The Twelfth, travel and tweeds

While a 1,000-mile drive to the moors calls for reliability over tradition, where your threads are concerned the older and hairier the better, say Neil and Serena Cross

- Karol Pawlak

NDC - I'VE JUST checked my sat-nav in anticipation and discovered that I only have to drive 972.3 miles to the prisoner-of-war hut we call home for our week on the grouse each August. It will be worth it. Thankfully, I have finally relinquished my stubborn obsession with old Range Rovers and now own a (German) car that stands a fighting chance of getting us there.

My last Rangey was a beauty: Epsom green with tan leather and no tints or bling. Sadly, it also had no service history or electronic integrity. Our last trip to the August moors terminated just off the M5 near Bristol while in mid-conversation with the Editor. A dazzling son et lumiére of pings and unusual error lights preceded a systematic failure of all propulsion and electrical benefits, and a limp-mode crawl into a light industrial estate where death was pronounced at about 10.00 hours on 11 August. How lovely that car still looked in the August sunshine as we realised that it was now effectively a well-upholstered poultry shed, and cross-loaded our supplies into my brother-in-law’s (German) car.