Right now, I feel sad. In an automotive way. I recently sold our first car in a long time that I had some sort of emotional attachment to. What I felt was more than just a means to get from A to B. The kind of machine you looked back at multiple times after you parked it, just to get another glimpse of it and an opportunity to enjoy the feeling—and thought that you could own it one more time.

The vehicle in question was my beautiful 1989 Bentley Turbo R, finished in Balmoral Green over tan leather. One of the last truly hand-built British cars, sharing a chassis with Rolls-Royce and even having a RR VIN plate to prove it. It was in original condition, which meant that it looked great in pictures. But on closer inspection, you could see the paint peeling off here and there, and the consequences of being moved and parked in salty British seaside air for 35 years were clearly present throughout.

Still, I loved it.

I loved the way it drove—never really revving above 3,000rpm because the 6.75-liter V8 turbo had so much torque. I loved the way it smelled, too. There is nothing like the scent of old British cars, with the combination of wood and leather (plus, usually some hints of gasoline and oil) inviting you to breathe in deeply and let your mind wander back to a time when Britain used to be a proper country. An era when London was filled with fine gentlemen and sophisticated ladies who would have pulled up outside the Ritz or the Dorchester in a motorcar like this to have afternoon tea, the doorman racing to greet them as soon as the majestic grille appeared at the end of the driveway.

You now probably think that I must be super posh to have owned a Bentley, but the truth is that certain models are surprisingly cheap back in Britain and the Isle of Man, where I owned mine for a while. I didn’t really pay anything for it as I straight swapped it for our old BMW i3, but if I had bought it, the price tag would have been around the £6,000 (P480,000) mark. Peanuts for a car that had a sticker price of £115,000 (P9,130,000) back when it was new—which, when adjusted for inflation, translates to around £300,000 (P23,800,000) in today’s money.

Granted, there’s no such thing as a cheap Bentley (or Porsche or Ferrari or any other kind of luxury car). If you bought it cheap, you’d likely get hammered with high maintenance and parts bills that would make your eyes water and may require a five-story basement to store all the cash you’d have to spend on it. I didn’t put much money in it while I owned it, which is why I’m not too sad about the low price I got for it when I sold it at an auction. It’s gone, and that’s the sad thing for me.

In no way was Marge the Barge—as I lovingly called her—a sensible car, but it was a clear case of simply having to buy a vehicle that I grew up around and could only dream of owning back then when the opportunity randomly arose. The automotive luxury pecking order in 1980s Germany was pretty clear: The sporty middle-aged executive drove a BMW 7-Series, the (usually elderly) millionaire drove a Mercedes-Benz S-Class, and the really, really rich drove a Bentley or a Rolls-Royce. Someone once told me that if you were properly super rich, you’d have a Bentley for every day driving and a Roller for special occasions. You get the idea of the type of automotive stratosphere these vehicles and their owners moved in. A realm that was unreachable for mere mortals like myself.

There wasn’t even a Bentley dealer in my hometown, but quite a few British luxury cars due to the place being a bit of a hideout for the ultra-wealthy. So, I saw a fair number of Turbo Rs and other cars from Crewe wafting around, and they always turned heads. Marge also still turned heads, but for different reasons. Back when she was new, people would have looked because her mere appearance indicated ostentatious wealth and possibly someone famous or royal floating into town.

These days, her advanced age gives her a charming, almost friendly appearance. Still posh, but in a way that most people seem to like and greet with a smile. And that’s also why I think modern cars simply lack soul. We just bought a brand-new Toyota pickup (partially financed with the proceeds from Marge’s sale), and while it’s lovely and nice, it doesn’t have soul.

I never feel the urge to just go downstairs and sit in it, breathe in the cabin air, or run my hand over the dashboard like I did with Marge. The Toyota is perfect, built by robots and finely machined to within a fraction of an inch. The Bentley was also perfect, but it was handmade perfection. Imperfectly perfect, if you want. Even after 35 years, the wood veneers were still beautiful; the leather on the seats, the dash and the various other bits wore its age with pride; and the ride comfort continued to be regal. But you could always tell that human hands assembled it.

Sure, our new Hilux might be more reliable, more economical, and a whole lot more modern, but it doesn’t have character. It doesn’t make you feel special when you get inside and drive it around town. It doesn’t make me look back at it after I park it. It’s just a car. Nobody will turn around and look at it when it drives past—not now and certainly not in 35 years’ time. And that, for me, is the difference between a mere car and a true old-school automobile that touches your heart.

So, when you get the opportunity at some point in your life to get that car you’ve always wanted, listen to your heart and do it. You’ll regret not doing it more than just going for it, I promise.