EVO 08 CAR OF THE YEAR
Sixteen cars, 5422bhp, 104 cylinders, seven days, eight turbochargers, two mountains, two bicycles, a Le Mans winner, and an awful lot of superunleaded…

A very warm welcome to the year’s greatest driving adventure. On the following pages you’ll be transported from the twisting, tumbling roads of Snowdonia to the glorious, serpentine ascent of Mont Ventoux in southern France, in everything from a 500 Abarth to a Lamborghini LP560-4. Along the way we’ll discover the greatest affordable car of 2008 and the overall evo Car of the Year. And because you liked it last year, we’ve also named the biggest flops of the year. Enjoy!

PART-ONE
THE REAL WORLD

This is where we get to grips with the year’s finest affordable cars, the cars that many of us will be considering buying (or at least harbouring lustful thoughts about for when the depreciation curve has started to level out). We’ve got three days to drive them on the utterly brilliant roads of north Wales, then our testers will score each car out of 100. The car with the highest average score will be our Real World Car of the Year – and earn the right to have a crack at the supercars in Part 2. There will be upsets, there will be new hero cars, there will be rain. And a winner. Place your bets now

There’s a sharp chill in the early morning air that’s rushing in through the open window. It spikes my bleary eyes and clears my nose as it hits still-sleepy senses. That’s better – the view out of the windscreen has much more clarity now! The Elan Valley is deserted. Autumn is here with its mists and mellow fruitfulness and the purple heather and lush bracken have died back, leaving the sides of the valley all rusty. The water table is high and cold water is foaming over the edge of the dam. VW does a good heated seat.

I love Car of the Year. There’s that same Christmas-morning feeling you have when you’re six, the sense that today is a different sort of day. There’s expectation and suspense. Over the next three days, favourites will be settled upon, stories will unfold and heroes will be revealed. The winner of this first, more affordable part of eCoty will then go all the way down to the land of gooey cheese and attractive presidential wives to meet the big-league GTs and supercars. And it’ll be me driving it down there, so I hope they choose wisely…

As the Scirocco prowls the shadowy edge of the reservoir I can picture the nine other cars just starting their journeys somewhere to the east. Ollie Marriage will be in the Caterham R500, wrapped up against the chill but with his left leg roasting nicely against the transmission tunnel. Two typically enthusiastic and fast- sounding Italians, Federico Ruffino and Alessio Barbanti (colleagues from evo Italia), who’ve travelled all the way from, yes, Italy, will be bundling across the country in a 500 Abarth. Roger Green will also be going all Rogero Verdi in the beautiful Alfa Brera S.

The M3 saloon will have a Vivian pointing its xenons round the M25, while little John Simister will be peering over the writhing wheel of a yellow Mini JCW as he tackles a no-doubt meticulously planned back-road route. Harry Metcalfe is probably climbing out of his Massey Ferguson and into the Twingo 133 while Peter Tomalin will be clinging on to an Impreza 330S as it homes in on the Welsh border. A Lexus IS-F will be waking sleepy villages as Ian Eveleigh selects a gear from one to eight. And John Barker is probably still at home in the driveway, battling with the six-point harness in the first Megane R26.R in the country…

‘Like the hand of God has just released one of those toy cars you wind up by pulling it backwards across the floor…’

For now I’m quite happy in the powder blue Scirocco. Last night, winding ever deeper into the valleys, the coupe was a wonderful companion. It’s very like a Golf GTI to drive but with more grip and there’s no longer headroom to wear a top hat. The engine is probably the best example of all the hot hatch turbocharged four-cylinders, punching so smoothly that you wouldn’t know there was a compressor at work. The steering is wonderfully accurate and you can carry terrifically smooth, flowing, unfussed speed across country. Fast corners are where the Scirocco excels; you have complete faith in the turn-in so you can get that wide, flat nose pinned straight onto the perfect line, then get back on the throttle immediately, feathering it only slightly just to adjust the balance and keep the car neutral, getting the rear tyres to tighten the angle a fraction. All of which kept an admittedly unadventurously driven Evo VIII easily at bay last night…

The reason I’m in the Elan Valley early is that I wanted to check the route one last time. You see, there is a plan. We’re going to gorge ourselves on the best roads the UK has to offer. From the heart of Wales at Rhayader, out to the coast at Aberystwyth, then northwards through Snowdonia via Bala, Betws-y-Coed and the evo triangle to the Llanberis pass under Snowdon itself and on until we touch the Irish Sea at Porthmadog. It’s a mouthwatering cross-section of tarmac and whatever emerges victorious will be able to hold its headlights high on any road in the world.

