I knew the moment that I put my hands on the steering wheel that I had found my guide, my Sherpa, my hero. He (it had to be a he) had to have a name befitting of promised adventure. I needed a car that could climb steep roads and fit in camping gear and a chaotic best friend who leaks hairbrushes and random apples as she moves. The Angus of origin was the star of a rock climbing film I’d dubiously taken the camera work for whilst at university in the 90s. He was the boyfriend of another girl in my group, and he was gorgeous. And strong. And agile. Angus is a good sturdy, explorer-like name. But he became so much more than that.
I love driving and didn’t think I could love it anymore until I found Angus the Explorer. I was wrong, and we’ve been places together that I didn’t imagine I’d get to. We’ve been on different kind of journeys than I could have foreseen. Because there is another side to the muddy, slightly er, bashed, beast who lives on my drive. There’s not just the beauty of The Lakes, Scotland, Cornwall, Wales, North Yorkshire, Norfolk, Northumbria, Sussex, and Derbyshire we have travelled to. There are the things, the people who we have travelled from.
There have been times that my Angus has conveyed me from trouble and heartache, brimming with bagged belongings in hasty, and occasionally desperate, retreat. I’ve wrestled sofa pieces, a wardrobe, a tall bookcase, and more than once, a capsule of my life into his cavernous, always willing interior. Never has he let me down. Always obliging, never judging. A faithful friend, a constant ally. We’re a force to be reckoned with. No kerb too high, no box too big. He, my trusted Angus, has given me freedoms and choices. We feel each other me and Angus. We’re the same tough, caring, somewhat battered souls.