From February till July the car had covered less than 400 miles, spending most of the time wrapped in an expensive fitted, breathable cover in its dry garage. Time to justify its existence. We decided to go on a camping holiday, not to Normandy but to "the land of pizzas". Five people and camping gear fitted fine, but the clearance in the rear wheel-arches concerned me, particularly as what I saw included only four of the people in the car with the heaviest not in the car. Those sports Bilsteins make a difference, as do the pneumatic spring-assistors that I fitted to the GL. I did not enjoy the swish of the rear mudflaps as we gently negotiated each 'sleeping police officer' (must try to be PC). The car went beautifully for most of the trip. My youngest son Peter is no respecter of pristine classic Saabs and threw up not once but three times. Fortunately I had covered the unmarked upholstery with towels, in anticipation of such an event. What I did not anticipate was the need to clean vomit from the inside of the windscreen and the back window. Can I hear the value of my car plummeting? Fortunately, miraculously he seemed to have missed the headlining completely, yes, there is a God.

Climbing the Col. of the Grand San Bernard, the children wanted to go the hard way, forsaking the convenience and comfort of the tunnel for the chance to see and touch some snow. The tight hairpins did not suit the power curve of the Turbo, or was it my inexperience? The engine needs a couple of thousand revs before any boost is delivered and the slow speed necessary to safely and comfortably negotiate the hairpins were not complimentary, requiring more cog-swapping than I had been used to. At this point I was unaware that my front engine mounting bolts were quite loose, but there seemed to be something wrong, which I mistakenly thought was a clutch problem. Fortunately we did find a nice patch of snow, and the subsequent snowball fight made up for Peter's reaction to the hairpins, which was to throw up again.

Of all the places I could think of where I would like to take a beautiful classic car, the streets of Firenze (or should it be shortened to 'Frenzy'?) filled with rush hour traffic is not one of them. How aptly named is the Vespa (wasp)? It seemed that we were caught in an angry swarm of them. Our map was as hopeless as the signposting and we arrived at the campsite quite late and with very little fuel.

The campsite at Fiesole, overlooking Firenze (Florence) was beautifully set on the tree-covered hilltop. We were pleased about the shade, but I was not so ecstatic about the likely dripping of sticky substances onto my rather dusty green car.

Surprisingly I wanted some rain to gently wash some of the dust off my car, but the continuous three-day downpour on our return through Switzerland was rather more than I had hoped for. At least there were none of those infamous hailstones. Returning through France I came across a new British-registered Scenic which looked as though it had been bombarded with pebbles (not to be confused with that delightful town in the Tweed Valley).

So after half a year of relative inactivity our new car had covered five thousand kilometers in less than three weeks, and apart from what I took to be a possible clutch problem, it had proved itself to be a very comfortable and fast long-distance mile-eater (or should that be kilometer-eater? No, that doesn't sound right). My disappointment at not having a sports car had been replaced by my respect for its grand-touring abilities. If one has to travel, why not do it in real style? If only the pneumatic spring-assistors were still available.

And now for the postscript. The weekend following our safe return was the SEC National at Cotton. Enough time to clean the car inside and out, it was hardly worth unpacking the camping equipment. We arrived at the campsite after sunset and I was eager to get the tents pitched before darkness descended. What I did not anticipate was the clouds of steam from the engine as I switched off. A quick glance at the temperature gauge was alarming. The fan had not cut in. Insulated screwdriver across the switch produced not a flicker. The first thing I did was boil up a kettle of water to put in the cooling system, no time for hot drinks. Two small camping-kettlefuls replaced the lost coolant," not too bad" I hoped.

If you plan to break down, then a SEC camp is not a bad choice. The combined experience and wisdom gathered round the stricken Saab would be hard to match, let alone beat. Thanks to Chris, Glen, Jeff and the others whose names I have forgotten. First came the disappointment to find that the electrical connections were sound, an easy fix if it had just been a poor or corroded contact. Glen suggested tapping the fan in case the brushes were stuck. What is the appropriate expression? "Hey Presto!" I suppose it sounds rather Italian. It was during this investigation process that the loose engine-mount bolts were spotted and retightened. The "cognoscenti" (getting a bit carried away with the Italiano) were also concerned about the weeping water pump. I had been aware of a small leak, but as the car had not lost any significant amount of water in five thousand kilometers (until the ignominious brew-up), I had not really thought urgent action was required. Being familiar with H-engine water pumps, I was quite relaxed about a slight weeping, but it was pointed out that with the B-engine design, leaking seals allowing coolant to mix with engine oil could cause major weeping (we are talking real tears). To cheer me up, I was informed that these infamous pumps are no longer available from Saab, and even if I could get my dirty hands on one, the operation is so tricky that my dirty hands would do more damage than good.

A telephone call to Highgate Saab cheered me up. They could sell me a new pump. Next step: find someone with the correct tools and experience to fit it. I called a well-known and long established Saab dealer in North London who have always been welcoming to owners of older models, but their quote of 286 pounds for labour was not encouraging. Then I remembered that someone had recommended Howe Engineering, a specialist not too far from where we live. I was more concerned that they had all the correct tools, but they were very reassuring, quoting 100 pounds plus VAT. They did an excellent job. They were also very impressed by the condition of the car.

I have recently made contact with Jonas Nordstrom, of the 99 Turbo Association. He tells me that he came very close to buying my car, before Sonja claimed it. I gather that he was just a little miffed. At the moment he is looking to buy a 2-door turbo, he already owns a couple of 3-door ones, and he is looking on the British market, where all the last ones were sold. He really wants a black one if possible, as they are very rare in Sweden, where most of them are green or blue.

Alan Courtney

Note: Part I of this article apeared in the March 2004 issue of the Saab Enthusiast magazine

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