Aston Martin DB11 vs Bentley Conti GT vs Mercedes S-Class Coupe

The glass must be too thick. Or maybe French péage booths are intelligent enough to detect three blokes trying to act all suave in their M&S shirts and Burton Menswear shoes and decide to take us down a peg or three. The télépéage readers aren’t working. Hazards flashing, we’re reversing out. Again. Humiliation. Stress. And on two separate occasions, a sizeable amount of angry arm-waving.

I think we’re at Dijon before I twig that if I hold the useless plastic lozenge out of the window, the booth decides I’m already making enough of an arse of myself to raise the barrier grudgingly upwards. 

Images: Mark Riccioni

This feature was originally published in issue 290 of Top Gear magazine

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was meant to be an effortless sweep down through France, a convivial conquest of the Champagne region, then down to Saint-Tropez for a leisurely evening cocktail in a delightful seafront bistro, Charles Aznavour crooning in the background, boats bobbing in the harbour, mohair jumpers draped round the shoulders.

This is the journey we dream of, isn’t it? There is nothing more appropriate to do with this class of car, so the quest for the best Grand Tourer is to be decided by Touring Grandly in them. But France is big, isn’t it? And there are laws that mean any notion of outpacing TGVs in a back-to-front recreation of Bentley versus Blue Train would likely result in a contest of frightened TopGear journalist versus shouty, armed gendarmes. Instead it turns out that modern-day Grand Touring is actually Grandly Tiring. 

Things had started out buoyantly enough. Yes, we’d all had starts at something-beginning-with-a-three from various points about 150 miles from Folkestone, but as we nose down the ramp onto the Eurotunnel, a plump sun peeks up from somewhere over Samphire Hoe and beams orangely at our little convoy. It feels like a blessing.

The Aston Martin DB11 costs £167,015, and its twin-turbo V12 has 600bhp. Inside are two stunning seats, a couple of sculpted niches for children and some preened leather. There are some recognisable DB9 tropes: the gearchange buttons, the low seating position, the cramped centre console, the cheap electric seat controls, but the overall impression is delightful. 

Soft dawn sun does wonders for the Mercedes-AMG S63. The matt paint diffuses the light, intensifying the surfacing. It’s another twin-turbo powerhouse – 577bhp propelling four proper seats, pillarless windows and enough tech to keep a 12-year-old quiet. Over £17,000 cheaper than the Aston, and way, way better kitted out. Honestly, I think Aston ought to have a word with Merc about this whole partnership deal they’ve got going on.

£149,800 for a 13-year-old Bentley. Yep, the Conti GT has been around since 2003. Aged well, hasn’t it? Only 521bhp for this V8S, though, and it’s a 2,295kg leviathan alongside the dainty DB11, but confident and comfortable in its own skin, which the DB11… well, those front vents… maybe it’s just the wheelarch clearance that’s wrong. 

I’ve been in the Aston since 3.42am. Six hours later, I’m still utterly flummoxed by the heating controls and want to take a crowbar to the ridiculous touchpad. Aston: the clickwheel control is fine, you don’t need a touchpad that only serves to further clutter the already cramped console. And why is the key so massive? And why doesn’t it fit the slot that seems to have been designed for it? The electric sliding console lid, though? Nice touch. And those pocketed door pulls.

It’s a lovely place to while away northern France, which is currently looking mighty appealing itself, soft mist draping the valleys. The DB11 rides plushly, but isn’t faultlessly refined. There’s constant engine hum at higher revs, wind noise from the A-pillars and a certain surface sensitivity. There’s less focus on insulation and isolation here, but on long journeys it’s often the small things that make the difference. I’ll take the Aston’s wind and road noise, because the elbow rests are the best padded. And the seats – not only sumptuously upholstered, but so, so well-shaped. Faultless. 

For three hours, each engine holds steady at 80mph (a mere 1,700rpm in the Bentley, just 100rpm more for the S63, up another 100rpm for the DB11). Then we’re among vineyards and nosing our way past discreet châteaux. It’s all very debonair. There’s no sense of urgency, because these are not cars to dash about in. They’re momentum cars – they acquire pace and maintain it gracefully. Still, it smarts a bit when, after a long run-up, I’m cleanly overhauled by a tatty 206, who in the space of two corners vanishes in a flurry of body roll and Gauloises. Nearly midday. There’s not much faster through France than a lunch-starved Frenchman in a battered Peugeot. 

We’re more aimless. We mosey about, swap cars a bit, then, having duelled another péage, reacquire the autoroute. I’m now in the Bentley, aiming to take a big bite out of the middle of France. It’s stately, but has a naughty streak. Quite Prince Harry. Here’s something: if you park on an up-slope, the doors are so heavy you can’t open them. But weight also brings stability and momentum and solidity. I have chosen well – this is hands-down the best car at munching France. There’s some distant humming from the engine room, a flutter of wind noise from the C-pillar and utterly no unwanted body movement. Times passes, kilometres are consumed, the globe rotates beneath the spinning wheels, the fuel needle slips slowly south. But on board all is calmness. It’s bliss.

So you either marvel at the traditional stuff (leather, wood, chrome, fit and finish that Aston is a long way from matching), or glower at Bentley’s attempts to integrate modern tech. There’s no USB port, your phone plugs in inside the glovebox, which – yes – is very safe, but I need my phone because the satnav is laggy and the graphics hopeless. I think the VW Golf had this system about a decade back. 

