Esther McCarthy: Are women better communicators? When we're lost in a luxury car, yes

If I were with a man of the same age and demographic, would I have returned from our 40-minute jaunt to Tullamore, having done all the hard conversational lifting, and he wouldn't be able to tell you my surname?

Esther McCarthy test driving the new Range Rover at Ballyfin Demesne. Picture: Naoise Culhane

‘Range Rover, I am hot.’

No, I’m not boasting to a car that I’m looking well today; I am test-driving the new hybrid Range Rover Sport, as one does of a Tuesday.

The guy tells me a whole load of fancy top techie things the car does, but the only one I can remember is if you tell it you’re too hot or too cold, the voice-activated climate control will drop or raise the temperature by a degree.

Well. It doesn’t seem to recognise a Cork accent, or else I’m doing it wrong. I’m a bit concerned, actually. I don’t think they realise the folly of sending me off in — what I can only imagine is a pretty pricey piece of kit — with just a wave and my word I’ll come back at all.

Actually, I’m not on my own. There are a few journalists who have gathered at the divine Ballyfin Demesne to explore the midlands for this launch. I’m trying to keep a straight face to be honest, because what I know about cars could be written on the back of a petrol/diesel/e-charger receipt. We’re paired off for the drive, and I find myself with a lady who’s a little bit older, a fair bit posher, and WAY cooler than I am.

We don’t get off to a great start. There’s nowhere for a key to go, so I push a button and hope for the best. Because it’s so quiet, we don’t realise it’s actually on, and we summons the man in the Range Rover jacket over to help. A few emotions flit across his face as he assures us the car is ready to go. The first is puzzlement, followed quickly by pity, a sure-goddy-help-us, these two are right eejits, followed by dismay and a glance for his boss as he realises they’re releasing the eejits into the wilds of Mountrath and we don’t even know how to turn the blasted thing on.

Esther McCarthy test driving a new Range Rover at Ballyfin. Picture: Naoise Culhane

There’s a convoy of six vehicles; they’ve put the route into the sat nav. “Just follow the crowd in front of ye,” he says, as he steps back quickly, possibly to check on their insurance details. And then a wonderful thing happens when two curious, interested women get together. We talk and laugh, and have a little bonding session inside that luxury cabin with filtration and air purification. 

And it gets me thinking ... if I was with a man of the same age and demographic, would I have come back from our 40-minute jaunt having done all the hard conversational lifting and finding out everything about him, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you my surname?

In my experience, when a woman meets a woman for the first time, we tend to focus on building rapport and establishing emotional connections — or if we’re both from the same place, someone we have in common. “Oh my cousin was in school with the fella they got bought their first car from” kinda of thing. 

When a gal clicks with another gal, our conversations get real personal real fast. We’ll chat about family, feelings, and yeast infections. Is this because we’re socialised to be more nurturing in our communication style? I dunno, but someone must have ordered us two yappachinos, because we didn’t stop gassing for the entire journey. It might have been that we are both dingers at using empathetic language and engaging in active listening, or it could be that we are just two kindred nosy jabberers, and we are well met.

Whatever it was, the poor Range Rover sat nav is completely ignored, and we realise through all the jibber jabber that we are following a rando vehicle that definitely isn’t in our convoy and we are gone totally wrong. We have switched seats in the meantime so my new BFF can have a go at driving, and while we’re
trying to figure out where the hell we are supposed to be going, we sail right through a pedestrian crossing that happens to have a human on it. Near-death experiences tend to help the bonding process too, I find.

Range Rovers at Ballyfin Demesne. Picture: Naoise Culhane

A phone call from a worried-sounding Laura back at base comes just as we’re back, focusing on the sat nav to guide us gently but firmly back to Ballyfin.

“Where are ye,” she asks cautiously. “We’re heading to Cork. SO LONG SUCKAS!” says I as me and my new buddy nudge each other, giggling. God, we’re hilarious! No wonder we gelled, I marvel.

“We’re like Thelma and Louise!” I guffaw into the phone. Seeing as they made right shite of their car in that movie, and ended up driving it off a ravine, I suppose I shouldn’t blame Laura for not slapping her thigh on that one.

We make it back to Ballyfin and get pampered and indulged within an inch of our lives, with Michelin star fare, sommelier-selected wines, a talk by celebrated interiors master, Guy Oliver, and a meditation and cacao workshop. Before I depart, leaving luxury and my new amigo in the rear view mirror, I stop by the sporty beast of a vehicle.

“Range Rover, I AM POOR,” I whisper, as I depart the demesne to return to real life, my own hovel, a house full of males, and a smelly car littered with gum shields, curly sandwiches, and 27 water bottles. Maybe it’s so advanced it can top my bank account up by a degree too.