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© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC -
© Tony Baker/C&SC
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Battle of the barge part 3: the 1970s!
The 1970s was an era of increased homogeny, yet in the world of large luxury saloons there was more choice than ever. This was a last hurrah before the snob value of Teutonic engineering began to muscle out the traditional luxobarge. The move towards compact saloons began with the Rover and Triumph 2000s, cars that conjured images of young managers thrusting along new motorways, but foreign brands enjoyed increasing success with six-cylinder models that sold on the basis of value, or of being somehow ‘better’ because they weren’t British.
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Rover 3500S
Although the P6 was almost a decade old by the time the manual ‘S’ appeared in 1971, the Rover maintained an air of superiority over more superficial rivals. That two here are from the same British Leyland stable shows how confused was the big-car line-up of the soon to be state-owned giant. Personally, I like the original 3500 – or Three Thousand Five as it was called at first – and find the post-1970 jazzy wheeltrims, plastic grille and bonnet bulge a little beneath the car’s dignity.
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Rover 3500S
From the inside it feels quite narrow and close-coupled, and it’s a strict four-seater with those pleasing, individually sculpted rear seats. The doors shut beautifully, plus it has highly effective face-level ventilation and ergonomically crafted light/wiper controls that feel different to the touch and glow a soft green at night. It says everything about the P6 that it is the only one here that is used every day by its owner, who calculated that it would be cheaper to run than a modern car.
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Rover 3500S
The 3500S is really more what used to be called a ‘sports saloon’ than a barge. It rides softly and roll builds quickly, but the optional power steering makes the Rover feel wieldy. I can’t help thinking the automatic better suits the car’s character, but with an SD1-sourced five-speed the 3500S has a long and relatively economical gait. Even without the pulling power and refinement of 3.5 litres and eight cylinders, the Rover was a beautifully planned car that makes you ask, where did it all go wrong?
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Volvo 164
Volvo built long-lasting, rugged four-cylinder cars for sensible types who liked hiking and folk singing, so the appearance of the suave 164 in 1968 would have been somewhat perplexing for the usual Volvo customer. Six thirsty cylinders, leather seats and power steering would have been an affront to their puritan sensibilities, but from Volvo’s point of view it was a way to tap into a wealthier market with a car that had all of the marque’s usual virtues, plus some refinement and luxury.
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Volvo 164
I always thought the pre-impact-bumper 144s were rather handsome and the 164, with its big square grille, looks strong and distinguished. The ribbon speedo and column shifter for the Borg-Warner auto give a flavour of the ’60s, but the latter blunts the effortless cruising ability that would have made the four-speed plus overdrive, with its pleasing change, a more versatile option. The seats are comfortable and hold you well as the body roll builds, and understeer takes the fun out of enthusiastic cornering activity.
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Volvo 164
The 164 wasn’t a revolutionary vehicle. By stretching the nose of the 144 to accept a six-cylinder version of the B20 engine, the Swedes created a classic barge. It is a big, sensible car that doesn’t tempt you to do anything rash behind its big, sensible wheel. Being an early, non-injected version, this example offers performance that is smoothly adequate rather than inspiring, with a remote but powerful thrum from an engine that was never used in any other Volvo; subsequent prestige models used the ‘Douvrin’ V6.
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Ford Granada 3.0 Ghia
Launched in the spring of 1972, the Granada was important because it gave Ford a flagship fit for comparison with almost anything, rather than a big car that was acceptable merely because it was good value. Many much more expensive cars struggled to match the Granada’s high standards. The MkIV Zodiac had been one of Ford GB’s more public mistakes; with the Granada, Ford sought to re-establish its big-car reputation with a more internationally acceptable design that would be sold across Europe.
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Ford Granada 3.0 Ghia
Strictly speaking, ‘our’ Granada should have been a 3000GXL, or maybe a Consul GT, because the 3.0 Ghia option, with its cloth trim and fresh fascia, was a late development in the story of the fondly remembered Mk1 Granada. Bullishly handsome in an angular way, its front end gets more identity from the Ghia grille, but the GXL has much kitsch appeal as a throwback to the aspirations of the early ’70s. The Ghia looks almost excessively tasteful with its broad cloth seats and restrained wood trim.
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Ford Granada 3.0 Ghia
Although it shares its Essex V6 with the old Zodiac/Executive, the Granada is in a different world of assured cornering power, pleasingly direct steering and general stability. It has a soft ride yet it doesn’t wallow, and feels so grown-up and capable that it was clearly designed with the Jaguar XJ6 as a benchmark. It is a lot livelier than a Zodiac, too, with an earthy V6 throb as it winds out on loafing torque via the C3 auto ’box.
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Wolseley Six
This was the ultimate ‘Landcrab’, designed to appease those buyers who would have bought an Austin Westminster or 3 Litre. It took the Alec Issigonis concept of a transverse-engined, front-driven and hydrolastically suspended saloon to its fullest extent, with the new option of six-cylinder, 2.2-litre motor. The Wolseley seems the most at odds with our contemporary conception of what a big saloon should look like; the traditional grille gives the bodyshell a more attractive countenance, but generally this shape – admirably stiff and strong – resisted attempts at beautification.
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Wolseley Six
The short nose and tail leave a huge amount of room inside, with those in the rear faring particularly well: the legroom puts most modern big saloons to shame, especially in relation to the relatively modest outer dimensions. The low fascia and Mini-like angle of the large steering wheel feel unfamiliar, and that wood veneer contradicts Issigonis’ austere conception of a practical people-hauler.