The peace and tranquillity of an early morning in the Elan Valley doesn’t last very long. Still some way out of sight the barely silenced arrrrrrggghhhhh of the Caterham can be heard charging its way up between the trees and dry stone walls. It often seems that Ollie Marriage doesn’t actually sleep at all so it’s no surprise that he’s the first to arrive. A minute or so after first hearing it, the small white and red ball of fury crescendos to an ARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH as it bursts into view round the final corner.

This R500 has the optional sequential gearbox, and I’ve been looking forward to trying it, so as soon as Ollie’s clambered out and we’ve exchanged cheery good mornings I slide the seat back and drop in. There’s no key, just a toggle for the immobiliser, then it’s a press of the lovely silver ‘Start’ button on the carbonfibre dash to turn the ignition on before holding it down again to spin the 2-litre Ford Duratec into life. The gearlever is a beautiful, almost sculptural thing, the aluminium handle cold and smooth except for the ‘R500’ etched into the top. Underneath is a red anodised collar, which you need to lift to select neutral and reverse. Otherwise the sequence is simple – pull back to go up a gear, push forward to go down. The throw feels no longer than an inch fore or aft and it’s a wonderfully solid feeling, the clunk as you pull back for first reverberating through the length of the tiny car and leaving you in no doubt that cogs have engaged. You wouldn’t be much more in touch with the workings if you covered your hand in gearbox oil and plunged into the transmission tunnel.

The clutch travel is short and the way the revs flare when you touch the throttle commands any last vestige of wandering attention. It’s worth settling down for the first couple of miles, changing up at about 4000rpm, using the clutch on every upchange, getting used to the lower perspective of hedges, walls and other traffic that the Caterham brings. But after a while it’s time to go beyond Rs 300 and 400 and discover the sort of performance that only an R500 can unleash. It feels bonkers for the first 5000rpm but at 6000rpm the engine becomes utterly insane. As you grip the wheel tighter, the whole car feels like it can barely contain the energy bursting under the bonnet. It feels like the hand of God has just released one of those toy cars you wind up by pulling it backwards across the floor. Eventually all the red change-up LEDs sitting on the top of the dashboard are burning and then flashing at a deafening 8500rpm.

The road is mostly dry but with large, dark damp patches. This car’s a little stiffer than the yellow one I drove a couple of months ago; there’s a little more understeer from the nose and the tail is snappier when it breaks lose. Get on the throttle on a wet section and even in a straight line the rear tyres will fizz out of line faster than you can blink and your hands will swipe sideways faster than you thought possible. In a car less instinctive it would be bloody terrifying but in the Caterham it just makes you grin and bang another gear home.

OTHERS ARE ARRIVING NOW. The Brera is one of the first, looking so much better than I remember. The wheels alone are so gorgeous they deserve to go through to the next round. Harry’s turned up in the little Twingo, too. I say little, but when you get in there seems to be acres of room inside and then you realise that those castors are actually 17in wheels. The Twingo is a big car.

Just about any car feels soft after a Caterham. The Twingo’s gentle, conventional seatbelts barely seem capable of holding you back, changing gear seems to be happening with a pillow and everything feels soft. It’s like walking out of a nightclub and into a library.

‘The first rule of driving the Twingo is don’t lift. And the second rule is don’t lift’

It doesn’t take long, however, to realise that the Twingo is an absolute hoot.

There are some fantastic hairpins that tumble down the side of a hill to a rickety iron bridge and a water splash, and Chris, our brave new staff photographer, decides a shot of this is in order. He’ll learn. The first run soaks both him and his cigarettes and also dispatches a video camera that Roger Green had unwisely set up. Not that I notice, because in turning around for another go I’ve discovered the Twingo’s handbrake and to my surprise and delight execute the best handbrake turn of my life. So ensue numerous runs back and forth across the bridge and up through the hairpins before yanking the handbrake and pirouetting smartly on the allotted spot.

Through the corners it seems that the first rule of driving the 133 is don’t lift. And the second rule is don’t lift. Take your right foot away from the bulkhead and it will instantly seem like the last half hour’s acceleration has been lost. As John Barker says, ‘even changing gear you regret the loss of momentum’.

The morning’s marching on apace and by the time I’ve finished destroying expensive camera gear the whole merry gang has arrived. Cars are scampering away all over the place as people try out pre-match favourites and unknown quantities alike. Ollie’s been enjoying the Mini: ‘On these smoother corners you don’t need much steering lock, you just get on the power and it truddles you round’ (on further investigation he says he meant trundles but I like the word truddles). Then Peter Tomalin sweeps back towards us in the Caterham, looking every inch the latterday Bentley Boy.

