75-year-old stars – game-changing cars of 1948

Riding a wave of post-war optimism

There was nowhere to go but forwards after the Second World War, and those returning home armed with the ideas and technologies born out of it were primed to forge a decisive new era.

The motor industry held promises of the exciting advances made in the world’s first truly mechanised global conflict and, at 1948’s returning motor shows, the public saw what the next generation of motoring would look like.

Unveiled at London’s Earls Court, the Morris Minor and Jaguar XK120; in Paris, the Citroën 2CV; in Amsterdam, the pioneering Land-Rover; in Turin, the Ferrari 166; and outside Ferdinand Porsche’s house (and finally Geneva a year later), the 356.

Each would steer the automotive landscape in ways not envisaged by even the most imaginative of their creators, and many more great cars followed in their inspired tracks.

To celebrate these trendsetting stars of 1948, we gathered early examples of each at the historic Goodwood Motor Circuit, itself also marking its 75th anniversary this year, to remind ourselves of where so much began.

Colombo’s masterclass

“Stop fussing around changing up at 4000rpm, let it rev to six,” encourages owner Clive Beecham.

“You can’t truly appreciate it without using the revs.”

Such trust in one of the most famous early Ferraris is surprising, but he’s right: only then does the performance really open up.

Giant killer

The way the 2-litre V12 pulls through its advanced five-speed ’box, accompanied by a glorious thoroughbred rasp from ingegnere Gioacchino Colombo’s racing heart, is wonderful now, but 75 years ago when the 166MM barchetta was launched, it must have been a revelation.

Against the post-war trend for torquey, large-capacity engines such as its Talbot-Lago rival, the first Maranello production model heralded a new age of responsive, high-revving lightweights.

The 140bhp 2-litre quickly proved it could match killer pace with dependable reliability in the greatest sports car challenges with Luigi Chinetti and Clemente Biondetti.

A new look

The V12 became a headline feature of the greatest Ferraris, but the 166MM’s chassis, steering and brakes all complement its eager power.

The Latin roadster has superb cornering balance, and even rough Sussex roads fail to unsettle this early post-war jewel.

The new model had a signature look to match its superb pace, thanks to the talents of Carlo Felice Bianchi Anderloni and Federico Formenti at Touring.

The earliest Ferraris lacked glamour, with unresolved, functional bodies, but the Milanese carrozzeria created a look that gave the young marque a fresh face.

Bold barchetta

The simple, enveloping shape had a muscular aura, with wheels tightly filling the arches, but the way the flanks curved subtly under the chassis gave the barchetta a singular style.

Novel details such as a low ’screen, bold trim stitching and fantastic tail-lights that Dalí could have painted all embellished the masterful shape.

The impact of the 166MM’s debut at the 1948 Turin show resulted in extensive press for Ferrari.

Cream of the crop

Among those smitten was 27-year-old Giovanni Agnelli, the Italian industrialist and international playboy with a huge allowance to spend.

With his family links to Fiat, Agnelli’s determination to own the new V12 sports car was not approved of, but story has it he made secret visits in disguise to Carrozzeria Touring in Milan to discuss the build.

Agnelli had a sharp eye for style, and the bespoke details he ordered for chassis 0064M made it arguably the most beautiful of the 25 built.

Where other customers prioritised performance for competition, Agnelli was forbidden to race so his focus was more on glamour.

Best-kept secret

Changes included a long bonnet with leather strap and no air scoop, a lower ’screen and a unique grille emphasising the horizontal bars.

But it was the inspired two-tone metallic blue/green paint scheme that gave 0064M its distinctive identity.

How much Agnelli drove his first Ferrari isn’t recorded.

The car remained a secret from his family and no pictures of his ownership have been found, but he loved driving the 166MM.

Lightweight thrills

“It was light and agile, easy to drive and it gave that unforgettable feeling of the air flowing around your body when you drove fast,” he recalled.

“The chest was out of the car and the sound of the engine was fantastic since there was no silencing.

“I was used to driving Bugattis but the Ferrari was completely different, a new generation of motor cars.”