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Wolseley Six
The engine performs smoothly but sounds rather pedestrian, although the gearchange is better than the ‘stirring a bucket of bricks’ imagery the earlier 1800 inspires. Heavy steering spoiled lesser versions of the ADO17, but in the Six it feels super-light, low-geared and lacking in feel, and thus masks the basically sound capabilities of a front-drive chassis that hangs on well. The Wolseley badge means little today, but in the early ’70s it still equalled refined fittings and affordable luxury.
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Vauxhall Ventora
Safety legislation outlawed production of Vauxhall’s Cresta and Viscount in 1972, but their 3.3-litre straight-six lived on in the FE Victor bodyshell as the Ventora. ‘Fully equipped’ and costing £230 more than the VX4/90, the Ventora was something of a curiosity because it was thirstier but no faster than its four-cylinder sibling. It appealed to customers who put a high value on smoothness, quietness and effortless torque – its 174lb ft peaked at just 2600rpm.
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Vauxhall Ventora
The Ventora is handsome and the RoStyle wheels, vinyl roof and quad lamps give it an air of suburban one-upmanship. The synthetic luxury continues inside with token wood veneer and all the instruments you’d ever need in a fascia that slopes self-consciously away. The centre console, that status symbol of the ’70s, flows between over-styled front seats and the Ventora feels like a piece of social history, a postcard from a time when our needs were modest.
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Vauxhall Ventora
I have always liked this friendly straight-six engine, and in automatic form it has an easy time. Gearchanges are imperceptible and there is a pleasing surge to the acceleration, although it is running out of breath by 4000rpm. The sheer weight of that ‘six’ rather dictates the dominant understeer of the Ventora. Still, there’s enough torque to kick out the back end and to some extent the power steering masks the tendency to plough on.
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Audi 100LS
Audi was a relatively young marque in the early ’70s, the name revived after decades dormant within the DKW/Auto Union group. When VW bought Mercedes’ share in 1965, it inherited the Super 90, powered by a four-stroke Benz-designed engine. The 100 was essentially a longer, lower, wider version of the 90, using the same mechanical ingredients in a more handsome five-seater body. That this 1.7-litre, four-cylinder car can stand comparison with six-cylinder rivals of up to 3 litres shows the quality of the design.
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Audi 100LS
The shape showed the direction in which Audi was heading. Neither as majestic as a Mercedes nor as aggressive as a BMW, it looks clean, neat and sensible. It has aged more gracefully than most of the others, and is less obviously an ‘old car’. If the over-styled, pretentious cabins of some of the more jumped-up barges here are an instant turn-off, then the calculated simplicity of the Audi’s interior, with its general air of Teutonic harmony, no ugly materials or tacky finishes, will have instant appeal.
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Audi 100LS
Behind the wheel, it doesn’t have the immediate satisfaction of the Rover or Triumph. The tappety, rather harsh ‘four’ needs to be revved hard to extract performance, and the experience isn’t helped by the sharp clutch. Front-wheel drive should make the Audi a relatively modern experience, and it does have a feeling of stability, but the heavy steering requires four turns between locks, adding to the sense that you have to put more effort into driving the 100LS than you really want to.
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Triumph 2.5 PI
Handsome and lusty, the 2.5 PI has something of the character of a bargain BMW and shows how sound the better products of the reviled Leyland empire were. The Mk2 was one of those rare styling updates that really freshened the look of Michelotti’s still nicely proportioned six-light shape, extending its life into the late ’70s, and the Lucas mechanically fuel-injected version is the ultimate development of the theme.
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Triumph 2.5 PI
Outwardly, this Triumph seems strikingly compact in a world where even modest family saloons are so bloated, yet it is roomy inside and flooded with light. The wooden fascia, with its segmented cluster of warning lights, was one of the best planned you’d have found in almost any c1970 car, although ultimately the PI lacks the detail interior refinement of the Rover.
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Triumph 2.5 PI
The Triumph is dynamic and driver-pleasing in character, with eager and punchy thrust from a straight-six whose howl suggests something more exotic. With overdrive on third and top, there are six ratios with which to play tunes and third could take you from 20 to 100mph. One cannot especially delight in the Triumph’s harsh and notchy gearchange, but the PI’s power-rack steering is more direct than most of its ilk and that you can set your cornering attitude to neat or lurid on demand.
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Datsun Skyline 240K GT
Datsun introduced the 2.4-litre Skyline in ’73 to plug the gap between the Laurel and 260C. It was great value, but the market didn’t buy into big Japanese cars in the way it did smaller ones, so 240Ks were rare in the UK. With its high, curvy waistline and big circular tail-lights, it looks like a late-’60s American car, yet it has an appeal of its own – the charm of cheap friction toys, where the picture on the box looked better than the car inside.
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Datsun Skyline 240K GT
The point about ’70s Japanese cars was that they came with everything you could expect for the price, and the 240K GT lives up to this with seven instruments on its pseudo-sporty dash. Injection-moulded plastics are used unremittingly, but there are surprisingly few of the florid embossed finishes that were a trademark of ’70s Japanese cars. Thick rear quarters and low-set seating make the cabin slightly oppressive.
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Datsun Skyline 240K GT
If you were being generous, you could describe the 240K as a four-door 240Z. It has that car’s straight-six, albeit in 130bhp form with single rather than twin carburettors. More to the point, it has an overhead camshaft and an independent rear end by semi-trailing arms, but these tend to raise expectations of a car that lacks something in personality. There is nothing especially ‘GT’ about the 240, which has adequate rather than urgent pace, shackled by a perfectly smooth automatic ’box.