"SO," said a colleague on hearing that I had just picked up the new diesel Nissan 4x4 X-Trail for a test drive, "Do you plan to take it off-road?" My answer was succinct and, I hoped, accurate: "Not deliberately."
Like the majority of 4x4 drivers, I had no desire to trundle over peat bog and whiz through dry river beds on route to a chilly night's camping in the company of goats. I had, instead, something more civilised planned: a weekend on Skye staying a
t the newly opened Duisdale House Hotel, where the vehicle's pristine blue paintwork would not look out of place beside the shiny BMW's, Audis and Mercedes on the gravel drive.
My first impression of the Nissan was that here was a car only a mother could love, for it so closely resembles the boxy crayon drawings of a child, all sharp angles and a solitary primary colour.
I liked it, but not for the obvious gadgets. The car comes with a smart key whose presence the vehicle senses, meaning you don't actually slot it into the ignition. Keep it in your pocket, turn a switch and the engine springs into life. A recipe for trouble though, as you are liable to f orget it in the drinks holder, despite the accompanying beeps.
No, what I liked about this car was the confidence it instilled to argue with bullying buses. In a smaller car, there is the tendency to give way when they try to muscle out. The Nissan gives you the confidence to hold your ground and slide on past.
The electric seat-warmers were a welcome novelty, although never having been afflicted by a frosty tush, I was unprepared for their subtle delight. My wife, however, derived such pleasure that I had to switch it off in a fit of pique.
The long road up to Skye felt surprisingly short as the Nissan gobbled up the miles. Turn left after crossing the Erskine Bridge and the beauty of the West Coast quickly opens up. It was one of those rare days when Loch Lomond, so often wearing a shroud of drizzle, was in a brilliant cloak of sunshine and Rannoch Moor, usually so desolate, was rendered almost appealing in the sunlight. Now, I can't blame the satnav, but I had planned to head for the Kyle of Lochalsh and the Skye bridge, however a careless turn after Fort William had me on route to Kintyre, a mistake not noticed until we hit the ferry terminal. Oh well, it was a fine day to sail to Skye and, refreshed by the brief break from behind the wheel, I pushed on up to Portree and round the island, before eventually pulling into the beautiful grounds of the Duisdale, where fine steaks, good company and an early night awaited. The Nissan, meanwhile, more than held its own in the car park accruing the odd admiring glance, or so I like to think. The next morning we planned to push on to Plockton, but first the tank needed topping up.
I had been warned that it was a diesel engine, on the grounds that I once filled a rental car with petrol only to find the CD-sized key fob with the words: 'DIESEL' written across it in bold type, an error that required a rescue from the AA at Scotch Corner. This time I was well-warned and quietly impressed too – Edinburgh to Glasgow to Skye and a tour of the island on one tank of fuel is, in these desperate times, a cause for celebration.
On route to Plockton we drove carefully through one little village where the green was occupied by a herd of shaggy coated highland cattle, looking like they had wandered off a toffee-bar wrapper. The little town of Plockton, with its swaying palm trees, was where Hamish Macbeth was filmed and, more importantly, where Edward Woodward arrived in his seaplane ahead of his reluctant appointment with immolation in The Wicker Man. Reversing out of the tight parking spaces at the waterfront was a breeze, courtesy of the vehicle's rear camera, which projects what is directly behind you onto the dashboard screen. It comes complete with green and red tracker lines, which predict the exact course of your move, but I still couldn't stop from checking for myself.
After the adventures of the Highlands, the Nissan and I returned to the city to visit Barlinnie Prison. The satnav had no listing for the great Glasgow penitentiary. I'm not sure what this says about the vehicle's prospective owners. In front of me stood the hulking presence of the grey stone walls while the little TV screen on the dashboard showed an "unknown road" leading into a void, which, I imagine, is how its residents must feel.
Sadly, it was almost time for the Nissan and I to part and it was with reluctance that I headed for the M8 and the road back to Edinburgh where she would fall into the hands of another. As an aficionado of Rock Radio, 96.3FM, I know that the signal for Glasgow's classic rock station fades just after Harthill service station, yet, as if anxious to bestow one last surprise the sweet, soothing sounds of Whitesnake and Meat Loaf, accompanied me, granted with rising static, into the heart of Edinburgh.
The full article contains 906 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
