It’s hardly news that Germany and the automobile have a pretty tight relationship. From Bertha Benz’s pioneering first road trip to the relentless industrial output of today, it is a country that doesn’t even have its own word for “petrol-head”, so presumed is an underlying affinity for the car.

My mother, a proud Westphalian with seemingly little interest in the subject, has a strange attachment to her ten year old Volkswagen Touran that belies a purely functional engagement, with a level of pride in possession more commonly associated with the more glamorous offerings of Northern Italy. Whether it’s my mother’s utilitarian beast, a lovingly (even if somewhat dubiously) modified M3, or the ubiquitous bug-eyed E-Class taxi, they all garner the same levels of affection from their petroleum-infused German owners.

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