As we explained while lambasting the Polo BlueMotion last month, an eco-car must combine the thrills of its full-fat brethren with the drinking habit of a teetotal camel. Dullness in the name of green will not be tolerated. But what if – perish the thought – the eco-car was better to drive?

Say a thought-perishing hello to the Audi A4e, the third e-suffixed Audi after the A3e and A6e. Armed with the full smorgasbord of eco-measures – long gearing, aero trickery, KERS and the world’s quickest stop-start system – it manages over 60mpg and 120g/km of CO2 (yes, that’s £35-a-year road tax). That means the A4e matches the awesome BMW 316d on economy and emissions, but trumps the Beemer in the power stakes, returning 134bhp and 236lb ft of torque to the Beemer’s 114bhp and 192lb ft. Outscoring BMW in Efficient Diesel Top Trumps is some feat in itself, but more importantly the ‘e’ is one of the sweetest diesel A4s we’ve tested.

The revised suspension and 17-inch wheels (posh ‘S-Line’ Audi A4s we’ve driven have ridden on 18- or even 19-inchers) and low-resistance tyres serve to smooth out the A4′s occasionally knobbly ride, while the less intrusive power steering system gives more directness. OK, we’re not talking RS4 levels of feedback – this is, after all, a 2.0-litre diesel saloon – but it’s in no way… ecompromised.

California, especially the northern bit, is purpose-built for driving romantics. Out here, you’re the star in your own private movie.

It’s happening right now, though we might have inadvertently cast ourselves in the wrong film. We’re on the edge of the Sierra de Salinas mountain range, near Carmel Valley, where Clint Eastwood used to be mayor. There are vast tracts of farmland either side of us, with one long, bendy road spearing through the middle. We’re in Porsche’s new flyweight Boxster Spyder, which weighs 1,275kg. This isn’t just 80kg lighter than the regular Boxster S, it makes it the lightest model in the current Porsche range. With 320bhp on tap, the power-to-weight ratio is what you might call promising.

There’s a big, blue sky above us, and an orangey winter sun. We’re following another Boxster Spyder, whose exhaust emits a fruity Porsche parp as its driver works his way through the ‘box. Its back tyres kick up little curlicues of dust as it runs momentarily wide. Romantic, see?

Overtaking out here isn’t the teeth-gnashing lottery that is, say, junction 19 of the M25 on a wet Wednesday evening. In fact, in 20 minutes we see just one other vehicle. Unfortunately, it’s a vehicle that happens to be about 60ft long, and has mad Jack McMad behind the wheel with only his shotgun and whatever the US version of the Yorkie bar is for company.

Porsche no.1 blasts past. Porsche no.2 finds a 32-tonne artic in the middle of the road to be something of an impediment. We hang back, and lay off the fruity parping for a bit. He moves back over. But we’ve seen Duel enough times to wonder what’s next. Do we really want to play chicken with a big rig? Maybe this guy’s more of a 911 fan…

Porsche takes the business of saving weight pretty seriously. For example, the gudgeon pins on the 911 GT3′s pistons are 180g lighter than standard, and making its connecting rods out of titanium saves another 150g. But that’s the race-spec GT3, and though the Boxster Spyder shares some of its DNA, its role is completely different. This Porsche reboots a model line that goes right back to the company’s roots, to cars like the ’53 356 America Roadster but more significantly 1954′s 550 Spyder (the one James Dean christened ‘little bastard’, with good reason as it turned out). Rummage through the history books a bit further, and it’s clear that the Spyder name is reserved for racing cars. Should we care that this latest one absolutely isn’t?

It’s also not an RS. Or a Clubsport. This is the third official and unlimited edition Boxster variant, the most powerful and, at £44,643, the most expensive. And in the time-honoured tradition, what that extra money buys you is… less. Specifically, less roof. In exchange for the standard car’s perfectly useful electric folding roof, you now get a ‘thing’, to fiddle into place above your head. They’re geniuses, these people, they really are.

Mind you, ‘thing’ or not, the Boxster Spyder looks fantastic, like a distilled Carrera GT. If not quite as rakish as some previous open-topped Porsche specials, the fairings on the newly extended rear deck are striking, and the body-side graphics are coolly retro (Google the 909 Bergspyder for proof). If it looks meaner and less effeminate than usual, that’s because it’s 20mm lower, with narrower, lighter side windows.

