Everyday supercar
Alan Judd
When VW took over Bentley and its Crewe factory it decreed that all new Bentleys should be subject to VW testing and quality-control procedures. It wasn’t that it didn’t trust Crewe craftsmanship and skill, which was of a high order, nor that it didn’t believe in the Bentley tradition — it did, and does. But it knew that for decades the marque and the factory had been starved of the kind of investment needed to stay at the forefront of motor engineering.
In the early days W.O. Bentley tested his cars himself on long runs to Scotland and France. Now, the process involves leaving sample cars for a month in the crater of an extinct volcano, where searing daytime temperatures and sudden drops at night wreak havoc with inadequate paintwork, rubbers, seals and adhesives. It is said that when VW did this to one of Bentley’s then standard products — from which today’s flagship Arnage is derived — they almost couldn’t get into the car afterwards. Wood veneer had cracked and come away, leather seats had burst, rubbers and seals disintegrated; the stench was awful. The first thing they changed was the glue.
Under the leadership of former engineer and Audi boss Dr Franz Joseph Paefgen there have been many, many further changes. So far as I can judge, they all seem to be for the better. The modern Arnage still my favourite — is better built than the Turbo R that preceded it; the Continental GT coupé has proved a runaway success since its 2003 launch and the convertible versions of both will doubtless become classics. Meanwhile, I’ve been driving the GT’s fourdoor big sister, the Continental Flying Spur.
The original car of that name was a beauty of 1957 vintage, which some enthusiasts argue was the last period before the present when Bentleys were as well made (by contemporary standards) as people assumed they always were. Today’s Flying Spur was developed at the same time as the GT, with which it shares many components and a clear family resemblance. Although the wheelbase is only 12 inches longer, it seems to make about twice that difference to the rear leg-room. It is bigger inside than seems possible from outside (bigger, in fact, than the Arnage) and is superbly comfortable. All seats, whether fouror five-seat configuration, will recline, warm and massage you. A small herd of 11 or 12 cattle donated their hides to each car and there is as much walnut as you would have expected to find in 1957, except that they can curve it now. It smells right even from new, something most other manufacturers can but dream of.
Extras in most other cars are standard in this, whether it’s Bluetooth technology for modernists or chrome organ-stop controls for traditionalists. There are metal plates behind interior door levers and grab handles to prevent those enormous rocks on lovely rings from scratching the leather. The boot, like the interior, is bigger than you’d think possible and will take skis.
The lines are distinctive but understated. In silhouette, people uninterested in cars would probably not distinguish it from other top-drawer saloons, but from the front it is beautiful. The rear is less so, as nearly always with modern cars in which the demands of high performance and safety compel compromise. If you shaped it like its 1957 forebear it wouldn’t go as it does.
And it does go. The official figures — 0–60mph in 4.9 seconds, 195mph flat out — make it the fastest four-door car in the world, but they are not the full story. Autocar sat four grown-up men in it, kept the air-conditioning on and wound it up to a barely credible (but verified) 208mph. Just knowing that you could do it is some compensation for not being allowed to. Thus it was pleasing to cruise back along the M4 from a West Country Christmas at an obedient 70mph (2,000rpm) and reflect that there was probably no vehicle within a hundred miles with such legs. Handling is firm; you feel the road (and the bumps), which I like in a car and greatly prefer to the floating Bentleys of the Seventies and Eighties. Reassuringly, it shares with the GT the largest brakes on any production car.
Neither its unostentatious appearance, nor its impeccable low-speed manners, nor even its deep restrained engine note hint at the power and torque beneath your right foot (552bhp and 479lb ft from 1600rpm). Yet the six-litre W12 engine is easy on the driver, whether in traffic or on farm tracks (it’s all-wheel drive), and throttle response is so designed that there’s no chance of it running away with you. Gratifyingly, it attracted immediate feminine approval, to drive as well as to be driven in. It’s that rare thing, a useable everyday car that’s also a supercar.
Faults? None evident. I’m not sure I like the two deep-set dials — slightly awkward and somehow Japanese — and with my back I never like having to stoop to get in, but that applies to all saloons except big barges like the Arnage, into which you simply step. In real-life driving you’ll probably get about 16–18mpg, though some may do better, and it costs £115,000. ‘A very considerate car,’ pronounced one driver as she got out after 20 brisk miles. ‘I’d buy one.’ So would I.
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