The lack of roof or tonneau gave the Agnelli 166 a pure, unadulterated style with no fittings to spoil Anderloni’s crisp styling.

Next chapter

“The car could only be used in good weather,” said Agnelli, but what an amazing experience it must have been for a warm night drive up the Passo San Marco or along the Côte d’Azur to a secret retreat.

After his right leg was shattered in an accident, when his Fiat estate collided with a truck at night, the Ferrari was sold because Agnelli found it difficult to drive.

Confirming its impressive performance, 0064M began an active competition life piloted by some of the greatest Belgian Ferrari drivers including Olivier Gendebien and Jean ‘Beurlys’ Blaton.

Racing heart

When Clive first saw the 166 at that Florence exhibition, he was seduced by its beauty and for years he tried unsuccessfully to convince Swaters to sell.

After his death, the family made contact and the famous car came to London.

Although a regular at top events, 0064M is no trailer queen: as well as three Mille Miglias (one for Swaters and two for Clive), the Ferrari has regularly returned to Italy, where its signature exhaust yowl is always applauded by the locals.

The enduring appeal of the 166MM goes far beyond its looks, because it’s such a fantastic driver’s car. To win the Mille Miglia, Spa 24 Hours and Le Mans takes a very special machine.

Influential style

Few styles have been so copied as the first Ferrari barchetta.

All-enveloping sports cars weren’t radical in ’48, but Touring gave its streamlined form a purposeful clarity in a seductive package.

John Tojeiro and AC copied this Latin masterpiece down to its front ‘moustache’ detail; the Ace later impressed Carroll Shelby, and well into the ’60s its links are clear in the Cobra’s shape.

Donald Healey credited Anderloni’s design as an influence on the Healey 100, too.

Other carrozzerie created more beautiful or refined bodies, but Touring’s 166 was Ferrari’s first successful series and tempted US buyers, confirming to Enzo that exotic road cars could fund his racing ambitions.

Citroën’s back-to-basics legend

Austerity is a word rarely associated with great fun, but in focusing only on what is strictly necessary, this astoundingly spartan early ‘ripple bonnet’ Citroën 2CV is one of the most enjoyable cars in today’s group – despite sporting just two cylinders and 12bhp.

It’s also the oldest design here, too.

While the 2CV made its official debut in 1948 as a new post-war design, its development had begun before the war with the Très Petite Voiture (TPV, or ‘very little car’) prototypes, the first of which was built in 1937.

Pure rationality

After a hiatus during hostilities, the 2CV switched from water- to air-cooling, and from an aluminium body to steel, but that pre-war head start was how Citroën managed to put an entirely new car on display at the Paris Salon in 1948 – and not one major component was shared with an existing model.

Reception to the new car was mostly derogatory from the press, but Citroën’s order books swelled straight away.

The appetite for cheap transport in France was voracious – the vast majority of its pre-war fleet of cars had been destroyed, with many having defaulted back to horses and carts.

Simple seats

We all know Pierre Boulanger’s basic brief: for a car to mobilise the French peasantry, and one with the suspension required to traverse France’s then dreadful, in parts war-torn, road network.

Economy of purchase and ownership were the foremost concerns in nearly every aspect of the 2CV.

But there’s delight in that purity, be it the tiny door latches – a simple sliding bar that holds the door to the inner lip of the aperture and allows a slight gap of daylight around the panel – or the deckchair-style seats, with thin cushions on top of visible elastic webbing.

Tin snail

The engine, too, air-cooled and at first just 375cc, can be partially rebuilt in situ in just a few hours and, at the sort of low speeds intended for it, is parsimonious with fuel.

Yet there is real sophistication to the 2CV, too.

Most famously in the soft, long-travel suspension, interconnected front to back, which gives the little car limousine-like ride comfort.

Charming details

It is made of baking-tray-thin steel, roughly put together, so it does rattle over poor surfaces, and the engine is never quiet, either, but the compliant ride makes even long drives in the Deux Chevaux relaxing where other economy cars would be tiring.

Unlike its later siblings, however, the ‘tin snail’ does all of this without verging into overcomplexity.

