When you have a 400bhp Maserati V8, it’s quite nice to be able to hear it. And I can certainly hear the engine where I am right now, standing at the edge of a road that winds through verdant, soft-contoured Italian hills spangled with the kind of terracotta shoppertunities that have we Brits rushing for a second mortgage. I’ve taken station on the inside of a tight hairpin at which a Maserati will shortly be launched for the camera, and though the squeal of tyres is pleasing, it’s nothing to the thrill of that V8 exhausting itself on the over-run, gusts of spent gas spitting and gurgling through a quartet of tail-pipes. Hairpin speared, the pearlescent white coupé plunges toward the valley below, its V8 drumbeat rousing a dog on a distant farm as the engine’s staccato pulses ricochet off the landscape. It sounds absolutely magnificent. And I don’t mean the dog.
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