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Imagine you are the kind of guy who owns a pith helmet. Imagine you live in an English castle, that you have a bunch of friends in the African Congo, that you repeatedly helicopter into rural Thailand and drive around the wilderness hunting animals whose names you cannot pronounce.

Now imagine that you are doing all this in a Land Rover. It’s the natural order of things: Jeeps are best for Moab and winning World Wars; Toyota Hiluxes like climbing twitchy volcanoes and giving other pickups atomic wedgies; Landies are used to venture into the world’s dingy parts, often (but not always) with people who smell like money at the helm.

If the LR4 looks familiar, that’s because it is. This is what Land Rovers have looked like since the first Bush administration. The LR4 looks like the 2005–2010 LR3 that came before it, which looks like the Land Rover Discovery that came before that (In the rest of the world, the LR4 is simply badged Discovery 4).

The LR4, in turn, looks nothing like the Land Rover Defender, the bare-bones, Jeep-like vehicle that has existed in Britain since Jesus was in diapers. This is on purpose. The rough-riding Defender is meant for driving around Africa, perhaps with a dead lion on the hood. The Discovery and LR4 can mostly accomplish the same thing, but with heated seats and adjustable air suspension coddling your tuchus.

In bone-stock form, a ‘12 LR4 can drive from Telluride to the top of the world or down Woodward Avenue without breaking a sweat. This is impressive stuff.

Land Rovers have long been the mountain goats of the SUV world, and the 2012 LR4 is no different. Although its looks ape those of the LR3, its guts are fresh: A 5.0-liter, direct-injection, 375-hp V-8 sits under that big clamshell hood, and a new interior has been paired with a revised chassis and updated suspension. Despite an elephantine curb weight of 5756 pounds, 60 mph comes up in 6.6 seconds.

Note: When this happens, you are perched so high and in such a narrow vehicle—the better to, say, navigate winding Alpine passes—that the sensation is a little odd. It’s like sitting on top of a rocket-powered bar stool: exaggerated motions, a vague sense of danger, and far more speed than you really need. (Interesting intersection of unnecessary velocity there: “But honey! I need all that power! I have to get to the end of the bar/world now! The ice in my drink/Antarctica is melting!”)

With a truck like this, you get exactly what you’d expect: a lot of body roll, a lot of squat and dive, and an interior that’s nicely trimmed but slightly cramped. A fancy four-wheel-drive system is standard; the LR3’s electronically controlled center differential offers two speeds and the ability to shift on the fly. The standard air-spring suspension works in concert with the standard six-speed automatic and Land Rover’s Terrain Response electronic management system, adjusting everything from ride height to shift mapping based on driver preference and a console-mounted terrain knob. (Sand? Mudded ruts? There’s an app — er, pictogram and terrain setting — for that.) If the land underfoot gets really weird, you can set the system to offer a whopping 9.4 inches of ground clearance.

Admittedly, most people won’t use any of this. But if experience is any guide, it’s dang nice to have. I drove several LR4s in several different environments, from narrow Colorado trails to urban commuting in the Midwest, and I came away impressed. You’d have to be an idiot not to. In bone-stock form, a ‘12 LR4 can drive from Telluride to the top of the world or down Woodward Avenue without breaking a sweat. This is impressive stuff.

Not that there aren’t a few drawbacks. The optional ($4,250) third-row-seat package, which includes things like navigation and satellite radio, produces a third-row bench that is frighteningly tiny and offers no legroom whatsoever. The optional satellite navigation system takes ages to respond to simple commands, and the display often locks up for no apparent reason. (Protest? Did someone, somewhere, insult the Queen?) Lastly, the exaggerated body motions can get old, and build quality — loose trim panels, uneven interior gaps — is a bit questionable.

Still, Landies are emotional things; if you want one, you want one, and you’re probably willing to put up with a few lumps. What we have here is the thinking person’s farm tractor, a sherpa with all the comforts of home. Who buys one? Anyone who can afford it, so long as they’ve got an appreciation for quirk. What the heck do they do with it? Anything they want. After all, that’s kind of the point.

WIRED The original sport-utility, a go-anywhere piece of Brit nationalism that makes you want to eat figgy pudding and raise a bunch of sheep. Looks cool, character out the arse.

TIRED Old-school electrical quirks still haven’t been banished. Nav system is slower than a becalmed Golden Hind. Like a racehorse or private plane, requires time and money to properly exercise.

Photos by Sam Smith/Wired