‘That was fantastic! And what a noise! At one point I disturbed this huge bird of prey, an eagle or something – took off from the roadside and flew right over me! That wouldn’t have happened in a Scirocco. I think I roasted a sheep too with the most enormous backfire. Flames and everything. A couple of its mates gave me a pretty filthy look actually…’

I leave Ev to administer Tomalin’s medication and head for the rarefied surroundings of the Brera. The next section of road tracks parallel with a river before snaking up and around various outcrops. It’s a rather lumpen road at points, but the Brera S is a car transformed, finding huge reserves of grip and never once scraping its belly. The big steering wheel only truly comes alive once it has got some lock on, but pitch it into a corner and the weighting is spot-on. The interior has all the flair and character you’d hope for in an Alfa, epitomised by the three dials set deep into cylinders in the centre console and angled so that only the driver can see them.

I do a couple of passes through a rather appropriate S-bend for Stuart Collins’ camera and the Brera can be pushed harder and harder every time with stunning front-end grip. Even when the weight eventually overcomes the tyres and pushes those six beautiful lights wide of the mark it never feels flustered. In a way this feels odd, because despite its huge grip and undoubted dynamic aplomb it doesn’t seem overtly sporty. If it played tennis it would do so extremely well but in a cricket jumper, long white trousers and without breaking sweat.

‘The road is rather lumpen at points, but the Brera never once scrapes its belly’

The seats have the Italian trait of being over-stuffed so that you sit on rather than in them and there’s a detachment from the speed you’re carrying. It’s more like a very accomplished mini GT car. You hurtle along at a rate of knots secure in its planted, foursquare stance and utterly unfussed, as though the Brera doesn’t want to worry you about how quickly you’re actually covering the ground.

The engine is a slight disappointment, though, because it only finds its voice high up in the rev- range. As Barker says, ‘Anything with an Alfa V6 used to be tantalising – and I mean anything, even a 75 V6 was a bit dreamy – just because of the rich, classy growl it would make.’ The Brera’s V6 is thin on torque too. And the gearing is too long (110kph in second, 175kph in third!). But it’s an Alfa and it’s good to drive, so there is much cause for celebration.

There’s a gaggle back at base camp and it’s gaggling around something that from a distance looks like a Max Power interloper. Stickers, contrasting carbon bonnet and black wheels. Hmmm. John Barker’s recounting what he dsicovered on the journey over: ‘I noticed when I was looking in the mirror that the rear window didn’t have a wiper in it. Then I noticed that it wasn’t heated either. And that’s when I discovered that Renaultsport had replaced it with what appears to be cling-film.’

‘Side windows, too,’ says Ollie, giving them a prod to show how they flex.

Everyone is peering in at the roll-cage and bucket seats. Even Harry’s slightly distracted, and when I ask him about the M3 he’s just been driving he says, ‘Yes, very nice, very nice. Not a lot wrong there.’ Thanks Harry, very useful.

Fortunately, Ev is more enlightening on Munich’s finest: ‘The M3 coupe really didn’t grab me last year, but for some reason when I drove the saloon just now I really clicked with it. I think you can relax with the four-door more easily, possibly because of the less extreme tyres.’ Interesting.

We’re about to leave the Elan Valley and begin the journey northwards, so I employ the Catchpole sharp-elbow tactics handed down through generations and battle my way through to the crowd-pulling Mégane.

The R26.R is based on the already very good R26. But Renaultsport has gone a lot further. The engine still has 227bhp and 229lb ft, but the chaps in Dieppe have managed to shed a further 123kg by junking the rear seats, removing all bar the driver’s airbag, making the bonnet out of carbonfibre (saving 7.5kg), discarding the radio, taking out most of the soundproofing, deleting the front foglamps, making you adjust the mirrors manually and replacing the rear glass with plastic (saving 5.7kg). Oh, and the carbon-backed Sabelt seats and six-point harnesses that I’m currently ratcheting myself into save 25kg. There have been no half measures.

This particular car is number 000 of 230 and has come straight from France specifically for our test because Harry got down on his knees and begged. It has a couple of options, which take the cost up slightly from the $ 36,000 list price. One is the red climbing frame behind me, which comes with a set of Toyo Proxes R888 tyres (in place of standard Michelin Pilot Sport 2s) for $ 1,050. The other is the very cool titanium exhaust, which costs a rather less reasonable $ 3,375, although it is blue, which we like.

There are few roads trickier than that out to the old abandoned mines. Narrow with lots of small crests and no margin for error, it is a fantastic test for a car (and driver). Rumour has it that locals occasionally shut it down at night and use it like a closed road rally stage.

