Pines And Pistons

One simple sentence that locked in my car love for the rest of my life.
I begged my scout leader to take me in his Defender 90. It was blue, battered and smelled like an old, oily garage. Everything you touched made your hands black, I still remember the centre console with its peeling flaked plastic leather cover and the absolutely hilarious flaps that opened up under the windscreen on the front of the car.

Seatbelts that probably didn’t work and so many buttons and switches in the cockpit that one of them could have easily been an eject seat button and I would have no clue. The latch on the passenger door would bruise my hand everytime I opened the door – a lovely quirk of the lift up door handle.

On the way home from my scout hut, was a short half mile straight of 60mph road. I would smile so large it would hurt my face as my scout leader opened it up, and you couldn’t hear anything except diesel flooding the engine and pretty much a baked bean tin out the back.

It was 2005, I had just gotten into the great outdoors. I learned how to rock climb, raft build, make huge fires (my forte) and many other wonderful activities. Scouts took me to Iceland where I did ice climbing for the first time and witnessed the midnight sun and extremely warm tents to go with it. Among this outdoor love was a greasy old vehicle that I spent my nights waiting to drive home in. 

Growing up, my dad always had the fanciest discovery. Heated seats that could move into ridiculous positions, me and my sister would see who could fold up like a deck chair the most, and I always found great comfort in these chunky vehicles. We would cruise down to the south of France a few times a year with a huge caravan in tow, and I remember arriving at a lake in a gorge with a discarded pedalo (that me and my sister quickly captained) after listening to brown eyed girl by van morrison on a free cd from the newspapers my dad would buy.

This song was played at his funeral in 2005 and whenever I hear it, it still takes me back to the daring cliffside drives and pink jelly shoes for the pebbles in the lakes. 

My dad left me with this need for adventure, exploring by car as much as on foot.

I would love to be able to go back in time and tell little Kelly that she would eventually own one of these beasts and travel to Europe and find her own lakes and even more daring drives to cruise down. She would never believe it. Even now I still feel a huge smile when I pull up at traffic lights and see someone in a tiny sports car. They are obviously having a wonderful time, just as much as me, but the head room is really something special when you are half Dutch and therefore, extremely tall! I am very pleased to say that I ended up with push button door handles on all sides except the boot which has the classic lift up style, and yes it still hurts my hand.

My Land Rover makes me feel like how I imagine Lara Croft would feel when she pulls up to temple ruins with nothing but boots and 2 silver desert eagles.

And when I tell people that my hands freeze in the winter, that you can’t see through the windscreen because the blowers don’t work, that the rain is just as bad inside as outside the car and that when it’s 38 degrees in the alps and you have no aircon (except aforementioned funny flaps under the windscreen), people just don’t get it. I have become one of those annoying people that say, “You just don’t get it, It’s not just a car, it’s a way of life.” And everyone, including me, rolls their eyes. 

But to those who do get it, welcome.

This website is a corner of the internet for me to collect my adventures, mistakes and campfire stories. If any of that sounds like your cup of tea then please, come along for the ride. 

The Glovebox

🛻 total mileage: 177,999

🎧 listening: Mountain Girl – Josiah and the Bonnevilles

📚 Reading: Brimstone-Callie Hart