There’s new engineering here too. While most of the Spyder is steel, the doors and single-piece rear deck are now made of aluminium, saving a total of 18kg. The new roof – which Porsche variously refers to as a sunsail or cap, which is why I will continue to call it ‘thing’ – weighs less than 6kg, while the carbon-fibre frame that holds it in position is just 5kg.

There are new 10-spoke alloy wheels, which weigh less than 10kg each, qualifying them as the lightest 19in rims in Porsche’s range. Inside, there are new lightweight carbon-fibre sports seats, which trim another 12kg from the overall kerbweight. There’s a front bumper with LED daytime running lights, black plastic mesh inserts on the side air intakes, and a black double exhaust pipe. The standard Boxster Spyder does without a stereo system or air-conditioning, though tellingly every test car I looked at featured both items. There are fabric door-pulls, there’s no cowl over the main instrument binnacle (how much weight must that have saved?), and the wind-deflector’s plastic. The centre console and dash facings are finished in the exterior body colour, and the gear lever shift pattern and seatbelts are red. This isn’t the place for modern life’s rubbish, either; the cup-holders and door pockets have been deleted.

Modern life being what it is, most of these things are still available as options. As are things like Porsche’s Sport Chrono pack, which buys you the dash-mounted stopwatch, and a button on the centre console that sharpens up throttle response (cost: £520). Go for the dual-shift PDK transmission, and you’ll get a Sport Plus button, that speeds up shift times and oversees a launch-control system (that’ll be a total of £1,920).

And that’s just the tip of one expensive iceberg. The fact is, the whole options thing is a bit of a conundrum. What looks at first glance like a Boxster unplugged has the potential to be anything but. You can have regular leather seats and the full audio system as a no-cost option, or the full-on PCM ‘communication module’ with the touchscreen. Order that and aircon, and a good chunk of the 80kg weight-saving must surely pile straight back on.

Ceramic brakes are another pricey option (£5,235), but more in keeping with the car’s lightweight ethos because they reduce its unsprung mass. The sports exhaust, which gives the Boxster a rasping character boost, is another option that should surely be standard here, but isn’t (£1,249). In other words, an idiot Spyder buyer could easily send this supposedly lo-cal Porsche to the all-you-can-eat buffet, or simply tick the wrong boxes, and ruin it. In fact, a fat idiot Spyder buyer would ruin it simply by getting into it.

Though ruin in this context is a relative term. Because even a poorly specified Boxster Spyder is still a very, very good thing. The Spyder gets Porsche’s brilliant direct injection 3.4-litre flat-six power unit, with Variocam Plus variable valve timing. It’s almost identical to the Boxster S but for a few important differences. With 320bhp to call on, it’s 10bhp more powerful. Peak power is at 7,200rpm, 950rpm higher than in the regular car. It has more grunt too, and a slightly flatter torque curve.

This means it laps the ‘Ring seven seconds faster than the standard car. It also means our time exposed to mental trucker man is pretty minimal, thank God. We head deeper into the valley, and by now we’re having so much fun I honestly can’t think of anything that would work better out here. As much power as any sane individual could ever need, magnificent drivetrain, easily exploitable chassis… It’s quite a thing, this car – especially with the roofy ‘thing’ stowed away and the breeze aerating us.

Porsche doesn’t just do great engineering, it knows how to plug the driver right into the heart of the machine. So your relationship with all the major controls is perfect, the level of tactility not far adrift from what’s available in a decent racing car. It’s an intuitive, instinctive car to drive. (All the more intuitive and instinctive if you order the Alcantara trim for the wheel, gear lever and handbrake, and short-throw shift, both optional, obviously – £349 and £372.)

But although it has terrific responses, it also rides surprisingly sweetly, especially for a supposedly stripped car. Local government ineptitude might have saddled the UK with some of the most hopeless road surfaces on the planet, but America’s infrastructure is piss-poor too. The Boxster Spyder has stiffer, fixed-rate dampers rather than an active system, shorter and harder springs, firmer anti-roll bars and a more aggressive, negative camber on the wheels. On these satisfyingly twisty but broken roads, it could be horribly compromised. But though firm, it’s also wonderfully compliant and manages to find a Lotus-like suspension sweet spot which preserves body control without destroying your dentistry.

