For as long as I can remember, I've loved Minis. I wasn't really fussed whether it was a Morris, Austin, Innocenti, Cooper, Cooper S… just as long as it was a Mini – the classic-shaped one, not the later BMW-era cars.
Four or five years ago, just before I could drive, I desperately wanted one to have as my first car to learn in. Unsurprisingly, my parents said no. We had no garage space and they would have had to be at least partially responsible until the point when I was finally able to drive it.
But in 2023, the stars aligned. By that I mean I'd borrowed my aunt's car to pass my test, and the nice vicar down my road was happy to let me use her garage. Bingo! Except… while I had been busy being a not-so-well-to-do adult, the prices of Minis seemed to have ballooned. No longer was a nice late Rover MPI £3000: it was more like 10k. Not the kind of money I had to throw about.
Luckily, I did eventually find the right one, and in 2023 I got the keys to a 1992 Rover Mini British Open Classic, which was just about within budget after a haggle. The clutch was on the way out, it hadn't been serviced in a few years and it had well over 150,000 miles on the clock.
And yet I loved it. It had had only one owner, had barely any rust and even had a Webasto fabric roof (that didn't work).
It was brilliant, and in less than two years, I put another 3000 fault-free miles onto it, taking it to Wales, the Lake District and the coast. With an MGB carburettor, it was peppy, and after my dad and I had restored it to its former glory, it was one of the best out there, if I do say so myself. I was the envy of everyone at every petrol station forecourt I entered.
And yet, by the time you read this, it will have crossed the Atlantic on its way to a new life in the US.
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