germans, we should be in safe hands. The speedo reads a calm 210 km/h and from the speakers we hear British diva Sade seductively singing «Smooth Operator». As I gently ease down the accelerator, a big warning light beams up the dashboard and turns the car cabin red. – Fiddlesticks! That’s a red lamp! I wail out. The car’s owner, Saatvedt, looks up and takes a swift glance at the dash. Without seemingly a worry in the world, he explains:  – This is completely normal. I filled some coolant before we left and now the cat hungers for more juice. A quick stop at a lay-by, 1 gallon off the green stuff and off we go. No red lamps anymore. We’re chuffed!

Clouds are gathering in the horizon. You can really feel the humidity in the air. As expected, the sky opens up and it is pouring down. This is a good-weather-car only and the unused wiper rubbers are bone dry. After about fifty wipes across the windshield, they sort of work. At least good enough to keep moving. That’s the spirit! So far so good.

It is a really hot summer here in northern Germany. The thermometer reads 32 degrees Celsius. No problem, the engine runs smooth and cool. However, the Jaguar has no sympathy for its passengers. The air conditioning has determined it is winter. It’s making a wave of heat and trying its very best to fry us. Our shirts stick to our sweaty backs like a scared bear cub sticks to his mother. But, don’t moan, old boy; keep the windows open (they work, by the way). We soldier through, windows open, and stop at a gas station to see if it’s an easy fix. This is the moment one usually mentions Lucas the Prince of Darkness. And sure, his Highness serves his reputation right. Finding the fuses on a classic Jaguar is a little like looking for water in the Sahara. It can be done, but most people die trying. The fuses are of course elegantly hidden from ze Germans under two black unmarked boxes, and only found after successfully translating the relevant pages in the workshop manual which are, in this case, inconveniently written in Spanish. All of this makes complete sense if you speak Spanish. After fiddling about, pulling a blinder, swearing a bit in the Queen's English, pardon my French and all that, the air condition works. Relatively speaking, that is. Bob's your uncle – and we’re back on the road again!

We really should have brought our wellies. The formerly dry, woollen carpet is now soaked in rainwater and a new and interesting smell has entered the cabin – giving us a realistic impression of being in the English countryside. At least we can see bits of the road ahead and have nicely working air conditioning.

Despite the rocky start, a powerful connection between man and machine is occurring. Although I must admit the Jag and I bonded immediately. This is a feel-good machine which needs a driver in a white shirt, chinos, good shoes. I dare to say that the car doesn’t care much for drivers or passengers in flimsy shorts and T-shirts. This goes to show as our trip becomes hassle free after we both slip into more stylish attire after the no air-con incident. You know it: Two geezers in a Jag, that’s got swag.

Oh boy, how very British it is. Weirdly without the speedo reading miles. But even the English unit of length, miles won’t do. The speedo reads in metric km. But should really say: Lazy bum (60 km/h) - That’s better old boy (80 km) - Spot on chap (130 km/h) and at speeds faster than 160 km/h - Hold on to your cap fella! This car is so British that it’s strange it doesn’t play «Rule Britannia» every time you open the driver´s door. As if you don’t know what you’re going to drive. This is in fact a compliment as most of today´s cars are soulless and designed to not offend anyone. What a bore! The Jag doesn’t take kindly to cack-handed German (or Norwegian, for that matter) fists on the light switch. In the beginning the light switch unwillingly responds to our commands. To turn it off you need the delicate touch of a violin player with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. We wouldn’t want it any other way and luckily, we manage not make a dog´s dinner out of it.

This is a luxury machine that doesn’t cost a bomb. I love it more and more as the miles pile. As a driver´s car this must be one of the best hidden secrets in the world. The Jaguar is great to drive on winding roads as well as on the motorway. The 3,6 litres straight six is unstressed, sounds nice and runs smooth. The gearbox is precise and well-spaced. It’s a gorgeous car and both men and women compliment its appearance. When we stop for the traffic lights in Bremen, a beautiful woman walks over to our car just to ask what model it is while admiring its good looks. The Jaguar XJS is all a classic should be, just don’t tell anyone before I have bagged a good example. We arrive at the Nürburgring with somewhat soggy shoes and in good spirit very late that evening. Cream crackered, but happy. All’s well that ends well.