Traction or grip aren’t issues either. The Spyder has a limited-slip diff, and the Boxster’s chassis has always been unflappable. Even on tight, slippery second-gear corners, where overhanging trees have kept things interesting, it doesn’t bite. Great brakes too, steel or ceramic. It’s an exceptionally good car.

But not perfect. The roof is a bit silly, and we prove this by taking so long to fasten it on – it hooks over two exposed clasps on the rear deck – that Yorkie man actually manages to catch us up in the middle of a super-twisty forest section (what the hell is he doing up here?). Imaginations working overtime, we make good our escape just before he can blast us with his 12-bore.

Then there’s the small matter of how much a judiciously specced Spyder would actually cost. Working off the regular Boxster’s options price list, I manage to get my optimum Spyder up to a rather worrying £54,353 without trying too hard. Which takes it perilously close to used 997 GT3 money, and that’s a whole different ball-game.

Make no mistake, this is a sublime car. It has an abundance of all the things I treasure most in a sports car – performance, agility, linearity, character. But there’s a whiff of opportunism about it, and I suspect that Porsche’s people – the princes of lightweight gudgeon pins – could strip a bit more than 80kg out of this thing, to make it even more focused.

As it is, the Spyder’s marketing message has become entangled with the engineering one. It clearly fancies itself as a successor to Jimmy Dean’s infamous 550 Spyder, but instead of being too hard to handle, it’s possibly just a bit too easy. It’s no bastard, little or otherwise.

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Range Rover is playing a dicey game. For years, this TDV8 has spearheaded the diesel range and clobbered aside the smaller V6 with vast swathes of torque. But in this latest-gen Sport range, the smaller engine has been replaced by the excellent 3-litre diesel from the Jaguar XF. This substitution poses a little problem, however.

A quick stat war summarises the issue: 442lb ft in the V6 vs 472 in the V8; 8.8secs to 60mph vs 8.6.

The two engines are so closely matched on performance that Range Rover has taken the V8 upmarket and driven a £6,000 wedge between them. For the extra money, this older, bigger engine gets a sparklier array of standard kit. So you get bigger wheels, active xenon headlights, adaptive cruise control and some exterior trim that’s slightly smarter.

You also get the adaptive dynamics package as standard, which you can’t get at all on the V6. Trouble is, the Sport isn’t actually very sporty, so unless you really want to hammer your 2.5-tonne SUV, you won’t missthe stiffer set-up at speed.

Don’t get us wrong, the TDV8 is a very good engine – quick and quiet and cultured. It’s just slightly emasculated by its new sibling. For the six grand saving, we’d overlook the subtle performance difference, take the V6 and enjoy some lovely Range Roverness with a slightly smugger grin than usual.

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Let’s get straight to the point – if you live somewhere in the world where tarmac roads are hard to come by and you measure annual rainfall in metres, then the Toyota Land Cruiser is the car for you.

Here in the UK, of course, tarmac isn’t in short supply, and so the Toyota Land Cruiser isn’t terribly well suited to our particular market. But the Land Cruiser is now sold in 188 countries around the world, and the vast majority don’t really care about what it’s like on the road. So Toyota has bucked the recent SUV trend by focusing on off-road ability more.

The proof lies in the very traditional body-on-frame construction, which is fantastic for the muddy stuff. Further evidence of this philosophy can be seen in the length of the new Land Cruiser. It has the same wheelbase and rear overhang as the old one – most cars these days grow quite a bit from one gen to the next, but if you make something longer, it won’t go up hill and down dale as well.

The flip side to all this is that the Land Cruiser is a bit rubbish when it comes to on-road manners. The new Land Cruiser has a 4-cylinder, 3.0-litre diesel engine with 171bhp and 302lb ft, but in nearly 2.5 tonnes of car, it’s not powerful enough. It’s OK once you’re up to speed on the motorway, but overtaking anything is tedious. The Land Rover Discovery with the 3.0-litre TDV6 weighs 2583kg but has 241bhp and 442lb ft – enough said. The Land Cruiser’s refinement isn’t a patch on the Disco either, because if you so much as breathe on the accelerator it rattles away far too much for a modern diesel.

