FAMILY CAR MEMORY: THE RENAULT R8

You rarely forget your first car, and mine was a 1964 Renault R8. However, that statement needs a certain amount of qualifying; a) it is the first car of which I have concrete memories, and b) back in 1973, it definitely belonged to my parents rather than me.

At that time, the R8s were not uncommon sights on British roads, and nor was its ‘long nose’ 10 Major successor. Renault devised the family as the eventual replacement for the 1956 Dauphine; the two models shared the same wheelbase. However, when the new model made its bow in June 1962, its cuboid styling could never be confused with its predecessor. There was also a new 956cc power plant and all-disc brakes; the latter was very unusual for a small car of that period.

When my family bought the R8, production was only just coming to an end in France (and would continue in Spain until 1976). Yet, it already felt like a car from an earlier epoch, partially in comparison with those neighbours who owned a Vauxhall Viva HC and partly because it had clearly endured a hard life. The upholstery smelt of boiled rubber, the engine clanked, and the paint had the patina of a vehicle that had spent too many months resting in a lean-to shed.

Meanwhile, the electrical system was especially dubious; pressing the master switch might result in one headlamp slowly illuminating, followed by the offside unit in its own sweet time. In fact, my father had purchased the Renault from ‘a friend’, and it was my mother who drove it with aplomb. The R8 may have once shed its rear nearside door in the car park of Burridge Post Office, and the front bumper was always the verge of falling off, but it was undoubtedly her car

The R8 became a regular sight on the road to Southampton every Wednesday, staggering up Providence Hill to the suburb of Bitterne, where my mother ran a playgroup. Then, come midday and the R8 would croak into life for the journey back to rural Hampshire, where the Commer Walk-Thru mobile shop was the highlight of the week. Sometimes the trip back home might be delayed for a visit to the epicurean delights of Sainsbury’s.

The Renault was eventually swapped for a Morris Minor 1000 Traveller, probably acquired by my father from the very same ‘friend’. That R8 has probably long been turned into kitchenware. But the memories of the stiff white plastic catches for the sliding rear windows, the driver’s handbook wishing the owner “happy motoring” abide. And it more than lived up to the Autocar review praising a “thoroughly mature and well-planned little car with good manners and a friendly character”.

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