Last October, I lost my father, Stephen Gregory, to cancer. It has been an incredibly difficult year as my family and I try to come to terms with his passing. In some ways, it still feels like yesterday. The grief is still raw, and it’s clear that the journey of healing is just beginning.
Each of us has found our own way of remembering him. For my mother, it’s in the small gestures—though she still can’t bring herself to look at family photographs. My mother, sister, her children, and my own daughter have all contributed to a piece of artwork in my parents’ garden, but that’s not how I choose to remember him. I’ve yet to find my own way. While many find solace in memories, I find myself questioning—still trying to understand where things went wrong with his treatment, and why we lost him so soon.
One of the things that has stuck with me, though, is his distinctive signature. Over the past year, I’ve incorporated it into many things as a way of keeping him close. The most significant use of his signature was turning it into a decal for my car. It’s a small yet powerful reminder that he’s always riding along with me. I also proudly displayed it on my racing helmet during my drive at Brands Hatch. You can read more about that experience on my blog here.
One of the hardest aspects of the past year has been seeing people like Matt Armstrong and other YouTubers sharing milestones with their fathers, reaching goals of buying dream cars together. It’s something I will never get to do. This hits particularly hard, as I’ve finally reached a point in my career where I can afford two cars I’ve always wanted: a Mini Clubman JCW and a Tesla Model 3 Performance. But these were just stepping stones. I had bigger dreams, like owning an Aston Martin, and more than anything, I wanted to share those moments with my dad. But now, that’s a dream that will never come true.
My father’s car history wasn’t extensive, but it was meaningful. In 2007, following a small inheritance, he and my mum bought their dream car—a Renault Megane Convertible. This wasn’t just any car to them. For years, during our family holidays to Spain, my dad would hire a Renault Megane Convertible. It was usually yellow or silver, and it became something of a tradition. So when they finally got their own—brand new, with their chosen specifications—it felt like a dream realised.
Sadly, as my dad’s health declined, the practicalities of life took over. Cars, as they age, start to cost more than they’re worth. Increased road tax, repairs—it all adds up. So, when his treatment wasn’t working and the future became uncertain, my parents had to make the tough decision to sell the car and cut costs. Little did they know how little time he had left.
Now, as the one-year anniversary of his passing approaches, I find myself searching for that very car. It’s a 2007 Renault Megane Cabriolet, registration CA07 NCY. So far, I know it’s still on the road, with a valid MOT, and it was sold through a local garage in Cardiff. I’ve been in touch with the garage and they’ve contacted the dealer who bought it, but we haven’t found the current owner yet. My hope is to buy it back, or at least be offered first refusal if it ever comes up for sale. I’d love for my mum to have it again, to relive some of those cherished memories.
If I do manage to get it back, I have a few plans. I’d want to add parking sensors and a reverse camera to make it more usable for my mum. Maybe install Apple CarPlay, refurbish the headlights, and, of course, make sure it’s mechanically sound. For now, though, the search continues. I’ve joined Facebook groups for Renault Megane owners and I spend my evenings scouring Facebook Marketplace and Autotrader, hoping for a stroke of luck.
As I reflect on the past year, it’s clear that grief is a long and winding road. We all process it differently, and I’m still figuring out my own path. But I do know one thing: my father is never far from my thoughts, especially when I’m behind the wheel, driving on a journey we both once dreamed of sharing.