The ladder chassis doesn’t do anything to enhance the pre-industrial feel either. Even on this top-spec LC5 with rear air suspension, the Land Cruiser’s ride is poor and never settles down. There are three suspension settings, but you can’t tell much difference between them. And none of them is comfortable. Over a bumpy back-road, the Land Cruiser is constantly fidgeting and doesn’t iron out any of the surface imperfections – the Discovery is like a magic carpet in comparison.

It’s not involving though. You don’t expect an off-roader to make you feel like a driving god, but you never feel intimately caught up in the process of getting anywhere.

Which is odd, because when you’re off-road, the LC takes on a whole new personality. All of a sudden, you’re at the heart of the action, able to feel exactly what the car is up to. It keeps you right up-to-date as to what is going on at the wheels. Tiniest slide to the left on some mud? You immediately notice and correct. It’s all surprisingly intuitive and really shows where the Land Cruiser is happiest.

The engine also comes into its own here, because the low-down torque allows you to simply crawl forward and clamber out of tricky situations. Following the lead of the Disco, there are various settings for the engine and gearbox depending on what is required. There’s Multi-terrain Select with four different modes to choose from (mud and sand, loose rock, mogul and rock), in addition to which you get a crawl mode with five speed settings for clambering over rocks or descending a hill slowly. Toyota has also fitted a centre and rear diff lock. There are even four external cameras so you don’t have to get out to see what you might be about to hit.

The switches could be more logical though. Some are controlled on the steering wheel, others are hidden away behind it, and yet more are low down on the centre dash. The Disco’s set-up is far clearer, and the rest of the Land Rover’s interior is similarly better. Overall, it simply feels more modern and more worthy of your 40-odd grand.

As in the Disco, you get seven seats as standard on the LC5, and unusually the rearmost ones are electric. These are totally automatic to fold or raise – even the headrest stows itself at the touch of a button. You could get a pair of adults in there for a short journey without having to amputate, but the boot behind is pretty tiny with the seats up.

It seems unfair giving the Land Cruiser a kicking. It’s so perfectly executed for its raison d’être that it should be the best thing we’ve driven all year. But the problem is the Disco exists. And for most people in this country, who don’t live four week’s drive from the nearest dealer, the Landy is the obvious choice.

Forget yer 335bhp TT RS, with its big face and ooh-so-postmodern quattro references. Indecently rapid though the five-cylinder flagship is, the TT has always made most sense in front-wheel-drive base-spec form, and you can’t get your TT Roadster any more base-spec and front-drive than this, the new entry-level 1.8-litre petrol version.

Powered by the tidy turbo engine already seen in the A3 and A4, it develops a modest 160bhp – 37bhp less than the previous cheapest TT, the 2.0-litre petrol model, and less than half the power of the RS version – but it’s absolutely brilliant.

Low-end versions can tell you a lot about what’s going on with the mechanical, oily bits of a car, and the front-wheel-drive TT feels spot-on, light and pointy with just the tiniest hint of front-end wriggle under heavy acceleration to keep you on your toes. OK, it’s not mad-quick, but honestly, it’s fast enough: 0-62mph in 7.4 seconds is only a fraction off Golf GTI pace and anyhow, it gives you an excuse to thrash the TT absolutely everywhere. Which is good, because this TT seems to rather enjoy being thrashed absolutely everywhere.

Better still, it’s a full four grand cheaper than the 2.0-litre petrol… and half the price of the TT RS. A 1.8 Roadster for the summer and a 1.8 Coupe for the winter? Why the heck not?

Let’s start with the noise. This 911 – the second ‘997′ to wear the Turbo badge – produces a deep soundblast of whooshes, woofles and faint artillery booms. A racecar whirr cuts through the sonic mayhem to remind you that, way back behind you, a new 3.8-litre flat-six engine is doing its thing.

We’ve had a 997-variant Turbo since 2006, though until now it’s had the older 3.6-litre engine. This one takes the new ‘A1′ engine from the rest of the updated 911 range (direct fuel injection, integrated dry sump for lower centre of gravity) and adds two turbos. So it now has 493bhp and enough torque to trigger rockslides – 515lb ft in this £107k Sport Chrono version.