While most 2CVs could do with a bit of extra lubrication (they are not supposed to squeak over bumps), the robust system of coil springs in tubes does without more sophisticated Citroëns’ pumps and metres of pipework, and copes well with the stereotypically French nonchalance towards automobile servicing.

Thoughtful touches

It’s not just the suspension, though: the front brakes are inboard, which seems at odds with the resolutely unsporting nature of the 2CV, but reducing unsprung weight brings benefits to ride comfort.

Then there’s the full-length ventilation flap under the ’screen, which is as close to air-conditioning as you’ll get without a compressor.

While the 2CV is relentlessly rational, it picks its moments to add touches of genius: no extras or luxuries, but improving the user experience via good engineering.

Evolution not revolution

The wonderfully patinated example with us today, owned by Allan Lloyd, is a 1957 2CV AZLP, a model that added a few further conveniences – mainly a whopping 3bhp increase, with the engine growing to 425cc, but also a centrifugal clutch.

Reflecting the fact that by the late 1950s Citroën was finally producing enough 2CVs for domestic consumption, so sales didn’t have to be limited to those with travelling rural professions such as doctors, vets and tradesmen, this ‘Traficlutch’ allowed easier driving in cities.

The car is able to come to a halt and set off without the clutch needing to be depressed, so you only need to use the third pedal when you’re moving the gearlever.

Jump inside

It works reasonably well, and does ease left-leg fatigue in a traffic jam, though it isn’t great for low-speed manoeuvring and wouldn’t have done much to improve the reputation of French parking, either.

The car must be revved for the clutch to engage, making very small movements difficult and giving it a tendency to ‘kangaroo’ on light throttle openings.

The other fundamentals of the Citroën are on point.

Push, pull and rotate

The brakes are unassisted drums, but nonetheless feel up to the task of stopping the featherweight car, and the pedal operation is spot-on.

The steering, an early rack-and-pinion set-up, is a delight and adds to a chuckable feeling, despite the inevitable body roll thanks to the soft suspension.

The push, pull and rotate gearshift, common to many mid-century French cars, is easy to get the hang of after a matter of minutes, though consistently achieving quick changes takes more practice.

A lesson in functional design

Going on to enjoy one of the longest-ever production runs, at 42 years, the 2CV didn’t just become an icon of French motoring, but of France itself – even if it was eventually outsold by the Renault 4.

It is the 2CV, not the clearly derivative R4, that is now regarded as one of the great manifestations of the intellectual drive and avant-garde spirit for which the world loves French design.

Like few other cars, perhaps only rivalled by the Ford Model T, the 2CV embodies an entire philosophy – and it just so happens to be an object of utter joy as well.

Road to the Dolly

With demand exceeding supply, updates to the 2CV were slow: a locking metal boot came in ’57, and by ’60 the ‘ripple bonnet’ had been replaced and C-pillar windows added.

Myriad specs led to a baffling array of models, with cheaper versions often continuing older body styles or engines.

Capacity grew over time, with a 425cc unit from ’55, while the development of the Ami and Dyane, both 2CV-derived, led to the 435cc 2CV4 and 602cc 2CV6.

The off-road Méhari, Fourgonette van and twin-engined 4x4 Safari offered further variation.

In the ’80s, Citroën embraced its growing retro appeal with two-tone Charleston and Dolly editions, before production ended in 1990.

Ready to pounce

William Lyons was a man of high ambition, but grounded in the business reality of managing priorities.

At the top of his list in 1945, and that of his team of gifted engineers including Bill Heynes, Walter Hassan and Claude Bailey, was producing a 100mph luxury saloon car that would match his higher-priced rivals.

He probably had good reason to quietly believe he’d beat them, too.

Flowing lines

Desks at the Holbrook Lane works were covered with plans for a new, monocoque saloon powered by a sophisticated straight-six with hemispherical combustion chambers in a double-overhead-cam aluminium head.

With Lyons’ trademark style and commercial daring, a best-seller was in the making.

But another project stirred in the background.

