Lest we conveniently forget . . . this is how Bentleys used to be, and not that long ago, actually. If it seems as remarkable to you as it does to me that it’s been 22 years since the Continental GT emerged from VW Group’s then-recently acquired Crewe factory, then consider this: The Continental R you see here was built in the same year – 2003. It feels like a different era altogether.
Is that a good thing? Hmmm. Well, it’s utterly charming, in a way that the Conti GT isn’t, at least so far. But it’s also deeply, sometimes hilariously, flawed in other ways. Of course I fell in love with it, and drove it for far longer than I should have on a day that was meant to be about trying out the latest bespoke creations from Bentley’s Mulliner division.
The Continental R was the last in a fine line of powerful, luxurious saloons that Rolls-Royce–owned Bentley specialised in. Emerging from the Silver Shadow–based T-series, Bentleys had gained new life with pioneering (though crude by modern standards) turbocharging of the long-lived 6.75-litre overhead-valve V8. Had the term “world’s fastest drawing room” ever been used before to describe a car? Maybe – but never so often as for the Mulsanne Turbo and more so the Turbo R that preceded the Continental R. I’m sure I did the same myself in the mid-1990s, despite having little idea of what a drawing room actually was.
The Continentals came next – the first Bentleys for more than two decades not to share bodywork styling with a Rolls-Royce. The Continental R was a more civilised, less sporty version of the Turbo R, but it still packed a hefty clout from that venerable V8, with 355bhp enabling a 0–60mph time of 6.6 seconds and a top speed of 152mph. In 1998, power was increased to 420bhp, which cut the 0–60mph to 6.0 seconds and raised the top speed to close to 170mph.
Sitting in this example, the last Continental R Final Series produced, is a reminder that luxury has come a long way in recent years. There’s no doubt that this is luxurious, with its wide diamond-quilted leather seats, deep carpets, and black-lacquered woodwork, but the clunky black plastic switchgear and ugly airbag steering wheel sit uncomfortably between the classiness of the cars of the 1950s and ’60s and the sleek perfection of modern day interiors.
I rather like it, though, once I’ve worked out where the damned starter button is. The number of gauges and switches is exciting in that same schoolboy way of peering through a condensated door window at a speedometer that dared to promise 100mph or more. Oil pressure, oil temperature, water temperature, ammeter, clock . . . it’s all there, together with an absurdly illogical scattering of switches and controls.
Why is the ignition switch to the right of the (right-hand drive) steering column but the chromed, unmarked starter button far to the left, in the centre of those seven auxiliary gauges? Which accessory catalogue did the electric window and heated seat switches come from, and did they have to sit so awkwardly with the electric seat controls? And how come the chromed rotary windscreen wiper switch is to the left of the steering wheel, near invisible from the driving seat? Still, at least the lights switch, on the opposite side of the column, is the same style . . . and similarly difficult to spot initially.
None of this is anything new for anyone with a classic car, until you remind yourself (again) that this ’03 is a car of the 1990s. So it’s with some trepidation and a worry that I’d misremembered the era of Bentley that I turn the key and press the starter.
Of course, I needn’t have worried. I’ve no idea who first applied the word “woofle” to big V8s, but woofle it does, albeit quietly. It sounds just right – refined but powerful – and as I clunk the hefty gear lever into Drive and press down on that hefty machined aluminium accelerator pedal, the Continental R woofles some more and glides away, slurring through the gears with far less subtlety than a modern auto but smooth enough to feel suitably regal.
The steering would come as a shock to anyone brought up with modern power assistance only; it’s ridiculously light but there’s just – only just! – enough feel through it to know what’s going on. It doesn’t take long to realise there’s a fair bit of roll from the suspension, too. Looking back at my notes I see the first thing I wrote was “wobbly” under the heading of the ride and handling, but my goodness it’s smooth. Forget today’s 20-inch-plus wheels and low profiles; this is how a luxury car should handle bumpy roads.
The brakes, too, would scare the life out of someone who’s only driven the very latest models, but they work OK with a bit of pressure. It’s not long before progress is becoming swifter, hampered on this day only by the antiquated wipers that are struggling to clear the admittedly torrential rain. It feels so comfy, so much more responsive than initally expected, that it’s easy to imagine spending the day just driving around in this dated interpretation of luxury. I could easily have just left my own car in Crewe and headed straight home in the Continental R, desperately trying not to think of the resultant bank-breaking petrol fill-up on the way.
There was a time, not so long ago, when this era of Bentley shouted overweight, cigar-smoking chairman of the board. But now? Now it feels like a classic car, and a wonderful treat to experience. VW-era Bentley has come a long, long way, but it was always on the back of cars like this.