If they do, then they need to get their hands on an R26.R because I can’t think of a better car to tackle it in. The precision with which you can place the car is millimetric. The damping is ruthlessly controlled yet never crashes, and it soaks up more than the regular R26 because the reduced weight has allowed the engineers to soften the spring rates. Then there’s the diff, which seemingly no matter how much steering lock you’ve applied or how early you get on the power, just rips you out of the corner. Did I mention the steering? It’s electrically power assisted and yet miraculously it has bags of feel and natural weighting. Amongst all these Oscar-winning performances, the (very strong) engine is almost a bit-part player.

The point where I know that the Mégane is something special is on the way into a downhill right-hander. The Brembos (Porsche would be proud) are on the point of lock-up and I’m hanging forward in the belts (the ones in the empty seat next to me have floated forwards like curtains blowing in from an open window). As I come off the middle pedal to get back on the throttle the unweighted rear-end snags a camber and steps out. The road’s not wide enough for a spin but the thought simply never occurs because the slide’s corrected as instantly as if you were driving the R500 and the corner’s dispatched on the way to some air over a crest and a flat out left-hander through the following compression.

You might have guessed by now that I absolutely love it. It’s already a hero as far as I’m concerned, a tarmac rally car you can buy from a showroom. But it has no way of picking up Radio 2, sounds like Darth Vader vacuuming when it accelerates, and I know Harry views harnesses in road cars in the same way that I view pineapple served with gammon. I fear that others might think the R26.R is just too extreme…

The next changeover, and as the cars arrive, verdicts and stories tumble from the opening doors. ‘Love the inside of the Abarth,’ enthuses Barker, ‘but the front suspension appears to rely on springs, dampers and bump-stops.’ Vivian reckons the Brera is the real sleeper of the group. Tomalin reckons the Subaru is loyal and capable but ‘isn’t really up for a party’ before pottering off bemoaning the lack of dancing girls in north Wales.

We all swap round and I grab the small circular ‘key’ for the Mini John Cooper Works. Even now, after so many good ones, it’s so easy to dismiss a Mini as a bit too fashionable, a bit too estate agent to be a proper drivers’ car. But it’s a mistake you make at your peril. The JCW is very very fast. Its new exhaust and bumpers might not scream hardcore at you and the interior seems gadgets after the prison-cell sparseness of the Mégane, but the first time you feel the turbo spool up and launch you down the road you won’t think daddy’s girls and property ladders any more.

'I love eCoty. It's that Christmas-morning feeling you got when you were six'

'Favourites will be settled upon stories will unfold and heroes will be revealed'

When we first drove it, we had reservations about how the JCW put its power down. It seemed to be distracted by the smallest camber or bump and just trying to maintain a straight line down a B-road under acceleration could feel like you had a fishing rod with a pike on the end in each hand. This JCW is instantly much better: it’s still very ‘involving’ but it’s more like a boisterous friend. The classic Mini chuckability is back to the fore, and despite feeling as if it has more like 250bhp, the power doesn’t become the sole focus of your attention.

The road to Aberystwyth has opened out, weaving along a ridge flanked with black-and- white-striped Armco and majoring on third- gear corners. The tarmac is smoother here and the Mini has lost all trace of its micro-swerving under power. It’s moving around, squirming its hips beautifully under braking, and it’s hard to believe just how much traction the front finds out of corners with the electronic diff. Uphill right-hander: carry speed, turn the chunky steering wheel hard, feel the front left corner compress and dig into the slope, then get back on the throttle. It feels too soon, the corner’s barely started, yet the front wheels simply hook up and pull you ferociously round and out. It conjures the same sort of open-mouthed astonishment as when you first feel a Mitsubishi Evo fire you out of a bend.

In short it’s an absolute riot and, with the distant popping explosions from the exhaust, a true character too. Add to this a perfectly tailored driving position, a sweet gearchange and a feeling of chunky solidity that’s only matched by the other BMW in this group and you’ve got one highly desirable car. Although perhaps not in custard yellow.

There is pandemonium in Aberystwyth. The group splits and before you can say ‘easy-to-follow directions’ ten cars are lost in a bewilderment of one-way systems, roundabouts, supermarket car parks and early-evening traffic. Eventually, after a series of random sightings, wrong turns and baffled phone conversations peppered with phrases such as ‘I can see a post office’ and ‘the sign says I’m heading for somewhere with lots of Ls and no vowels’, we all meet up halfway to Machynlleth.

The light’s fading now and the first drops of rain are starting to fall. Time to have a go in the Lexus IS-F. Despite its fantastically aggressive, angular nose, 417bhp and what is undoubtedly the best soundtrack of the group, the Lexus always seems to surprise people. All day those that haven’t driven it before have been coming up to me and saying almost covertly ‘that’s really good’ as though they still can’t quite believe it. Lexus may not have produced some of our favourite cars in the past, but the IS-F is well worthy of its place here.