To make the first run of post-war motor shows while the MkVII saloon development ran on, Lyons indulged his affinity for low, rakish lines with an aluminium body over a shortened MkV chassis with the new XK ‘six’ fitted in the nose.

Commercial success

Suspension was by wishbones locating torsion bars up front, with leaf springs at the rear, and Lockheed hydraulic drum brakes all round.

With the assistance of Fred Gardner, the ash-framed ‘Super Sports’ went from concept to reality in just a matter of weeks.

Perhaps Lyons didn’t have time to realise just what an impact it would make at Earls Court in October 1948.

Nor did the newly renamed Jaguar have time to respond to the overwhelming demand that resulted.

The only option

It took nearly two years for XK120s with production-friendly steel structures and bodies – though the doors, bootlid and bonnet remained aluminium – to flow out of Coventry in real volume.

The starting price was a modest £1263, for a proven 126mph car, but you still had to be lucky, wealthy and, ideally, American to own one of the first 200 made.

It’s difficult to consider those who owned the remaining 11,861 steel cars as anything other than extraordinarily lucky, too, particularly when you catch sight of Dave Nursey’s silver 1951 example: “It was 1975 and I was looking at either a big Healey 3000, a Daimler SP250 or the XK, but I had a conversation with Philip Porter at Shelsley Walsh and he said ‘Forget the others, go for the Jag’.”

Summer road trips

Dave, then aged 24, echoed the image that had been drawn around the XK120: that of a younger generation of sports-car-mad drivers, attending and often taking part in competition events.

“I ran it every summer, and sparingly in the winter, including trips to Le Mans in 1982 and ’83,” says Dave, though it was then only as his transport, rather than laying rubber on the track.

“And I have never used the roof,” he adds.

A refined drivetrain

It glides, just as its flowing lines would suggest, and its clean disc wheels, hidden at the rear behind steel spats, spin as silent partners in its refined drivetrain.

The engine hums, and the driver feels duty-bound to take care with each gear, slotting in with rev-matching finesse.

Delicate steering inputs have the XK120 almost sailing around Goodwood’s green circuit.

Grace and pace

You can imagine the same in the British countryside or in the glamorous setting of the California coastline.

But with a well-marked apex and a straight lined up ahead of its curved wings and bonnet, the temptation to recreate the hard-charging, canyon-carving antics of those early owners is impossible to resist.

The hum quickly turns into a snarl when the twin SU carburettors are opened fully, and the XK120 gains pace with sparkling energy.

A peach to drive

So smooth is the delivery and so gratifying the exhaust note that you are easily teased into rushing for another gear, but the Moss ’box does need a moment.

“It just becomes instinctive,” says Dave, and when you master the timing, gears do slot home with a sense of finely honed tightness.

You approach the handling with a similar appreciation of timing and delicacy.

Classy cabin

Perched, it feels, on the edge of veering eagerly into whichever direction you hint at, the Jaguar is almost nervously light.

But dial in lock at a considered rate and it settles reassuringly into a long-striding sweep of whichever line you care to tailor with the throttle.

Sensations of the road build subtly through the controls, as if by warming up it really is transforming into its remembered club-racer identity.

A lasting legacy

Leading the second chapter in the world’s love affair with sports cars, the XK120 became far more than an engine showcase.

It inspired an appreciation of the genre beyond the driving goggles of pre-war racers, stirred a movement powerful enough to almost rival the sales of its more commercial saloon siblings, and created a legacy that has filtered down to today’s F-type.

Most of all, the XK120’s beguiling spirit is one of simply grabbing attention and never letting go.

In that, there may be no higher ambition.

From XK to E-type

Speed tests cemented the XK120’s legend in May 1949, with 132.6mph achieved with a pared-back windscreen and undertray, 126mph in standard form, on the Jabbeke highway in Belgium.

A year later, it took the TT at Dundrod and the Alpine Rally, and nearly won at Le Mans.

In 1951, the fixed-head coupé arrived, followed by a 180bhp Special Equipment package.

A drophead coupé completed the range in ’53, before the softer-edged XK140 came a year later.

