Never Drive your Heroes
Held within the stunning Glanusk Estate near Crickhowell in South Wales, Camp Jeep 2026 promised total immersion into the Jeep lifestyle. Adventure, capability and community were the order of the day, with on-road driving, off-road challenges, paddleboarding and an evening around a campfire in beautiful surroundings.
It all sounded wonderful. And it was, mostly.
But what really caught my attention - rather like the words free pie, chips and a pint, was the chance to drive Jeep's beautifully preserved 1942 Willys.
The humble 'flattie', affectionately named for its flat wings, was my childhood dream car. Yes, the Lamborghini Countach adorned many a bedroom wall in the 1980s, but if you'd asked me what I really wanted parked outside the house, it would have been a flat-fender Willys every single time.
Back then I'd eagerly await the latest copy of the American magazine: Four Wheeler, as one of its writers owned a heavily modified Willys that was powered by a 3.5-litre Rover V8. It was forever testing tyres, suspension, winches and gadgets before disappearing into the American wilderness.
Looking back, it was probably the blueprint for what The Mud Life has become with my own Toyota Surf. Funny how these things come full circle.
For years I'd imagined owning one. Just me, the Jeep, a canvas tent and miles of empty countryside. So when the opportunity arose to finally drive my hero, I was chomping at the bit.
That enthusiasm lasted right up until I saw the steering wheel. Good grief, it was enormous. Positioned somewhere around chest height, it sat alarmingly close to the fixed canvas seat.
"Hmm... I'm going to struggle to fit in there," I muttered.
And struggle I did.
Perhaps one too many fish, mushy peas and evenings in the Buck Inn with my mate Andy. He's a bad influence.
After a considerable amount of folding, shuffling and inhaling, I eventually wedged myself behind the wheel. At 6ft 2in and the wrong side of eighteen stone, it's fair to say I wasn't exactly the target market for a wartime Jeep. In fact, back then, chaps built like me probably didn't drive them, they sat in the back, pointed at maps and were called “Sir."
Eventually the little 2.2-litre Go Devil engine spluttered into life with its unmistakable side-valve chatter. Running a little rich, every blip of the throttle brought the comforting aroma of unburnt petrol and the occasional puff of black smoke. Modern engines whisper politely; this one simply cleared its throat and got on with the job.
Within the first few yards it became obvious this machine was designed for winning wars, not comfort awards. The steering had all the precision of stirring porridge with a canoe paddle, while every rut and bump travelled enthusiastically through the suspension, the canvas seat and directly into my spine.
I was disappointed.
Perhaps I'd built it up too much over the past fifty-odd years. Then again, perhaps an off-road course in South Wales simply isn't where a Willys shines. Give me a quiet country lane, a forestry track or an empty beach at sunset and perhaps we'd become friends.
But not today.
The old saying goes, "Never meet your heroes.” I'd like to update that. Never drive your heroes.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find a darkened room and sulk.