“You don’t know how to drive this car, do you?”, my father opined. I had the humility to say I didn’t. I knew when I was licked – dad had been a hill climb racer in a series of Jaguar 120s and 150s that he had owned, and a pretty successful one at that, given the silverware on display on his mantelpiece. What followed was a lesson in how to get them most out of my brand new, bright red TVR S2. Take the needle up to the red on maximum revs and only then change gear fast but smoothly so there’s no loss of momentum. He was right – the surge of power was palpable and the engine roared like it was pleased. Pleased to be driven properly so the car could show off its pedigree as a racer not a tourer.
Some objects don’t just serve a purpose — they elevate it. They add grace to the everyday. They turn utility into art. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my life to have owned — and lived with — some of these beautiful machines. They weren’t simply possessions. They were part of the texture of living well.
Take my bright red TVR S2 soft top. Low-slung, with curves that caught the light and a cockpit that always felt like it was urging you on, it wasn’t a car you drove so much as one you wore. The sound of its engine was a snarl and every trip felt like I was taking off on a mission in a Spitfire.
Then there were the Mercedes S-Class saloons. Two of them over the years. Cars that did everything with effortless poise, that made even a jaunt to Tesco feel refined. They didn’t shout for attention; they earned it by being faultlessly good at what they did, and by doing it with style.
Not every car I’ve owned deserves to be remembered. There have been forgettable ones too — the sort of car you park and walk away from without a backward glance. But those stand in sharper contrast to the ones that mattered, the ones that had soul.
Timepieces and tokens of craft
Some objects are small, but they carry weight far beyond their size. The Rolex Submariner that sat on my wrist was as solid and capable as they come. A watch that didn’t try to dazzle with decoration — it didn’t need to. It did its job, and it did it beautifully. It went missing in action.
I had a Longines gold-backed wristwatch, Roman numerals on its face, that my grandfather wore in the trenches of the First World War. A watch that had marked time in mud, fear, and courage. It was with me for several years after my grandfather died, until one night — a night involving more drink than sense — it was smashed irreparably as a friend dragged me out of the party down a concrete path, my arms following.
There was also the Omega Speedmaster. Technology so accurtate it was chosen to accompany men to the surface of the Moon. It was a pleasure simply to glance at its dial – and I admired it on my wrist all the way on the flight back from Edinburgh (where I bought it) to Heathrow – and feel the history wrapped around my wrist in such an aesthetically pleasing way. Another classic 1970s Speedmaster followed, this one with the beautiful grains-of-rice silver strap, each link catching the light, hypnotically.
Pens, suits, shoes — the art of the everyday
There’s something special about writing with a pen that was made to last, made to feel good in the hand, made to turn the act of writing into something more than just putting words on a page. My black Mont Blanc Meisterstück did that — weighty, precise, a companion to thoughts worth writing down. And so did my Parker ‘51 Empire State, a pen with a sense of history in its lines.
And then there’s the pleasure of wearing things made for you, properly made. Two bespoke suits — each a second skin, each cut to move as I move, to fit as no off-the-peg garment ever could. And handmade shoes from Lobb in St James’s, shoes that seemed to shape themselves around my feet, to remember the way I walked, to reward care with years of service.
Designs I admire from afar
There are other machines, other objects, that I’ve never owned, and most likely never will. But the admiration is no less keen for that. Some designs are simply timeless — so right that to change a line or a detail would be to spoil the whole.
The Riva Aquarama, for instance — that sweep of polished mahogany, the flash of chrome, the twin engines promising speed with style. A boat that looks as good moored as it does flying across the water.
Or the great icons of motoring: the 1959 Ferrari 250GT with its sculpted form, the 1962 Maserati 3500GT all Italian grace and power, the 1967 Mercedes 300SE with its confident elegance, or the 1950s Mercedes 190SL — a car that seems to embody the optimism and style of its age.
There’s the 1930s gaff-rigged cutter — a sailing boat whose rigging and lines speak of craftsmanship and sea-going tradition, of the kind of boat built to last and to be loved.
And sometimes it’s something as small as a family crest-embossed gold signet ring — a piece of personal history made permanent, made precious.
A Life Enhanced
What unites these machines, these objects, is their sense of purpose married to beauty. They weren’t designed to impress in a passing moment. They were designed to serve well, to last, to add pleasure to life simply by being part of it. The best of them don’t just function; they enhance — whether it’s the smooth confidence of a well-engineered car on the open road, the satisfying click of a well-made pen, or the quiet assurance of a watch that has marked time through history.
Owning some of these things has been a privilege. Admiring others has been a pleasure in its own right. They remind me of the joy of good design, of what can be achieved when thought, skill, and care come together in service of both form and function.
This isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about celebrating those objects that, whether through ownership or admiration, have made life a little richer, a little finer, a little more beautifully shaped.