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The idea that the Jaguar XF is a sexy, evocative car was cemented for me when I drove to lunch with two friends. They stroked the suede headliner, reposed on the leather seats, and joked about having me as their chauffeur for the day. This is a car that indulges almost all senses: sight, with gracious curves and beautiful sheetmetal; smell, with the faint whiff of soft leather; touch, with the aforementioned suede; hearing, with unbelievably crisp and powerful music from the 825-watt sound system.

There truly is, I’m starting to believe, a major downside to our Chrysler. We have come to the British tourist mecca of historic Lavenham for two reasons. First, because it’s so prototypically Olde England that it provided the film location for Harry Potter’s birthplace. Second, Lavenham rather ironically has a very highly regarded little French restaurant. Our problem, though, is that the jostling multinational masses brought in by the first reason so blissfully swarms the classic all-American woody at every stop that we may miss lunch at the second reason. This could turn into a fine-dining disaster.