The ’57 XK150 introduced all-disc brakes, and in ’59 a 3.8-litre unit came in ultimate 265bhp form before the E-type arrived in 1961.

The XK engine lived on in various forms until the last Daimler DS420 of 1992.

A utilitarian hero

Along with Coca-Cola and chocolate, America poured countless Jeeps into WW2’s theatres of war.

With peace, many came to resent these abandoned vehicles as part of the unwelcome litter of conflict, but others were gladly motorised in their efforts to rebuild and reinvigorate communities with post-war trade.

For Maurice Wilks, it was a useful tool for his farm on the isle of Anglesey, and ignited an idea that would give birth to the Land-Rover.

Stumbling on success

What began as a casual conversation between Wilks, Rover’s chief engineer, and his brother Spencer, Rover’s managing director, about a rugged commercial vehicle made of spare parts, quickly broke free from its planned destiny as a stopgap to the new P4 saloon and into a fully fledged product line.

By 1950, it had outsold the P3 saloons by two to one; the following year, some 40,000 had been built and by 1952 production was even being outsourced overseas.

The do-anything vehicle for the new post-war age was proving eminently useful all over the world.

Go-anywhere attitude

While Jeeps were very much the inspiration, the Land-Rover project was one of constant experimentation, testing and improvement from the beginning.

The first prototype was built in 1947, using a Jeep chassis shortened to an 80in wheelbase, a 48bhp Rover 10 engine, a bespoke dual-range ’box and rudimentary bodywork made out of the aluminium sheeting so readily available at the time.

From the bomb-hit Solihull works came an inspired sense of scrappy industry: the 48 pre-production Land-Rovers were endlessly toyed with (HUE 166, thought to be the first, resides at Gaydon’s British Motor Museum, complete with its Swiss-cheese chassis used for clearance observation).

Late to the party

Even well into main production, preliminary sketches served as key reference material and floor workers knocked up panels with hammers and simple folding presses.

It was a similar story with its reveal at the Amsterdam motor show, on 30 April 1948.

The two examples on the stand were barely a month old and a third, GWD 431, left the factory gates with just three days to drive there. When it arrived late, excuses were made relating to the gearbox, and it sat outside.

But it did manage to show off its off-roading abilities at the Barcelona International Trade Fair later that year, before returning into the ownership of Geoffrey Wilks, Maurice’s brother, now road-registered and converted to right-hand drive.

Adventurous spirit

Its current owner, Tim Dines, first saw it in 1974, while on a family holiday in Devon: “I was 16, dreaming of owning an 80in Land-Rover and keeping an eye out.

“Then there it was, in a farmer’s barn near Castle Drogo.”

After some haggling and much borrowing, it was brought home to Kent and served as Tim’s first and forever Land-Rover, though not his last.

In ’97, he set about restoring GWD 431 himself, and it continues to be used as thoroughly as it was designed to be: “It tows trailers, goes green-laning and has even been back to Barcelona, 70 years later.”

Simple controls

“Is it a bit blustery in there?” asks XK120 owner Dave Nursey.

“Perfectly fine,” laughs Tim, with the jovial hardiness common to all classic Landie owners. “My wife uses a blanket to cushion the seatback, but otherwise it’s pretty comfortable.”

There is no doubt that ‘number 3’ is a basic and fairly rugged motoring environment, but it’s far from punishing.

A dab of throttle combines with the push starter to bring the Rover ‘four’ to life quite happily, and from an upright position – almost tending towards a vintage commercial – you immediately have great command of the controls as well as what lies around you.

The road less travelled

The floor-hinged pedals are surprisingly light and smooth, and the gutsy engine is keen to chug its way through the gears. Normally, Tim confirms, you can start in second.

An initial vagueness in the steering and gearbox represents a strength for off-road use rather than an imprecision of build, and, when faced with ruts and rocks, the Series One flows along smoothly, confidently and without any sense of fragility in its driveline.

Around the perimeter track where classic Land-Rovers are regularly used to ferry Goodwood visitors on event days, the 80in displays just how easy going anywhere can be: it almost goads you into searching for the toughest path, which it then traverses with unperturbed nonchalance.

