The reason I’m sitting on the top of a Scottish glen with a rainbow spouting out of the bonnet of my Range Rover Evoque, having driven here across a moor and up a small mountain without the use of an actual road, is because I got angry. Well, irritated, really. Annoyed by the two things that seemed to pop up every time over the past six months I’ve told anyone that I drive the littlest Range Rover. Among the general smiles and grunts of approval, one of the first things that people do is raise their eyebrows, tilt their heads conspiratorially and whisper: “Ooh, that’s a bit of a - you know - girl’s car, isn’t it?” intimating that feminism curdles under the harsh lights of a car dealership, and that somehow I am emasculated by driving a car that appeals as much to women as it does to men. It’s not even pink.
Words: Tom Ford
Photos: Justin Leighton
This feature originally appeared in issue 236 of Top Gear Magazine