You will also notice some paddles at your fingertips, if you choose the PDK dual-clutch gearbox. This is big news because a) they replace the widely hated ‘buttons’, which are still an option, and b) this dual-clutch ‘box can actually handle all that torque, a feat beyond most manufacturers bar Ferrari. This is achieved by adding an extra clutch plate to the PDK you find in other 911s, which helps keeps the cogs meshed neatly inside the gearbox rather than exploded all over the road.

We’re used to stupendously fast supercars nowadays, but even they need to be wound up before you really feel the speed. However, the Turbo’s power is as instant as an arterial crack hit and full torque is available from just 2,100rpm. Punch the launch control button in this chrono-spec car with PDK, and you’ll hit 62mph in 3.4 seconds… at which point your brain will be recoiling in your skull.

The Sport Chrono also gets – take a deep breath – magnetorheological engine mounts. Each mount is effectively a damper filled with oil and metal filings, which is buzzed with charge to firm or soften it and stop the engine jinking around once the car has settled into a bend – a side effect of having 300kg of engine and transmission sat right over the back axle, such is the 911′s rear-engined layout.

Another new tool on the Turbo is Porsche’s torque vectoring system. It unites the existing mechanical limited-slip diff with the ABS and stability systems to brake the inside rear wheel as you turn in, helping to nose the car into a bend and spool it out the other side.

Despite this extra pointiness, the Turbo doesn’t feel hard or edgy – that’s a job for the GT3. And here we hit upon the magic of this thing. The new engine and Sport Chrono set-up and the flappy paddles all contribute to a fine blend of usability and performance. It’s soft enough to trundle around town and over cobblestones, yet fast enough to tear them from their concrete beds when you squash the throttle. At which point villagers may start throwing tomatoes, but at least you’ll have a 193mph getaway car.

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If you read our Stig-fest in Top Gear magazine, you’ll know the manual 370Z didn’t do especially well. In isolation it’s a great car, but against all that hardcore metal, it felt a bit soft.

But Nissan acknowledges that it buffed some of the edges off the 350 to make the 370, so it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to learn the new Z-car is now available with an optional £1,400 automatic gearbox. And it suits the 370Z well. It’s not a token effort: this is a top-spec Nissan-engineered unit with seven gears and a feeling that the car and gearbox have been designed with each other in mind from the start.

Which actually means it’s not the smoothest auto in the world. Other auto ‘boxes will slush between cogs better, melt into the background more. The changes here are less subtle than a traditional auto and the 370Z drops into the next gear with a bit more of a clunk when you’re just cruising in auto mode.

Don’t think of it as a criticism. Even though the 370Z is more grown-up than the 350, it retains a muscle-car attitude that goes well with a slightly more manly change strategy. The more mechanical-feeling shifts suit the underlying sensation that beneath the softer, more considered responses, the 370Z is still a brawler at heart.

There is no fashionable ‘sport’ button, so the two modes are auto or paddles, the latter fixed to the steering column behind the wheel. If you’re really pressing on, the full auto will change up mid-corner, so you’ll need to be in the manual paddle mode. Thankfully, it’s not a wishy-washy override – if you don’t pull the paddle to select the next cog it’ll hit the rev limiter for a bit. Accelerate hard and it won’t kick down for you either, although the perfect downchange blips suggest skills you might not actually have.

The best thing about this car remains the amazing 3.7-litre V6. It can tootle or go ballistic without feeling strained doing either. There’s so much torque (270lb ft) that you never feel like the ‘box is having to make constant gear changes to keep up – it’ll happily sit in a higher gear and let the V6′s torque do the work. And yet when you do decide to push, it still feels happy being thrashed to the limiter.

Of course, tradition dictates that a ‘proper’ sports car should have a manual gearbox – and the 370Z manual with the SynchroRev is still probably the one you’d go for, especially when you can save nearly a grand and a half in the process. But this is a well-sorted, characterful automatic gearbox that runs the traditional choice closer than you’d have thought possible.

At the forefront of many a mind at this precise moment will be the word ‘why?’ Possibly prefaced by ‘Dear’ and ‘God’. The X1 is the latest in an increasingly long line of confused and confusing BMW products. Much like the 5-Series GT, it demands a double take, just to work out exactly what you’re looking at. Do you need glasses? Or does someone at BMW need medicating?