We’re at the back of the eCoty convoy now and initially there’s little chance to stretch its legs, so as we set off towards Betws-y-Coed the IS-F does its wonderfully hushed luxo-barge performance. The seat feels like a big leather La-Z-Boy, the V8 is smooth and hushed and the auto gearbox shuffles around as unobtrusively as an ancient butler in a remote castle.

It’s relaxing. The ride is curious, as it seems to be stiff in vertical movements yet soft in roll, so you feel the odd thump over bumps on a straight yet it settles down quite plushly in the corners.

A junction drops us off the back of the pack. Then the road starts to climb upwards into the gloaming and the cat’s eyes dot out ahead through a series of shallow bends. It takes five tugs on the paddle to get down to third gear so I can overtake, but it’s worth the risk of a repetitive strain injury as the revs climb above 4000rpm for the first time. The increase in volume is instant, like someone has just opened a soundproof door. Suddenly the V8 is bellowing and the Lexus feels like a completely different car. You’re being squashed back into the leather and the seamless gearchanges merely punctuate the surge of grunt with nano-blips in the roaring soundtrack, never letting you so much as pause for breath.

Its pace and size could make the IS-F intimidating but it actually gives up its performance much more easily than an M3. The steering is direct but the chassis never feels edgy so you don’t feel like you’re going to upset the IS-F with any inputs. Even when you get it sliding it’s a friendly car, that quick steering helping to correct the swinging tail, although a proper mechanical LSD in place of the electronic one would sharpen the rear end for the better.

In some ways the IS-F is almost too friendly to be a true drivers’ car. Yet there are times when you don’t want to be living on a knife-edge, times when it’s nice to be able to put a smile on your face just by holding a gear to 4000rpm rather than having to rev it to twice that (yes M3, I’m talking about you). I know I’d enjoy driving it down to France and yet it can still do the lariest oversteer of any car here.

'The IS-F never feels edgy. Even when you get it sliding, it's a friendly car'

By the time I’ve flicked down the octet of gears for the last time and parked up with a squeeze of the foot-operated ‘handbrake’, it’s dark. Tomalin is just rolling in with the Caterham, which looks tiny next to the Lexus. He’s still grinning. It’s been a good day and with valleys and mountain ranges behind us it feels like we’ve travelled a lot further than Rhayader to Betws. After checking into our rooms, everyone drifts down to the bar of the Royal Oak and the volume of chatter gradually swells. Vivian’s been Twingo’d. ‘The biggest compliment that you can pay it is that it feels a bit Clio-like. Not as good, but the character is definitely there.’

Ollie Marriage has been blown away by the Mégane: ‘I don’t think I’ve ever driven a car that feels like it’s had so much weight removed from it. Even the difference between 911 and GT3 RS – this feels more.’

Harry’s unusually enthused about the R500. ‘Best Caterham I’ve ever been in. Wild, absolutely wild… terrific… just what a Caterham should be. I have to say that I drove it much better when I could brake though. I should have brought some better shoes along.’ No Harry, wellingtons aren’t exactly ideal.

Supper’s gradually emerging from the kitchen so I take my pint and dictaphone and settle down to a table with Tomalin and an anxious- looking John Simister…

‘I’m just wondering where my skate is… My thoughts? Cars? Oh yes, of course, right, err, are you recording? ISF: remarkably good fun. Is that my skate? No? Not mine? No. Ummmm…’

‘Anyone waiting for a steak?’ asks a waitress.

‘Skate?’

‘Steak.’

‘Oh, no, skate. Which is an anagram of steak actually isn’t it? Anyway it’s unusual for an epicycle, torque-converter-type gearbox to have such a fantastically responsive paddle-shifting system. I rather like it, I think it’s bit of a dark horse. Hello! Excuse me!’

‘Yes, sir?’

There’s a skate…

‘…on its way, sir. You are the last meal.’

‘Oh excellent. The first shall be last and the last shall be first and all that. Perfect. Meanwhile I’ll steal one of Peter’s chips. Abarth – strange springy steering. Hard to put little precise inputs into it, so long corners become a series of bites. Oh, Brera – bit of a surprise. I thought that they’d give it to Prodrive and it would become some rock-solid jittery choppy thing and it’s not. Subaru. Three-hundred-and-what bhp?’

‘Treehunredantwenyfive,’ says Peter through a chip.

‘Oh. Well. I don’t know where it’s gone. It’s very laggy as well. And that’s about it. Oh, no, wait… Scirocco!’ says Simi like he’s discovered a magician’s password.

‘Great. Love it.’