Hardy at heart

It has a surprising turn of speed on the road, thanks to an 80lb ft slug of torque in what is really quite a light vehicle.

It takes a while to build faith in its ability to hold a line, but, once you’ve acclimatised to what at first feels like a slightly wayward nature, you begin to trust that it will hold doggedly and true.

Wherever it is, the Land-Rover radiates confidence in such volumes that you can’t help but match yourself up to the same standard.

The car can do anything, go anywhere, and so can you.

Never losing relevance

In a post-war context of renewed industry and bright horizons, it was at the forefront of the new, motorised, global future.

It soon became the recognised face of development on four wheels from the UK to Africa and back – not to mention its countless high-profile expeditions – and as the world built itself into the modern era, the Land-Rover followed with a can-do attitude that has seemingly never lost relevance.

If anything, it has only become more useful.

Off-road legacy

There were constant revisions to the Land-Rover in seven decades of evolution until the very last Defender.

Longer 86in and 107in wheelbases came in ’51, a diesel in ’55, then the Series II in ’58 added two more inches and David Bache’s famous rounded shoulderline.

Different bodies had always been available, but gained popularity with the 1971 SIII, and the 1982 County station wagon was a sign of the future.

V8 power had arrived in 1979, then the coil-sprung 90 and 110 in ’83, before the turbodiesel era began in ’86.

A final big revision in 1990 brought the Defender name, and the two-millionth car was built before production ended in January 2016.

Finding excitement in the mundane

It’s the most ‘ordinary’ car here, the Minor, but that’s meant as a compliment.

What is striking about this 1948 group is how different they are, not just in price and intention, but in mechanical make-up.

Our six cars have engines at opposing ends, with a huge variety in cylinders, cooled in divergent ways, driving different wheels and sitting on suspensions of varied kinds.

Positively luxurious

The inevitable mechanical convergence of the post-war motor industry hadn’t yet happened, but it’s the Minor that got closest to how the daily driver would go on to develop.

Two Minors were at Earls Court in October 1948, and they made up the entirety of the range at launch: a two-door saloon and a convertible.

Other than the engine, it was a clean-sheet design, only possible in such a small amount of time following the war because Morris had begun development in ’43.

Cuddly shape

A three-man team, headed by the shy but intellectually headstrong Alec Issigonis, was allowed to continue to work on the project, codenamed Mosquito, between war tasks.

Yet it’s considered a one-man design because ‘Issi’ had such control, insisting on numerous advanced features, many of which had been consistently denied by Morris before the war.

The things that impressed most 75 years ago were the Minor’s monocoque construction and sophisticated front suspension.

Neither were firsts for a British car, but both were rare – especially in economy cars.

A household name

UK manufacturers had stubbornly held on to front beam axles during the 1930s, even when many foreign marques were moving away from them.

It was putting these two components together that allowed the Minor such a long life, and made it feel ahead of its time.

It’s such a solid, stiff-feeling car.

The relatively small glass area is typical of early efforts in unibody construction and is key to this rigidity, which, though hard to notice in isolation, provides a huge boost to the refinement of the Minor when you step into it from a rattly separate-chassis car.

Plenty of feedback

Then there’s the way it steers.

Making use of a rack-and-pinion set-up when nearly all of its contemporaries, and many much sportier cars, were using worm-and-roller systems prone to play, the Morris has an incredibly direct and communicative helm.

There is a slight hesitation in the movement in this 1950 MM’s steering wheel, but owner Laurie Griffiths puts that down to the crossply tyres he insists on for the sake of originality.

“That feeling does disappear once on radials,” says Laurie.

Stylish cabin

And thanks to that front suspension – the only part of the car Morris boss Lord Nuffield thought was any good – the Minor sticks to the course you choose, staying composed over bumps, even if the live-axle rear does bounce around.

That sense of refinement continues in the car’s appearance, inside and out.

Compared to the 2CV, admittedly a significantly cheaper car, the Minor looks positively luxurious with its chrome addenda, glossy paint, transatlantic styling and painted dashboard.

