Moonroof, Sunroof, Panoramic Roof, Skylight, Fold-a-Vent, Vista Panel, Flip-open Air-lid, Hole-o-Matic, Ceiling-B-Gone, whatever you want to call the big gap above your head, it’s a sure-fire invitation for water to get all intimate with the inner cavities of your car’s roof, meaning rust from the inside out, stained and saggy headlining and interior lighting that goes all disco-frenetic.
These disappearing roof sections have taken a dive in popularity over recent years; people see climate control as an alternative to letting the outside in. To me, though, nothing compares to a good old fashioned sunroof. Comment below to join me in worshipping at the altar of the tilt ‘n slide roof orifice.
Returning from my grandmother’s house, where Project Audinary currently sits among bits of its own engine in a state of partial apocalypse, I drove my favourite local road. The evening sky was clear, there was a big moon and the heater was set all toasty. I wound my sunroof back (electrically, of course) and dropped my rear widows a smidge to counter buffeting. With the stereo off I could hear that Austin Rover KV6 song bouncing off the scenery.
The way my seat is set up my head sits just under the trailing edge of the sunroof. As I drive I can see the stars in my peripheral vision as if I’m driving some wonderful 825 convertible, and until I find myself drunk, in possession of an 825 coupé and a Sawzall, such a thing will never exist.
Furthermore, despite mine having been manufactured by an English firm in the late ’90s, thus far (touch wood) it hasn’t leaked or rusted.
So praise be the Moonroof. Or the Sunroof. Or whatever.
(Images, including the astonishing night-shot above, copyright Chris Haining / Hooniverse, 2015)