With apologies to Will S., we sample these royal thrones of kings, these scepter’d isles, these earths of majesty, these seats of Mars, these other Edens, demi-Paradise.

Fashions change. A wealthy gent who once might have expressed his good fortune with a Mercedes-Benz 450SEL or a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, both grand barouches for the pedigreed elite of the 1970s, today might roll in something that looks like an International Scout after disastrous plastic surgery. It’s been 25 years since the sport-utility craze took off in earnest and 24 years since the first prediction of the segment’s impending demise. But regardless of their income, people like sitting up in the clouds, they like being able to roll carefree over crumbling infrastructure, and they always like having more space.

And carmakers just can’t raise the prices high enough. You can now drop 100 grand on a Cadillac Escalade—six digits for the Saks ­Fifth Avenue Suburban, the Suburbillac. No matter how many zeros get tacked on to these Colony Parks and Estate Wagons and Shooting Brakes with overactive pituitaries, there are wallets willing to open wide enough. Thus enters—to gilded long horns trumpeting—England, the emerald jewel of the North Sea, that noble carriage maker to kings and emperors and half-assed Idi Amins with good mechanics on staff.
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