My Old Landy…

Since moving from the channel island of Guernsey, many, many years ago, and giving up my trusty pair of Land Rovers, I’ve vowed to buy myself another one each time the discussion about family transportation came up.

A steady stream of vans and sedate sedans graced the garage during our parenting years with not a Landy in sight and I bided my time!

On selling our suburban home and buying Footlights, our heavily wooded, rural farm, I knew my voice had a really good chance of being heard.

We needed a working vehicle of some kind since our luxury car was not born to hauling brush and lumber and traipsing through muddy fields.

We started looking for an old pick-up, something even I could lift the hood on and jiggle a few wires.

It seems that everyone had the same idea and the prices on 30 and 40 year old Chevvies and Dodge Rams was escalating each time we checked Craig’s list.

We didn’t want to spend much, memories of the £250.00 I’d spent on my 1953 Landrover misted my eyes.

We finally found a truck in a local neighborhood with a For Sale sign smeared in its windshield.

After knocking on the door a few days in a row and leaving notes under the window washer blades we finally made contact and the price was surprisingly low.

We bought the project truck and had it towed to a garage in deepest Dallas near the fairgrounds and began a five week stint of fractured English while we negotiated the purchase of a re-conditioned engine from the shop next door, an un-cracked petrol tank, from across the border, and a new radiator, hoses and belts from who knows where?

We finally took a road trip to assess our acquisition.  It was sitting in a bay unable to be moved (because it wouldn’t start!) obviously taking up precious space.

The garage owner promised it would be ready the next day and since we had caught the mañana habit from our weeks long relationship with our Hispanic compadres, we waited for the memorial weekend to pass before heading back with earnest money.

She was out of the bay sitting proudly in the forecourt.


The young man who had worked on it poured gas into the newly fitted tank and after a few turns of the key and pumps on the accelerator started up the engine.

It hummed impressively!

We handed over the cash and promised to be back with the balance to take it off their hands.

Having a project truck is hard work and luckily we had found a garage willing to take on the task,

“Never again…” Angel said, shaking his head.  “It was good for you, but not so good for me, getting the parts was very bad.”

And now she’s on the farm out of Angel’s hair,


minus the roll bar and tool box, awaiting a safety sticker.

At 28 years old she’s an old lady and doesn’t need a full inspection but there are a few things that need to be working, like the horn and driver’s side windshield wiper, before we can get her road worthy.

Later, when things calm down enough for us we will give her a new coat of blue paint and add random Landrover insignia.

If I can’t have the real McCoy I can at least dress her up and pretend.

Daughts and I took her for a spin on our private road


and almost got stuck in the mud,

“The steering is loose and it is a rough ride,” she commented.

Sounds just like my old Landy!

All things come to those who wait!

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