The whole soft-roader/crossover idea is hard to get your head around. Neither as good at being a car as a car, nor anywhere near as capable of SUV-ness as a proper SUV. It’s a lifestyle statement, and that’s a dubious concept whatever you’re buying into: a novelty ringtone, a ‘wacky’ hair cut. If something doesn’t exist because it needs to, chances are it makes you look like a bit of tool. And the existence of a compact pseudo-SUV is a tough case to make.

But here’s how to make it: the existing X-range, 3, 5 and 6, account for one fifth of all BMW’s global sales, so from a purely fiscal point of view, that inevitable ‘why’ is seen off with ‘well why wouldn’t you?’ The X1 should sell in droves.

Then there’s the drive. The X1 feels as large as it looks. Which is to say, not massive, but it’s no 1-Series. An elevated driving position probably has something to do with this, but so does a kerbweight of 1,670kg. That’s a hell of a lot for what is, nominally at least, a small car. But with the flagship 123d that BMW is launching first, you get 201bhp and 295 lb ft of torque, delivered with typically Teutonic gusto through a seamless six-speed auto. So it may feel a little leaden at manoeuvring speeds, but once you’re out and about it’s genuinely brisk. And although in-gear acceleration is a far better measure of useful day-to-day performance, the standard stats are none too shabby either: 0-62mph in 7.3 seconds and a top speed of 127mph.

What’s more, despite the increase in weight and height over a normal 1- or 3-Series, the expectation of dynamic competence that hangs over any BMW is essentially well met. The steering is a bit vague, but this lends itself to cruising comfort over driving involvement, and sensibly so. And regardless of this, the X1 feels superbly planted and relatively roll-free. If BMW can make an X5 handle, they can certainly see to this. But the compromise is a ride that is slightly too firm, transmitting more vibration through the cabin than you would expect from a car with what is otherwise such a high level of refinement.

Road noise is also a tad generous, all things considered, and that’s on 17-inch alloys which, if we’re honest, could do with being a lot larger from an aesthetic point of view. Spec one of these up properly and it threatens to be a right bone shaker.

There are other issues that warrant a mention too. Rear visibility is lousy and, despite plenty of headroom, there’s nowhere for lanky legs in the back. Fine for younger kids admittedly, but in a car with these proportions you’d expect to be able to get adults in there.

There is a huge boot though, with 420 litres expanding to over three times that with the rear seats folded flat. And the raised ride height makes this all very easy to access.

So with that in mind, along with the similarly high cabin, modest dimensions (on Planet SUV) and economical diesel, the X1 starts to sound like a watertight proposition for young families.

And as the car goes on stream this case will only be strengthened, for BMW is planning to offer the car with smaller diesels (no petrol options are even coming to the UK) and a more affordable and frugal rear-wheel-drive option, dispensing with both weight and complexity. These lesser-spotted X1s will manage up to 54.3mpg without giving away too much in terms of performance.

There is a catch though. Priced from £22,660 for the basic 140bhp rear-wheel-drive 18d to £29,055 for the all-wheel-drive 23d we’ve got here, no X1 is going to be cheap. BMW is eager to stress that this is the first ‘premium’ car in its market, although they seem to have forgotten the arrival of the Infiniti EX. But new cars aside, if you choose to include, say, the Volkswagen Tiguan as a point of comparison, as BMW itself does in its comparative data, then you ought to include the Land Rover Freelander too, which was fairly premium last time we looked. (Not that a Tiguan is much like slumming it either…)

Whatever, there is no shortage of competition when it comes to small SUVs. It was always a sticking point for BMW that it made the X3 quite so expensive, and now that it’s managed to redress that, Beemer’s marketeers might well take some market share from the likes of Land Rover and VW, particularly from the groundswell of people unwilling to be seen driving something that is readily labelled as a ‘4×4′.

But there is risk inherent in this. It’s very hard to label the X1 as anything, except ‘odd’, and not everyone will like that. After all, what’s wrong with a 3-Series Touring for the same kind of money? Clue: absolutely nothing. And if you want a sort-of-SUV, chances are you secretly want a proper SUV. Which brings you back to your Freelanders, Tiguans and Volvo XC60s.

Make no mistake, the BMW X1 is a good product. But is it one that anyone will actually want?

