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When I was a kid, there was one word that said you were doing alright in life. Not ‘Gold’, not ‘Turbo’, not even ‘Executive’. The word was ‘Ghia’...
Slap that badge on the back of a Ford, and it transformed. Suddenly, your Sierra wasn’t just a car — it was a statement. It said, “Yes, I know it’s a Ford, but it’s a Ford with ideas".
And I wanted one. Desperately.
There I was, a child of the ‘80s, staring through the steamed-up windows of our base-spec family Escort, fantasising about wood trim and velour. Somewhere out there, I imagined, there were people with electric windows who’d made the big time. They were called Ghia owners. And they were better than us.
This is the story of how a little Italian coach-builder became the mark of British suburban success, how it all fell apart, and why it still makes me smile whenever I see one parked outside a garden centre.
Ghia began in 1916, in Turin, when Giacinto Ghia decided that what the world needed was more stylish cars. Not faster, not lighter, just better looking. The man was an artist with a hammer. He and his partner, Gariglio, built sleek aluminium bodies on Alfa Romeo and Fiat chassis. Their cars weren’t just driven — they were exhibited.
By the 1930s, Ghia was a proper name in design circles. They built custom bodies for Lancia, Alfa Romeo and even the odd Rolls-Royce. Not many people had heard of them, but the ones who had wore expensive shoes and had mistresses called Elisabetta. And then, as always in these stories, the war came. The factory was bombed to bits in 1943, and Giacinto died the following year. You’d think that would be that. But no.
Post-war, Ghia came back swinging under new leadership. By the 1950s, they were building dream cars for Chrysler and Volkswagen. And when I say dream cars, I mean exactly that. Concept cars with fins, bubbles and names like Dart, Firearrow and Norseman. The kind of cars that looked like they’d been designed by a child after three bowls of Frosties and a double espresso.
One of those designs became the Volkswagen Karmann Ghia — a curvy little coupe that gave the Beetle some sex appeal. It was a huge success. And it gave Ghia the one thing it had never had before — global reach.
By the ‘60s, Ghia was the hottest name in car styling that nobody outside the industry had ever heard of. They were like the Savile Row of sheet metal. If Pininfarina was Ferrari’s tailor, Ghia was the one making suits for everyone else.
In 1970, Ford bought Ghia. They didn’t buy it to make coachbuilt cars. They bought it because, frankly, they liked the name. They saw a halo brand. A badge they could bolt onto the back of a Cortina to give it a bit of European flair. And bolt it they did.
Suddenly, everything was Ghia. Escort Ghia. Capri Ghia. Granada Ghia. The same cars your geography teacher already drove, but with extra trim, fake wood and a badge that sounded vaguely continental.
It was marketing genius. A Ford Ghia wasn’t just a car — it was a cut above. If you drove a Ghia, you were telling the world that you had standards. That you weren’t content with wind-up windows and no headrests. That you, sir, were someone.
In the ‘70s and ‘80s, there were few more aspirational things to have than a Ford Ghia. My mate’s dad had a Cortina Ghia in metallic brown with biscuit velour. We treated that car with reverence. I once asked to sit in it just to press the electric window button. It didn’t even work — but that wasn’t the point. The fact that it should have worked was enough.
Ghia was luxury you could reach. Not leather and champagne, but cigarette lighters in the back and a clock in the dash. It was success in instalments. You didn’t need a Mercedes — you had a Ghia.
And Ford leaned into it. Ghia became shorthand for top-of-the-range. You could order a Fiesta Ghia with all the trimmings and feel like a captain of industry — even though it had a 1.1 engine and a cassette deck that ate tapes for fun.
It worked because it was honest. These weren’t posh cars pretending to be luxurious. They were ordinary cars trying their best. Like someone turning up to a wedding in a borrowed suit and polished shoes. You had to admire the effort.
The problem was, the world changed. By the late ‘90s and early 2000s, nobody wanted a tarted-up Ford. They wanted a BMW. Not an M5, necessarily — just any BMW. Young drivers didn’t care about velour or a heated rear screen. They cared about brand. And a base-spec 316i was, in their minds, better than a top-spec Mondeo Ghia.
Ford tried to fight back. They introduced Titanium trim, and then Titanium X. They tried ST-Line. They made everything sound like a golf club membership. But Ghia quietly slipped off the brochures. By 2010, the badge was gone.
Nobody noticed. Not because it wasn’t good. But because the younger generation just didn’t get it. They didn’t understand that a Ghia badge once meant something. That it was the reward for working your way up. That it was once the difference between making do and making a statement.
Ford tried to resurrect the idea with Vignale. Same playbook — Italian coachbuilder, badge of honour, top-end trim with a fancy name. But Vignale landed with all the impact of a beige cushion. Nobody cared. Because by then, the badge game was over.
Toyota had Lexus. Nissan had Infiniti. Hyundai, weirdly, had Genesis. All separate brands. All clearly aimed at people who wanted luxury, not just a badge with a funny name. Ford, instead of creating a new brand, stuck a fancy name on a Mondeo. And people just laughed.
Vignale wasn’t bad — it was just 40 years too late. It was like arriving at a nightclub with a bottle of Blue WKD after the lights had come up and the DJ had gone home.
Ghia still exists, technically. It’s part of Ford’s design centre in Dearborn. But it doesn’t build anything. It doesn’t badge anything. It’s just… there. A name on a building. A ghost.
And that’s a shame. Because for an entire generation, Ghia meant something. It meant trying. It meant believing that a nicer seat and a bit of wood grain could elevate your life. It meant that even if you didn’t own a Jaguar or a Bentley, you still cared about details. You still wanted your car to feel special. Gone, but not forgotten
I miss Ghia. Not because it was better than what we have now — it wasn’t. Modern Fords are packed with tech that would’ve made a 1980s Ghia owner weep with envy. I miss Ghia because it was honest. It was achievable. It made ordinary people feel like they’d moved up in the world.
And more than that, it was a badge I could believe in. A badge I could aspire to. A badge that told me, even as a daft kid pressed up against the car window, that one day I might have something a little nicer than the base model.
And I did. Briefly. It was an Orion. In gun metal. With electric mirrors and a heated windscreen. And a badge that said “Ghia” in curly italics. And for a few short months, I was the king of my own little road.
God, I loved that car.
Written by: Paul Pearce
