Why We Can’t Help But Love Old Land Rovers, Even Though They’re Unreliable

They may leak. They may groan. They may leave mysterious puddles in your driveway. But despite being about as dependable as a Craigslist WRX ad promising “never vaped in,” old Land Rovers continue to hold a strange power over otherwise rational people. From Series trucks that look like wartime relics to bougie P38s with early air suspension, they just won’t go away — and we keep letting them back in. As we noted in our round-up of unreliable cars worth the headache, Land Rover continues to top the charts when it comes to unreliability — and irrational loyalty.

It’s not just nostalgia, to be fair. These trucks did actual work. They climbed mountains, hauled livestock, and chauffeured Queen Elizabeth II around Balmoral. They were, and in many cases still are, field ambulances, farm runabouts, and beach buggies for families and safari-goers alike. Whether it was the Series I putting postwar Britain on wheels or the Discovery ferrying the whole family through snow-covered suburbia, Land Rovers carved a space for themselves in every terrain and tax bracket.

The blend of rugged grit, aristocratic sheen, and a whole lot of mechanical masochism created a fanbase that absolutely knows better… and keeps coming back anyway.

The original Defender — like the Series trucks before it — was developed in postwar Britain as a utilitarian tool for farmers. Designed for harsh terrain and limited infrastructure, complete with leaf springs for durability and interiors so spartan they made garden sheds seem luxurious. Fun fact — Maurice Wilks modeled the first Land Rover after a Willys Jeep, vehicles he used on his own farm. With Jeep’s famously rugged (but not exactly reliable) history, it was a fitting bit of foreshadowing.

Under the hood? Land Rover’s early Series II models were typically fitted with a 2.25-liter gas four-cylinder engine producing around 77 horsepower and 124 pound-feet of torque — just enough to keep pace on the farm, and a theme that seems to follow for coming models. A diesel option followed, the 2.25-liter naturally aspirated diesel, offering around 62 horsepower and 103 lb-ft of torque — with the torque coming on at much lower rpm, providing more usable torque for farm work. 

Rust was still a fact of life — especially on the steel chassis. Yet somehow, restomod Defenders now pull six-figure prices. Why? Because form followed function — and the function was unstoppable.

The Discovery II was supposed to be the civilized one — a more refined, family-friendly Land Rover. A 4×4 with, most commonly, a 4.0-liter gasoline V8 making 185 hp and 235 lb-ft of torque, or a 2.5-liter five-cylinder turbo diesel making 122 hp and 221 lb-ft of torque — not fast, but at least functional. Unfortunately, it came bundled with electrical gremlins, brittle head gaskets, and an air suspension known for problems.

Still, it won hearts. Discovery owners talk about their frequent breakdowns, and yet defend the model like it’s a family member. Why? Because it makes them feel like royalty one day — and teaches them how to bleed brakes the next day. Why all the love for something so high-maintenance? The Disco II has just enough luxury to feel upscale and just enough mechanical chaos to give you a sense of accomplishment when it actually runs. It’s the rare SUV that makes you feel like a king one minute and a shade-tree mechanic the next. And maybe that’s the magic — it’s more than just transportation.

Ah, the Land Rover Range Rover. Or wait — is it just Range Rover now? According to JLR’s latest branding gymnastics, we’re supposed to refer to it simply as Range Rover, as if “Land Rover” was just a phase it went through in college. It’s part of the company’s ongoing identity crisis, where each model line is now its own brand — Range Rover, Defender, Discovery — with “Land Rover” hanging around like a forgotten surname at a family reunion. 

The P38 promised Range Rover elegance with a little more tech and a lot more trouble. A body electrical control module, which was a significant technical change for the historically simple machines, came standard — and, seemingly, so did failing door locks and air suspension faults.

It was powered by a V8 — either a 3.9-liter (though badged a 4.0) or a 4.6-liter. The latter brought 225 hp to the dance. The P38 could tow like a champ but drank fuel like it had a grudge against your wallet. Land Rover later changed from Lucas fuel injection to a more modern Bosch system, which brought a bump to fuel economy. This was a welcomed change for reliability as many owners swear off the Lucas systems for their complexity.

Owners on forums and Reddit recall their rigs fondly — even the ones that left them stranded. As one user on Reddit’s r/RangeRover put it, “In essence, owning a Range Rover is like being in a love affair with adventure itself, unpredictability included.”

“If it’s not leaking, it’s empty.” That’s not a joke — it’s a common mantra on places like Reddit’s r/LandroverDefender. Forums and message boards are littered with new owners wondering what they got themselves into, and seasoned veterans helping diagnose issues. Troves of resources exist to point folks in the direction of things to look for when buying an old Land Rover — and more importantly what to expect once you do. 

The point? There’s real community here: clubs, off-road meetups, rebuild blogs, entire Reddit threads about which weird noise is normal. Monarch Defender highlights nationwide gatherings that go beyond show-and-shine — with recovery gear demos, trail runs, and communal repairs often stealing the show.

Unfortunately, even new Land Rovers look like a reliability nightmare — seemingly having a hard time letting go of their roots. It’s like they’re afraid that if they stop breaking down, they’ll lose their heritage. It’s about preserving something bigger than a truck — it’s heritage, bonding, and personality over perfection. And really, that’s the sell. You could buy something more reliable. But where’s the soul in that?