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This is the best Saab on sale. I know, I know: right now, in the months before the new 9-5 big car and 9-4 crossover become available, being the best of Saabs is like being the healthiest patient in intensive care.

But it’s better than that. If you’re in the market for one of those slightly jacked-up, slightly toughened-up four-wheel-drive estates, this is very possibly the one to go for. A Subaru Outback is a bit of an assault on the eyes, inside and out. An Audi A4 Allroad is an assault on your finances. An Octavia Scout is a bit unprepossessing. That leaves this Saab sitting pretty.

It’s one of those cars that feels at home with itself. All the dynamic attributes rub along nicely with each other. You can stroke it along at a decent clip, even though the 9-3X has no misplaced ambition to be sporty. There’s enough grip for the power, and enough steering accuracy for the sort of cornering we’re talking about. Sharing the drive between the four wheels improves steering purity too.

A consequence of all this is thatthe suspension brings home the advantage, with a restful, supple ride. There’s none of the shudder and thump that we’ve always had when Saab tries to build a BMW rival. The suspension’s also self-levelling at the rear, so the ground clearance doesn’t suffer if you decide to load up.

Oddly, coming as it does froma company that prides itself on turbo expertise, the weakest link is the engine. Below 2,000rpm, it’s laggier than I’d reckoned on. But you can drive around the issue. Anyway, I’m in the 210bhp petrol. On the face of it, why not save a grand and go for the diesel? It’s a useful 180bhp and matches the petrol’s acceleration while going half as far again on a gallon. Except, wait a minute. The diesel doesn’t get the excellent 4WD system. D’oh.

The interior is typical Saab, which is good. Even though the 9-3 has seen seven summers, at least the cabin’s design still looks clean and modern. It’s agreeably left-field without being gimmicky.

But the question is left hanging: would you want one of these oddball slightly tall estates? You don’t see many of them around: more SUV-ish crossovers do far better business. But I’m thinking it’s a rather canny sort of car. It has enough ground clearance for rough tracks and all the grip you need for muddy lanes or skiing. And because it isn’t so high, the ride is better. What’s not to like?

Hardly anyone makes cheap, rugged, separate-chassis 4x4s any more. The Kia Sorento was among that dying breed, and folk who pull heavy trailers up slippery slopes were grateful for its three-tonne towing rating and its low-ratio transfer box. But Kia has decided not to bother with these people any longer, now that their numbers aren’t swollen by those who bought truck-like 4x4s for fashion reasons.

Crossovers are the fashion now, so the all-new Sorento is one of those instead. Yet another one. I’ve lost count of the number of £20,000 crossovers tumbling onto the lists in the last couple of years.

But at least the Sorento has one thing unusual to say for itself. It has the option of two folding third-row seats, which is common in mid-size MPVs, but not crossovers. Lots of parents do occasionally want to carry three kids and grandparents, but wouldn’t be seen dead driving an MPV, however often I tell them they’d be better off in an S-Max. A similar proposition has served the Mitsubishi Outlander well.

The extreme makeover of the Sorento also extends to its engine, a brand-new 2.2 diesel that makes a stout 197bhp, keeps pretty quiet and has class-leading economy. Its case is helped by the fact that chucking away the separate chassis and dual-range transmission has helped Kia chip off an impressive 215kg compared with the old Sorento.

You can get the Sorento with FWD, but Kia expects most sales will be the 4WD. The handing of both is perfectly sanitary, but when you’re accelerating out of tight bends, especially if they’re greasy, the 4WD can get the torque onto the road with less fuss. At the speeds most people drive, this is all fairly car-like. But if you want to push harder through bends, buy a car.

The ride is taut but quite well controlled with just two on board, which probably means it won’t go all to sea with seven. The civilised manners of the new engine aren’t let down by the rest of the Sorento, which wafts along the motorway in respectable peace and quiet. So you can enjoy hearing everyone argue.

The interesting story here isn’t actually the car. It’s the manufacturer. Kia’s rate of change is phenomenal. By rapidly improving its core cars (Cee’d over Cerato), inventing interesting new sorts (Soul) and night-and-day re-engineering others when the market shifts (Sorento), Kia’s sales are rising like a firework. So much so that in the first half of this year Hyundai-Kia Group sold more cars than Ford Moto Co.