I knew I’d have one eventually. It was five and a half years ago that I flew to Majorca for the international media launch of the facelifted seventh-generation Volkswagen Golf GTI, known these days as the Mk7.5. Its predecessor was a well known quantity, so it was no surprise to whip along the narrow inland roads that criss-cross the fertile plains in the heart of the island and discover a masterful hot hatch beneath me.
It may not have been perfect, but it did seem like the next best thing – complete. This updated model brought a little more power and sharper looks following the lightest cut of the surgeon’s scalpel, plus a much improved media system, all of which were welcome. Deeper down you found the same virtues that made the car it replaced such a convincing package, such as crisp steering, a willing and responsive turbo engine, handsome but understated looks, a cabin beyond the reach of anything else in the class and a blend of fluid ride and sharp handling that made it unique amongst its rivals.
Even then I suspected I would own one some day. And so it proved. Earlier this month I found a Golf GTI Mk7.5 Performance for sale at one of those car supermarkets and paid £99 to reserve it. It had covered 50,000 miles or so, had the manual gearbox I wanted but the passive dampers I didn’t, and it was just three years old. It looked quite menacing in black. But it wasn’t the car I ended up buying.
