Why old cars have souls.

A modern car can be astonishingly clever. It can park itself, tell you when you’re tired and warn you that a door is open using seven different electronic noises.

And sometimes it still feels like a washing machine with seats.

Then there’s an old car. It rattles. It smells faintly of petrol and yesterday. The heater has two settings — cold and disappointment — and you know exactly which sound means it’s about to do something expensive.

Yet that old car feels like it has a soul.

It’s not just nostalgia.

Nostalgia helps, obviously. But I think it’s also about difference.

A car becomes distinctive through years of use. You learn how it starts on a cold morning, which gear needs a gentle hand and what that mysterious little squeak means. There are journeys, repairs, arguments, successes and mistakes attached to it.

It has a history with you.

A new car may be objectively superior in safety, efficiency and reliability. But perfect operation isn’t the same as character.

Does the car actually feel anything?

I’ve no evidence that it does, and that’s not my claim.

I’m talking about the soul we recognise in it: the individuality and meaning created by its quirks and our memories. You don’t have to believe the carburettor is conscious to understand why somebody would grieve for a beloved machine.

The thought to take away

A soul, in this sense, isn’t always about what a thing can do. Sometimes it’s about what you’ve been through together.

Besides, a washing machine never took me on an adventure. It just ate a sock.