Bentley Bentayga S

‘Walk past a Ferrari, and there’s always a little corner of your mind that mutters “Wanker”’ the entirely delectable Rowan Pelling admitted to me a few years ago. ‘The great thing about an Aston, though’ she added as we drank in Ian Callum’s wonderfully muscular Aston Martin Vanquish, ‘is that it carries no baggage; it has no ‘side’.

Now -unlike Rolls-Royce, the image of which was once somewhat tarnished by the naff, personalised, bare-faced-lie number plates of such luminaries as Jimmy Tarbuck (COMIC) and Paul Daniels (MAGIC)- the same, I had always thought, applies to the Bentley brand. But, as I’ve just discovered during a weekend West Country excursion, this is no longer the case…

Throughout the rest of Europe a fine car is invariably applauded by one and all. A colleague driving a Lamborghini back from the factory was once mobbed by the Italian police at an autostrada toll booth; ‘When you leave’ they twittered excitedly at him, ‘you must go very, very fast…’ Later on the same journey, he was travelling so rapidly he didn’t have time to slow appreciably for a sudden shoal of police motorcyclists having a chinwag in a layby. As he smeared by, they simply punched the air and carried on chatting. To a man.

So what the hell is wrong with the British? Try and make progress in something properly quick through a queue of bumbling traffic here in Mudfordshire and the next gap you have chosen will be maliciously filled by a dawdling oaf instantly metamorphosed into a full beam, blaring horn, fist waving, I-was-here-first lunatic with the IQ of a chair leg who is incapable of understanding that their action is incalculably more dangerous that yours.

Less hazardous but, as the weary miles build, infinitely more tedious is the man (and it’s always a man) in the outside lane of the motorway who Will. Not. Move. I long ago adopted French autoroute behaviour -indicating rather than resorting to full beam- to politely suggest my car was capable of a whiff more than 69 mph. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t work. And even if, finally, you’re allowed past, you will be subjected to an astonishing barrage of monobrow moron, spittle-flecked abuse from alongside. At which the missus always laughs extravagantly. Which is marvellously inflammatory…

And then, helming the world’s most opulent battlecruiser down single track West Country lanes with a passing place every decade, the final insult always takes the form of a Range Rover. Only the terminally foolish expect courtesy from the locals; after all, tourists are merely the county’s lifeblood. But I should have known better than to expect a Range Rover driver to pull into the blatantly disregarded passing place now 15 yards behind her. As it was, she just drove up to the Bentayga and stopped.

Not being a) in a hurry and b) willing to reverse a quarter of a mile in a car that fitted the lane like a cork fits a bottle, I got out and went for a bit of a chat. I explained to the side of her head through a resolutely closed window that, with Bentley in full sight, the arrogant cow had driven straight past a pull-in space; that my car was larger, more expensive and far more comfortable than hers, and easily out-swanked it; and that, being in no rush, I was now going back to enjoy a bit of a snooze until politeness finally got the better of her.

It took her two minutes to start backing up, but five to travel 25 yards. Range Rover drivers can’t reverse. It’s the law.

Anyway, with the somewhat taxing environment surrounding a Bentayga S covered, I should, perhaps, tell you something of the environment within one… Which is, largely, fabulous.

Naturally, the cabin reeks of dual-tone Camel and Imperial Blue leather which, finished with contrast stitching and the appropriate emblems, is matched to fascias and door waist-rails in high-gloss carbon fibre. Once you’ve deactivated the annoying amateur massage function, the seats are deliciously cossetting, and a fine driving position is there for the asking of even the most hastily constructed.

Amongst all this opulence it seems almost sacrilegious that the dashboard should be dominated by a 10.9-inch infotainment touchscreen, and it’s a shame that the rotating-prism style of screen (which allows one to swap the screen for a triumvirate of analogue dials) didn’t make it on board from the Continental GT.

Other minor gripes include the loss of two central bull’s-eye air vents, here replaced by Bentley wing-shaped alternatives to free-up space for that screen; faux analogue drivers instrument dials that just aren’t of high enough visual quality; and steering wheel control stalks lifted piecemeal from and A4. Still I guess that’s better than the Mondeo stalks that Aston owners had to live with for so long…

I’m far from sufficiently familiar with the Bentley range to immediately identify where over 26 thousand quid has gone on extras, but I am happy to confirm that the £6,725, 1780 Watt, 17-channel, 20-speaker, Naim stereo is worth every penny. In all, the only reason why this space doesn’t thoroughly trump my living room for both comfort and equipment is that putting your feet up whilst driving tends to be frowned upon.

With the W12 now a thing of the past, and the 6.0 litre Speed variant no longer offered in Europe, this Bentayga S becomes the UK range topper. The S boasts no more power than its standard sibling (as if 541 bhp and 568 lb ft wasn’t enough) but it does benefit from suspension tweakage, vast 22-inch wheels and a sports exhaust note with a top end snarl you can replicate at home by sticking a hat pin into the rump of your snoozing pet leopard.

All the suspension stuff that’s optional on the regular V8 is fitted as standard here -air springs, smart active damping and a 48V anti-roll system, and the S also lobs in 15% stiffer dampers, a retuned Sport driving mode and a slightly more relaxed attitude to stability control.

The upshot of said tinkering is that the S not only goes like a scalded bungalow, but also handles with a degree of aplomb that something this size really shouldn’t oughter… Which is not to say that it can entirely disguise its height and weight, especially if you forget to engage Sport mode before attacking twistier sections of tarmac, as I did. Just the once.

Somehow, though, despite a surprising eagerness to display agility, massive grip and a glorious noise, chucking something this size around seems not quite the done thing; your passengers certainly won’t thank you for it. Better to give the S free rein doing that which it does best -crushing continents. Counties really aren’t quite big enough. Particularly those in the west of England.