‘Really??’ says Peter, deftly wielding a steak knife. ‘Scirocco in “not dull” shocker,’ he mocks, applying a little mustard.

‘The Scirocco’s not dull,’ retorts Simi. ‘It works best in comfort mode because it’s still quite firm, but it flows nicely on those undulating roads. Nice engine, minimal lag. It’s a very even car, so individual aspects don’t leap out at you, but it’s one of those cars that… Ah! Lovely, thank you. Skate…’

Day Two
As curtains are drawn back from bedroom windows the next morning it seems as though a cloud has been unzipped over north Wales. It is unremittingly grey and wet. The photographers do not look happy at breakfast, so after orange juice and toast, Roger Green and I do a quick disappearing act with the keys to the M3 and head off for the evo triangle.

'When the M3 is taut and balanced on the edge of a slide it's like driving in HD'

It might seem odd having an M3 here. There was, after all a perfectly good M3 on eCoty 2007. What’s more, this one hasn’t got a carbon roof or special Michelin Pilot Sport Cup tyres that look like slicks. Yet the M3 saloon is a better car than its coupe sibling. Push BMW and its engineers will admit to a very slightly different set-up and the overall effect is certainly marked enough to merit a place here. It’s hard to explain why, but the added practicality somehow makes the M3 saloon cooler, too. Not that cool matters out here on the bleak moorland where the only arbiters are bedraggled sheep and the occasional soaked farmer on a muddy quad-bike.

If the M3’s going to win (and it was something of a favourite going into this) it certainly won’t do so for its interior. Immaculately finished but duller than a Formula 1 post-race interview, the tricolour stitching on the chunky wheel is the only highlight. It’s ironic that BMW can be all planet-sized speedo in the Mini yet so Teutonic in here. Not that Rog seems to mind. ‘The saloon just seems much easier to flow with down the road, and the steering is more consistent too.’ Even from the passenger seat it’s obvious that the damping is subtly better than the coupe’s.

M Division’s 4-litre V8 remains nothing less than a masterpiece and it’s nicely warmed by the time I’ve dropped enough hints to Roger to pull over and let me have a go. I’m quite picky about my settings on the M3 so it’s Power button on, steering set to Normal (Sport always seems a bit artificial), electronic dampers to their middle setting and stability control switched to M Dynamic Mode, which allows plenty of slip but will step in if it thinks you’ve gone sideways and then got distracted by sneezing or something.

The saloon is more engaging than the coupe at lower levels of commitment but the real rewards remain in what Roger decides should be christened the M-dimension. As the revs rise ever higher, so the car seems to rise up like it’s standing on tip-toes. You might shift slightly in the seat and your nerve-endings will begin to tingle. It takes real concentration to rev it all the way to the red line and it takes a slight jump of faith to start pushing the chassis to its limits (especially in the wet) but then the M3 comes alive. The switch from grip to slip is more progressive on regular rubber, but still, when you’re extracting that last bit of performance, when the throttle seems hyper-reactive and the M3 is taut and balanced on the edge of a slide, it’s like driving in High Definition. You see and feel everything with a clarity that writes it instantly onto your memory forever. You don’t see rain, you see individual raindrops, you don’t just see a road, you see a varying surface laid with rougher or smoother tarmac, you don’t just see a corner, you see a vanishing point in flux.

By the time we’ve descended through the trees back to the petrol station in Betws-y-Coed, the M3 saloon, yellow fuel light aglow, has made the day seem better already, if no drier.

Back at the hotel, most other people have run off with cars for a drive. The plan for today had been to continue our journey and head up towards the Llanberis pass in the shadow of the hulking mass of Snowdon, then carry on out towards the coast and Porthmadog beach where there’s enough space to arrange ten cars for a group shot. Despite enough water now falling to get Noah a bit twitchy, we decide that as it’s the only plan we’ve got we’re going to stick to it.

I want to have a longer go in the Twingo and then try its most natural competitor here, the Abarth. The littler Renaultsport seems overawed initially by the scale of the fast, wide road that marches through the valley floor towards Snowdon. You simply keep the throttle pinned, choose the line of least resistance and try and keep up with the car in front. The seats in the Twingo look about as unexceptional as it’s possible to look, but they actually grip you high up under your arms and hold you in place really well as you barrel along. The gearshift can, like all Renaults’, be rushed through as fast as you can move your hand, which makes up slightly for the otherwise less than tactile change.

