Post by Eff One on Sept 26, 2018 11:26:40 GMT
Just back from nine days in the Costa Brava, for which we rented a 'Seat Leon or equivalent' from Enterprise at Barcelona Airport.
I wish it had been a Seat Leon.
The last Citroen I drove was a C1 in 2009, in Provence. That remains the worst car I've ever encountered. The current C3 is vastly better built, the interior actually not a bad place to sit. Most of the controls had a pleasant soft-touch feel to them, and the seats were comfortable enough. It swallowed two adults, a toddler and our gear without a problem. The aircon, though, was poor. It was unseasonably hot for late September, but hardly Death Valley.
I can also report that the seat fabrics and plastics are fairly easy to scrub vomit out of.
Which brings me to the chassis and drivetrain. I'm beginning to wonder if there were several things wrong with this car, because it was so unutterably awful to drive that I can't imagine any competent engineer signing off on it. The engine was a normally aspirated petrol which combined a hoarseness and reluctance to rev with no discernible power and a weird, intermittent hesitation at a motorway cruise. I thought perhaps it was something to do with the cruise control, but disabling that completely made no difference. The gearchange and clutch were somehow muddy, vague, and notchy all at the same time, the throw so long that fifth was practically in my wife's lap.
The steering wheel was better than some, but zero feel and inconsistent weighting (varying from light to disconnected) made it very difficult to place the car accurately. As did the suspension. It rode well enough but had all the body control of a tub of jelly.
Which is at least partly to blame for an unfortunate incident on the road to Tossa de Mar. My daughter had been sick the night before after a touch of heat stroke, but had recovered overnight; by the following afternoon she was still fragile but happy enough and her appetite was returning. She'd been fine for an hour or so in the car, but started to look green around the gills as soon as I turned off the main drag; the road to the coast is an epic mix of short straights and hairpins, and the C3 dealt with them the way it dealt with all corners: by lurching drunkenly from one to the next. Having never been car sick in our lives, both wifey and I felt instantly queasy. I've never missed my Fiesta ST more.
I was taking it very easy, with a train of traffic behind me, but we'd gone less than two miles when my wife shrieked at me to stop - just as my daughter tossed her cookies all over the rear.
Not fun.
The journey to the airport three days later started with a return trip up that same road; so worried were we about a repeat performance that we stopped halfway for a breather. By that time we were facing the prospect of missing our flight, as Google Maps' travel time ballooned from 1 hour 20 minutes to 2 hours plus. But we made it, just, and bade a not-so-fond farewell to the C3. Never again.
I wish it had been a Seat Leon.
The last Citroen I drove was a C1 in 2009, in Provence. That remains the worst car I've ever encountered. The current C3 is vastly better built, the interior actually not a bad place to sit. Most of the controls had a pleasant soft-touch feel to them, and the seats were comfortable enough. It swallowed two adults, a toddler and our gear without a problem. The aircon, though, was poor. It was unseasonably hot for late September, but hardly Death Valley.
I can also report that the seat fabrics and plastics are fairly easy to scrub vomit out of.
Which brings me to the chassis and drivetrain. I'm beginning to wonder if there were several things wrong with this car, because it was so unutterably awful to drive that I can't imagine any competent engineer signing off on it. The engine was a normally aspirated petrol which combined a hoarseness and reluctance to rev with no discernible power and a weird, intermittent hesitation at a motorway cruise. I thought perhaps it was something to do with the cruise control, but disabling that completely made no difference. The gearchange and clutch were somehow muddy, vague, and notchy all at the same time, the throw so long that fifth was practically in my wife's lap.
The steering wheel was better than some, but zero feel and inconsistent weighting (varying from light to disconnected) made it very difficult to place the car accurately. As did the suspension. It rode well enough but had all the body control of a tub of jelly.
Which is at least partly to blame for an unfortunate incident on the road to Tossa de Mar. My daughter had been sick the night before after a touch of heat stroke, but had recovered overnight; by the following afternoon she was still fragile but happy enough and her appetite was returning. She'd been fine for an hour or so in the car, but started to look green around the gills as soon as I turned off the main drag; the road to the coast is an epic mix of short straights and hairpins, and the C3 dealt with them the way it dealt with all corners: by lurching drunkenly from one to the next. Having never been car sick in our lives, both wifey and I felt instantly queasy. I've never missed my Fiesta ST more.
I was taking it very easy, with a train of traffic behind me, but we'd gone less than two miles when my wife shrieked at me to stop - just as my daughter tossed her cookies all over the rear.
Not fun.
The journey to the airport three days later started with a return trip up that same road; so worried were we about a repeat performance that we stopped halfway for a breather. By that time we were facing the prospect of missing our flight, as Google Maps' travel time ballooned from 1 hour 20 minutes to 2 hours plus. But we made it, just, and bade a not-so-fond farewell to the C3. Never again.
