AFTER all the attention lavished on Max the Japanese jalopy in recent weeks, my proper car has had something of a hissy fit.

It’s French, which means it has bags of flair, panache and a certain je ne sais quoi, but it’s staying power has been severely called into question during the recent snowy conditions.

I would have thought that a vehicle created in the shadow of the Alps would have treated icy roads on this side of the Channel with Gallic disdain, and skated up them like a chamois with a blast of garlic from the exhaust.

But a modest request from yours truly for the Peugeot to climb the road leading out of Bellingham via the lofty eminence known as the Blue Heaps, while the ‘beast from the east’ was raging, ended in disaster.

The Blue Heaps were admittedly a bit snowy, but they were no Mont Blanc, so I expected rather more of a motor with such a posh pedigree.

I would have taken Max, but with his lack of a reverse gear, and the fact his rear wiper had fallen off after a period of wiping the boot, I thought it might be too much of a risk, especially if we were to run into a snowplough coming the other way.

So the Peugeot it was, but it was soon clear that its heart was not in the job.

Its progress was slower than a dozen escargots doing a conga as it struggled to get up the modest slope, and as I neared the top of the bank, just about every warning light, bell and whistle was shrieking flashing or tooting in protest.

I seem to remember even the Sat Nav lady chiming in that I would have to stop as she needed the toilet tout suite.

When I finally crept to the top of the slope, my on-board computer was telling me in no uncertain terms that I had four flat tyres, a damaged engine, no brakes and multiple other disorders.

But a quick visual inspection and test of the controls assured me that the craven computer was lying to me because it wanted to get back to the safety of its parking place.

Perhaps rashly, I decided to plough on regardless, even though the winds were getting stronger and the snowflakes more horizontal, and I somehow managed to make it through to the top of the Rede Valley to nurture my horsey charges through the worst of the weather,

I parked the still protesting Peugeot in a snowdrift in the farmyard, and before my first barrow was full of muck, it had just about disappeared under a white mound.

I had to borrow a four-wheel drive pick-up to get back home, on a journey which involved many sharp intakes of breath and multiple changes of underwear.

Even with the 4x4, I was unable to return to my equine duties for three days, by which time the Peugeot had become just another bump in a snowy landscape stretching all the way to the Carter Bar.

It was some days before I finally managed to tunnel my way down through the Peugeot igloo, and as soon as I opened the door, there was a cacophony of protest from the computer insisting that everything was broken and totally beyond repair.

But I have learned that car computers are cowardly coves which are adept at crying wolf, and ignoring the suspicious pool of water below the Sat Nav lady’s abode, I started the engine.

One by one, the warning lights started going out – some more grumpily than others it has to be said – and within five minutes, everything was working again, with the notable exception of the automatic, electrically-operated handbrake.

It made a few urgent gasping sounds but refused to engage, and even my motor mechanic eldest son was unable to coax it back to life.

I reluctantly took it to the garage, where the boss said he would “interrogate” the system – a statement which conjured up visions of the car being stretched on a rack, with broken bottles under the tyres..

The car refused to talk, and I was told I would have to take it to a Peugeot dealership in the fleshpots of Newcastle or Carlisle, at doubtless vast expense.

The next day, I hit a pothole while reversing, and with a clunk and a judder, the handbrake became fully operational again.