Soon the road becomes much more suitable: narrower and continuously twisting between overhanging trees. Here you simply have to carry speed rather than create it, so the Twingo starts to shine more brightly. It simply grips and grips, then grips some more like it’s on slicks. Given its tall, narrow silhouette, what it’s doing doesn’t seem possible. The tail feels light and is genuinely throttle adjustable. Through longer corners you can feel it bouncing slightly like a van that’s got nothing in the back. The Abarth doesn’t seem to have been shaken off though…

An afternoon on Porthmadog beach. How lovely. Everyone sheltering from the wind and rain in the lee of photographer Chris Rutter’s Range Rover Sport. A packet of mints being shared around. John Simister chasing the empty packet across the sand. It’s like an evo family holiday. The Italians are incredulous.

Eventually, photo in the can or bag or memory card, we all make a rush for the cars once more. The 500 Abarth feels cosier than the Twingo and this leather-trimmed version feels distinctly classier too. The combined rev-counter and speedo with the dinky boost gauge sprouting from the side makes you smile before you’ve even moved. Then you start it up, move off and the smile fades. At first I hope that it’s just because I’m driving across sand, but very quickly it’s obvious that the 500 has terrible steering. The assistance feels like it’s being controlled with magnets, with a bizarre elasticated sensation as you put lock on. The Abarth and Mégane are at opposite ends of the electrically assisted spectrum.

It’s my turn to chase the Twingo now and it has, if anything, got wetter still. We’re going back along the same walls-brushing-wing-mirrors road that suited the French car so well, and at first the Abarth doesn’t inspire as much confidence. But then you begin to trust it and realise that you can throw it around with utter abandon. Where the Renault leans and you focus on the front end, the 500 stays flat and you get information from all four corners at the same time. You feel what’s going on beneath you, through the seat of your pants and the short  wheelbase rather than the rim of the steering wheel. The stiffness of the set-up translates to choppier progress on bumpy sections but it’s never headache-inducing like the Panda 100HP could be, and when it does understeer it breaks away progressively, even in the wet.

And then there’s the Scorpion’s trump card (if it were an original 500 it would be the sting in its tail. Don’t groan), the reason why I can happily drop back from the red dart in front and know that I can catch it up again. The Abarth may have only 2bhp more, but its 1.4-litre turbo gives it 152lb ft of torque at 3000rpm as opposed to the Renault’s 118lb ft at 4400rpm. The engine is a corker, punching from low down and making the little Italian feel genuinely quick and brimming with energy.

One car left to drive and it’s not until we get back to Betws and darkness has fallen that I get the chance. The red dials lend an eerie glow to the Subaru’s interior, but the xenon headlights are some of the best I’ve used. After the supermini duo, the Impreza is blisteringly quick. ‘Tough’ is the adjective that David Vivian used when he described the 330S to me yesterday and as usual he’s spot on. The gearshift is as tight as the Caterham’s and the whole driveline underneath you really feels made to wrestle with brutal gobs of torque. The power increase isn’t initially obvious compared with the standard STI, throttle response low-down feels lazy and the engine laggy, but the power’s there alright. Where the standard engine weakens higher up the rev-range the 330 now charges harder and harder, thumping you up the road as fast as the M3.

'It's my turn to chase the Renault now. At first the Abarth doesn't inspire as much confidence'

I head back up to the triangle in the darkness on my own. Hunkered down and clamped into the Recaro’s perfect driving position there’s a security to the way the Impreza covers the ground. Yet it’s not satisfying. You know there’s grip from the chassis and four-wheel drive, yet you never feel able to use it to full effect because the steering is light and desperately lacking in feel around the dead ahead so you can’t gauge the grip and commit to a corner. You inevitably drive in too tentatively, waiting until you’re sure there’s enough friction between tyre and tarmac before unleashing the power to drive out of the turn. An Impreza shouldn’t be like that, it should give you the confidence to be on the power long before an apex.

This car also has the optional stiffer Prodrive spring kit, but there’s not a huge difference over standard and it needs to tie the STI down a lot more, especially at the front, if it’s to recapture the old magic. The exhaust sounds great now, with a proper burble at idle and a good grumble from the flat-four as you back off too. But this and its truly dizzying speed is not enough to save the 330S from coming last in eCoty 2008.

Day Three
The final day is mercifully sunny again and we spend the morning on the roads that jink and weave in the shadow of Snowdon, waterfalls gushing off its sides. Final drives are had and decisions are made, then changed, then changed again as everyone tries to put the ten cars in order. John Simister even comes up with his own formula for scoring, but is forced to abandon the process after two hours of trigonometry and pure maths leads him to the conclusion that a Peugeot 307 estate is Car of the Year.

After the Impreza comes the Twingo 133, which impressed everyone with its chassis but irritated a few for the fact that power only seemed to arrive at 6900rpm, just 100rpm before you have to change up. Compared with the funky Abarth it lacked the ‘want one’ factor too, but it was close and you’d probably find as many people who placed the two hot hatches the other way around on their score sheet.