There’s a pride here, that a small, cheap car should still be an object of respectability, a very mid-century British sense of propriety, perhaps.

Slogging sidevalve

Sure, the engine – a pre-war sidevalve unit – is infamously a bit old-hat.

The boxer four-cylinder that Issigonis had wanted for the car never got past the bean-counters, and an interesting trial of a supercharged two-stroke opposed-piston engine failed.

That proved wise in the end, because Morris’ merger with Austin provided access to the A-series just four years later, though it’s interesting to ponder what could have happened had BMC, and later BL, had a boxer ‘four’ in its arsenal – perhaps we’d all now be swapping Subaru engines into MGBs.

A transatlantic look

While it’s disappointing in hindsight that Issigonis didn’t get his new engine, the sidevalve 918cc unit taken from the Morris Eight gave the Minor reliability from the get-go, and wasn’t as much of an anachronism as it looks today.

A good number of Morris’ competitors were still using sidevalve motors throughout the 1950s: Ford’s Anglia wouldn’t get an overhead-valve unit until 1959, for instance.

And while the 948 and 1098cc A-series later fitted to the Minor brought big improvements, the initial 803cc version was an exercise in rationalisation rather than any performance benefit, with contemporary road testers seeing it as a backward step.

Familiar controls

At town speeds there is performance to be drawn out of the sidevalve, with some urgency up to 40mph or so, and it’s aided by a decent gearchange.

There’s no denying that this is a slow car, though it’s important to remember that the Minor was born in a Britain a decade from its first motorway, and the sidevalve unit is comfortable cruising at the 45-50mph most drivers travelled along A-road Britain.

With its composed suspension and precise controls, the Minor is the most familiar, and least challenging, of our pioneers.

Humble beginnings

Although not revolutionary in any one detail, its success was in bringing together the automotive technologies of its day and wrapping them in a cheap, reliable and respectable package.

Not only did it prove good enough to sell more than 1.6 million units, but also, in elevating Issigonis’ profile, led to two other British best-sellers: the Mini and the ADO16.

Quite a legacy for what began as a wartime side project.

A major in Minors

The first Minor MMs were all sidevalve-powered, but from 1949 North American cars were fitted with headlights mounted on the wings rather than in the front panel – a change adopted by the new four-door in 1950, and the entire range by ’51.

The ’52 creation of BMC led to the 803cc Austin A-series unit replacing the Morris sidevalve to create the Series II.

The wood-framed Traveller estate joined the line-up in 1953, along with van and pick-up variants making use of a separate chassis frame.

Capacity was upped to 948cc in 1956 for the 1000, then further boosted to 1098cc in ’62.

The saloon was phased out in 1970, Traveller and commercial versions a year later.

Thanks to: morrisminorowners.co.uk

A slow start

Unlike the rest of the cars in our 1948 celebration, barring the Ferrari perhaps, the Porsche 356 didn’t get off to a roaring start – at least in its production numbers.

It took a year to build just 52 units at Porsche’s first factory in Gmünd, Austria, but the 356 would be the car to launch the firm as a motor manufacturer.

First steps

Ferdinand Porsche’s name was already well-known in automotive engineering, having designed for Adolf Hitler the KdF-Wagen (better known as the Volkswagen Beetle) and been involved in the pre-war Auto Union Grand Prix titans, but he’d never before produced a car under his own brand.

Ferdinand’s son, Ferry, would be the one to navigate those earliest days in Austria, before 356 production moved to Porsche’s traditional company headquarters in Zuffenhausen, Stuttgart, while nearby coachbuilder Reutter was contracted to build bodies for the new model.

Great foundations

The recipe was a relatively simple one at first: Porsche’s own bodywork, chassis and interior were fashioned around a 1131cc Volkswagen unit lifted straight from the Beetle, with an extra 10bhp added by twin carbs, a new exhaust and further basic tuning.

Plenty of other componentry was VW-sourced, too, from the all-independent torsion-bar suspension – which Ferdinand Porsche had designed for the Beetle – to smaller parts such as the headlights.

The 356 would quickly and increasingly diverge from the Beetle, however.