Some time later we’re in Lyon, where it is rush hour. Yes, afternoon rush hour. France is big, isn’t it? The cocktail is in doubt. Better deploy the S63 AMG, then. It’s more thrusting and assertive than the Brits, makes noise for the sake of it, tries to second-guess your needs. This is an issue. Initially, I don’t notice, too busy being bowled over by how silent the cabin is. These are pillarless doors. How can the sealing be this perfect? You sit commandingly, facing a clean, open layout. It feels good. A bit nightclubby once the sun drops and the ambient lighting shows itself, so to complete the picture I deploy tunes through the Burmester. Ooh, noisy. I rummage through the menus and fiddle with the sound balance. About an hour later I realise I’m not that comfortable. I delve into more menus and pop back out to find myself enjoying a massage. Then I have to change lanes. The car and I have a disagreement about how best to do this.

The Merc has everything from radar cruise to lane keep. If you have the systems on, the S63 is less relaxing to drive. It’s always peering over your shoulder looking for a way to assist, eager to point out your mistakes. Mercifully you can turn most of this off, but there’s so much distraction, the tech becomes oppressive. I’m spending an inordinate amount of time staring at screens not scenery. This isn’t very Grand Tourish.

And I’m still not comfortable. These huge seats may adjust every which way, but we all find them too big, too stuffed. During a low moment, at around the time I realise we’re going to be eating dinner at a service station, I discover I can choose how far the bootlid should open. 

So the S63 doesn’t do distance as effortlessly as the Bentley. It’s more sporting, the sharper rack gives it nervier steering, it’s a bit more at you the whole time. However, at around bedtime, when we finally turn off the autoroute and leave the final péage behind us to confront the tortuous wiggles up to La Garde-Freinet (I tell everyone it translates as “Watch your brakes.” Maybe it does), I’m happier. Its clever Curve Control, which tilts you into corners, allows it to tackle this road without apparent effort. Good kickdown and responsive brakes, too. The Aston suffers from a lack of brake bite, the Bentley, mass.

The heat that emanates from the Bentley shows just how hard it has to work to manage its weight. That front end heaves into corners, but on the way out, 4WD and 502lb ft combine to deliver remarkable speed and energy. The V8 thunders and burbles on the overrun, the whole car seeming to glow with the effort.

But the Aston is the one to drive. There’s a relaxed athleticism to it, it’s limber and supple, the steering is beautiful – really beautiful – to use, a genuine highlight. The cultured V12 howls balefully – it’s responsive and precise. Up to a point. You see, even with the dampers ratcheted up, it’s still quite soft and if you push too hard it does lose body control. The brakes need less slop at the top of the travel, it’s noisy on coarse surfaces and sat so far back you have to be circumspect about where the nose is and how long it’ll be until you get there.

We roll into Saint-Tropez very late. It’s October. The place is practically deserted. Barely a boat in the harbour. Purple light escapes from restaurant L’Escale and we gravitate to it. It’s open, and I attempt to step suavely from the car. The manager twigs the M&S shirt, I twig the price list and we swiftly head to bed. At an Ibis. 

Although the milometer readings vary slightly, we’ve done somewhere in the region of 890 miles today. We’ve refuelled three times since Folkestone. The S-Class Coupe has glugged 178.38 litres (21.7mpg), the DB11 185.13 litres (20.9mpg) and the Continental 187.49 litres (20.6mpg). Which means all the trip computers are telling porky pies, with the Bentley’s being the biggest (24.2mpg).

The next day we return to this prettily iconic town where it’s the Aston that everyone notices, but the Bentley that’s the easiest to move about in. It gives you the best sense of where the perimeters are, while the Aston is downright tricky at junctions due to the confluence of A-pillar and door mirror. The back streets of Saint-Tropez are hilariously narrow with comically high stone kerbs. The chap who’s got it right is piloting a Renault Twizy, basset hound perched on a belly that must have had a good proportion of France’s annual claret production through it, while he’s offsetting the zero emissions by puffing on a huge stogie. He should be driving the Bentley. That would be more him. Drop all the windows and let that deep V8 rumble. 

The Merc feels great driving like that, too, but there’s something about driving a Bentley or Aston Martin on the Côte d’Azur that’s just… better. They’re more of an event. Having twitched and fumbled these big cars around kerbs and barriers, we emerge onto the harbour wall. It’s the literal end of our journey – all that lies beyond is the Mediterranean. The Merc’s the first I’d push into the drink. It’s big and drips technology, but misses the essence of what makes a truly great Grand Tourer. 

The Brit pair nail the brief better. They don’t believe comfort and ability is best delivered through technology. They’re more natural in their behaviour and their movement. Which is better? Well, let me put it this way: the Bentley is a true Grand Tourer, the Aston a Sports Tourer. That’s a small but decisive difference. The Bentley impressed me because, despite its age, it still feels relevant and extremely fit for purpose. A new one will arrive soon. Watch out, Aston. In the meantime, the DB11 takes top honours by a slender margin, with the caveat that it feels like it still needs detail work to fully finesse it. But the basics are spot on: it’s supple and soaks up distance, yielding and gentle, but also a car you can engage with and relish. A car for a journey like this. Just one thing with that. Don’t do it. Grand Touring is great, but it shouldn’t occupy so many hours of a day.