VW’s Scirocco is hard to criticise. In fact you can’t really say there’s anything wrong with it at all. It even looks great. John Barker sums it up best: ‘Brilliant car, but just a bit one-dimensional in this company. It’s very competent, but there’s nothing about it that grabs you by the heart.’

Which is the exact opposite of the car one place higher. The 500 Abarth might look like it’s been left unfinished in primer grey, but it is possibly the most colourful car here, endearing itself to all who drove it. The chassis and engine only just manage to distract you from the terrible steering, however, so it goes back across the Channel heading for Italy rather than the south of France.

The Brera S is, without a doubt, the biggest transformation of 2008. The fact that it beat the Scirocco, its nearest rival, is not down to sheer character and elegance either. Prodrive has imbued the chassis with real composure, instilled feel into the steering and banished all thoughts of the heavy blancmange that was the standard car. Now if they could just shorten that gearing and tune up the V6…

Twelve months ago few would have thought that Lexus could build a car to rival the BMW M3, but the IS-F is just that and deservedly makes it into the top five. Ollie Marriage in particular loves it: ‘It’s got the bonkers factor, the feeling that it’s slightly unhinged.’ Controversially he also reckons that it has the perfect gearing for the roads we’ve been driving – ‘Third is all you need!’ he insists.

'As long as the Caterham Seven exists, so will the thrill of driving'

Ultimately, however, there are four cars way out in front, fighting for the chance to go to France. Everyone’s top quartet consists of the same four cars (apart from Harry’s, which raises every eyebrow around the car park, including those of a couple of tourists in a Speedwell 970 Camper, when he decides that the Scirocco was in fact more fun than the Mégane, M3 and Caterham).

In fourth is the BMW, a whopping 4.5 percentage points ahead of the IS-F and just 0.1 behind the Caterham. ‘The longer and harder you drive it the more you realise what great depth of talent it has,’ says Tomalin. Roger Green actually has it first on his scorecard and Barker reckons the M3 has now replaced the RS4 at the top of his wishlist of supersaloons. Praise doesn’t come much higher.

‘My right ear’s deaf from the exhaust, my left ear’s deaf from the gearbox, my left leg’s on fire, I couldn’t see because it was raining on the inside of the screen… but it was mega!’ That was Green when he got out of the R500. If Caterham was a new company and the R500 had emerged this year as a completely new car (like the KTM X-Bow) then it would have won easily. But essentially it is the latest, fastest brilliant incarnation in a long line of brilliant incarnations. As a result everyone was in agreement that it should be singled out for a special lifetime achievement award.

Runner-up this year, and proof that everyone likes a bit of rough, is the wild child Mini JCW. BMW could have held back on the power and torque to make it more composed, but thank goodness they didn’t. It’s brimming with vim and vigour, it’s exciting and it makes you smile to be in something that pops on the overrun and hasn’t been crushingly sanitised. John Simister loves it: ‘It’s fantastic. The steering might be a bit corrupt and impure, but it’s all part of the character. On the drive to Porthmadog yesterday chasing the others it was absolutely the weapon of choice as far as I was concerned.’ Ollie concurs: ‘It is hilariously rapid and so damn fast cross-country.’

But not as fast as our winner. The Mégane R26.R won at a canter in the end and rightly so – it is utterly brilliant. And as Ollie Marriage says, ‘it’s actually a car emphatically not about speed and the fact it can go round the Ring in 8.17, as tattoo’d on the back window. It’s about the delicacy, finesse and involvement you get from it.’ Peter Tomalin hits the nail squarely on the top too: ‘It’s got so much of what I love about the Caterham but in a hatchback.’

No matter which of the many roads we travelled, from the Elan Valley to Porthmadog, whoever was driving the Mégane would get out in awe. To put bucket seats and six-point harnesses in a road car and for them not to feel out of place is extraordinary. For that same car not to feel elitistly hardcore, not to make you feel like you need to be Alonso to enjoy driving it, is almost unbelievable. As Barker says, ‘the steering, brakes, power delivery, ride and handling will put a smile on anyone’s face. The R26.R flows like the very best cars, regardless of cost.’ Now that sounds like a challenge…

The Final Score

Renaultsport Mégane R26.R 92.1
Mini John Cooper Works  90.0
Caterham Superlight R500  89.7
BMW M3 saloon  89.6
Lexus IS-F  85.1
Alfa Romeo Brera S V6  83.0
500 Abarth  82.7
VW Scirocco 2.0 TSI  82.4
Renaultsport Twingo 133  81.6
Subaru Impreza STI 330S  80.4

'There are four cars way out in front, all fighting for the chance to go to France'