Not just a swoopy Beetle

By 1951 the Porsche was offered with an optional 1286cc engine, and by ’52 a 1488cc unit was also available – both long before VW itself began enlarging its motors.

Porsche’s fully synchronised gearbox also came in 1952, making it the first series-production model with synchromesh on all forward gears.

Humble in origin though much of the 356 may be, the 1954 ‘Pre-A’ we have at Goodwood, a competition-prepared car belonging to Raj Sitlani, feels every inch the specialist product – albeit not an intimidating one.

Race-car feel

Before starting up, you have to reach under the dash to rotate a fuel tap, then hold a button for 10 secs to draw through petrol before pushing the starter.

The handbrake is hidden away beside the steering column, and looks closer to something found in a railway signalbox than a modern sports car.

The fact that this dates from the Stuttgart firm’s very earliest days is obvious, but within the first couple of hundred metres you can detect that Porsche DNA we’ve grown to love, the refusal to do anything by half measures.

Distinctive ‘bathtub’ shape

At low revs the engine behaves much like the VW unit it is based on, but, with a downshift and a bit more throttle, the 356’s flat-four starts to climb towards a real crescendo, with that snarling scream all Porsches love to exhibit.

And it’s not bark without bite.

We have just 55bhp to play with in this ’54 car, but Porsche tuning pays dividends in the middle and upper reaches of the rev range, where the 356 offers genuinely lively acceleration – if not numbers that look wildly impressive on paper.

Agile on track

It has a thrillingly responsive throttle and there’s a real sense of graduation between partial and full depression of the pedal, often impossible on cars with such relatively low power.

There’s a noticeable, if subtle, push back into the seat when you open the taps fully.

As much as the engine is a masterclass in hotting up a previously humdrum powerplant, it’s the way the Porsche steers and handles that really set it apart in 1948.

A stylish interior

The seamless body tub is a fantastic piece of craftsmanship, free from panel gaps bar the openings for the doors, bonnet and engine lid, and gives the 356 a supreme rigidity that lays the foundations for everything it does well.

It’s a world away from the flex and scuttle shake of so many of its sports car contemporaries.

With similarly firm springing, the 356 has an almost race-car-like bob over bumps, and the little Porsche refuses to roll or buck around, cornering flat, fast and with an overwhelming sense of control.

Unless you put it on a poor road surface, that is, where it can feel crashy.

Time to shine

The steering is light, thanks to the rear-mounted motor, yet extremely communicative.

It can get a bit too weightless at higher speeds, but this early 356 lacks the power to reach a pace where it would become disconcerting.

The reason people still flock to the 356 in a world of more powerful 911s is the agility that comes from its compact size, and you relish in that dexterity around Goodwood, particularly through the tighter complex at St Mary’s.

You get a sense of the rearward weight bias, but not to the same extent as in an early 911.

Opening act

The 356 more easily turns on its axis, and is not so predisposed to lift-off oversteer: it’s a friendlier experience for those not yet attuned to Porsche handling, allowing the driver to throw it into bends with greater enthusiasm, and relish in the car’s mighty traction on the way out.

It is clearly easier to get a car to work with four cylinders hanging over the rear axle rather than six, and where it took Porsche a bit of time to perfect the balance of the 911, it hit the ground running with the 356.

Given that the future of the company depended on the success of this model, Porsche’s sole offering for the following 17 years, it’s fortunate that its opening effort was so strong.

From Beetle to 911

Porsche had actually built four cars before the 356 – three Type 64s, intended to race in the (cancelled) 1939 Berlin-Rome event, and the one-off Gmünd roadster – but the 356 was the first production model.

By ’55 the car had been developed enough to be considered a new model, the 356A, and cars from before this became known as ‘Pre-A’.

The 356A brought a 1582cc motor, as well as the quad-cam Carrera, then in 1960 came the 356B with subtly tweaked bodywork, most notably higher front wings.

The final evolution, the 356C, came in ’63 and would remain on sale until ’66, briefly alongside the new 911 and the 356’s true successor, the four-cylinder 912.

Thanks to: Mick Pacey at Export 56