"Well, of course, my boy, if you persist in this folly you can't expect me to back you, financially or otherwise." That was that. I had sacrificed parental sympathy to an ambition. I had lost a father and gained, as my first car, a 1924 Red Label Bentley; dubious progress, I felt at the time. However, in my case the choice of car was inevitable, and my esteemed parent was, in part, to blame.

I had been nurtured in an atmosphere that loved the best in car design. As soon as I was strong enough to carry the heavy bound volumes of my father's carefully treasured Autocars; my eye became familiar with those proud leviathans of the 1920s, whose struggles at Sarthe, Brooklands and Belfast seemed so much in the epic tradition. As soon as I was able to read for myself, the fond volumes of "Sammy" Davis and Tim Birkin, their white overalls shining as armour, completely captured my schoolboy imagination. They were my heroes, these men who time and again rode those monstrous steeds, who time and again won the victor's laurels for the winged B, and carried the green of England's countryside supreme. Above all in my mind stood the architect, whose name the magnificent cars bore.

Thus you can realize that, when I first saw Le Camion lurking at the back of a Salisbury garage, it was not for me just a ponderous bulk under dust sheets. Dirty (she had been laid up for some time) and old. But to my eyes there was a halo, albeit somewhat askew, over the radiator cap.

Naturally the appeal of the marque in this modern age has changed. An old Bentley at Le Mans today would be pathetic. They are by no means economical. They are not a car for the lover of comfort. All this, when considering purchase, I told myself, and was told repeatedly by my concerned and well meaning family. The horrors of colossal maintenance costs, of unreliability amounting to danger, of the starkness of winter motoring-all I had detailed to me with the most minute precision. However, sentiment and stubbornness triumphed over reason. I bought the car and for good or ill became bound to the Bentley tradition by no small financial stake.

At length the car was mine. The cheques were cleared and Le Camion, newly taxed and insured, waited for me to take possession. A small group of my friends stood by watching, waiting, amused; and-such is human vanity-I hope no little impressed. My feelings, having had no experience of vintage motoring before this, my first solo, were a strange mixture. The thrill of ownership was tempered by unease; I was about to test a childhood dream: by respect, Le Camion was ten years my senior, and therefore warranted deferential treatment; and by fear, for the line of the car betokened a proud, wilful spirit, scornful of all but the most expert handling. The gear box, moreover, held for my imagination all the mystery of the unknown, and I was but newly through the driving test:

My friends were growing restless at my contemplation of this, my irrevocable act The "Moment of Truth'' could be postponed no longer.

As debonair as possible, I vaulted into the driving seat, there being no door on the off side. Anxious to make as little noise as possible, I held the clutch down for, it seemed, aeons, before moving the gear lever hesitantly forward.

Sweetly the gear moved home. Crisply the note of die exhaust rose as I accelerated. Harshly the engine juddered to a standstill as I let the clutch in.

Of course, I had forgotten to release the handbrake, so remote was it on the exterior of the scuttle. I carried off this set-back as well as I could, though not without the aid of a few expletives necessary to quell my by now jeering audience. On the second attempt, however, I moved off without a hitch, and with considerable dignity. It was not until out on the open road, with my skill improving, that I had at last the time and the confidence for reflection. The classic lines of Le Camion were indeed those of which I had dreamed, and the motion of this bulk of machinery delightfully lively, and directly and easily controllable.

The Bentley had become my reality. Fortunately I was in love with Le Camion. I had to be. I couldn't afford to be otherwise.

Familiarity breeds contempt. Bentley no longer inspires dreams of steering wheels jerking under blistering hands, of the roar of heavy cars circulating Le Mans with rev counter needles dipping sharply over the white vibrating figures, of a crashed and twisted 3-litre passing in 1927 the chequered flag. But this, after all, is the background of this fine breed, and the cars still do carry something of the atmosphere with them.

Particularly on a summer day, when the air is clear and the road, slightly dusty, is reflecting the heat-then the joy of motoring becomes real The verve of a thirty-year-old car performing like a colt is answered by an exhilaration in the blood.

These cars possess character. Their design conception is magnificent, with perfection evident in every component and in every hand reamed bolt-hole. The controls are hard and positive. One can feel under one's hands exactly how the car is behaving. I had never before encountered such admirable handling characteristics. It seems almost tragic that we have today, in so many cases, forsaken such soundness, if harshness, of design; a trend I can attribute only to the appearance of the woman driver.

The engine in its day must have been supremely efficient, and it still surprises me with its flexibility. Of the horrors of age I have found but few. Unfortunately the car did need a major repair. When bought, the valves were burned out, and bearings slack, but then Le Camion was cheap in relation to others of her marque. Since then the reliability has been unquestioned.

Minor repairs I am capable of performing myself. Spare parts are easily obtainable with the help of a club dedicated to the preservation of this species. Such indeed is die camaraderie of the club that I found, on leaving Le Camion outside an Edinburgh theatre, an invitation on the windscreen to contact a total stranger. Total? Well hardly. He owned a Bentley as well.

You know even father has a fond gleam whenever he sees Le Camion and asks if he may drive. Not that I always let him.