The Fiat Ulysse is, as its name intimates, a car on an epic scale. Or, at any rate, if Ulysses had been available to do the school run, this is what he would have taken. It is built for an army. In its basic configuration, it seats seven, but you can buy an optional eighth, bench-style seat which slots into the middle of the third row to achieve the complete mini-bus effect.
It is built, also, for an army's drinks. It contains - count 'em - no fewer than 11 cup holders. Not including the four separate bottle holders. This, again, suggests a truly Homeric vision of the modern road user and his thirsts. For a family of four, that is nearly three cup holders and one bottle holder each, which surely sets a new industry benchmark.
This modern version of Fiat's flagship people carrier consigns the old one to history, if not myth. It has been completely reimagined from the wheels up and shares only a name with the outgoing model. Its chunky front-end and proud badge ties it in with the latest Fiat initiatives on style, as embodied in the Stilo range of hatchbacks.
It is considerably longer and marginally wider than the outgoing model, looks slightly less like a meat locker on wheels and is smarter in a number of key areas, most particularly in the construction of the seats, which can be flipped over or detached and removed very simply without necessitating the destruction of one's patience or major muscle groupings.
In addition, the third row of seats sits on runners and is thus more proper and accommodating than the half-hearted, fixed seating that turns up in the back of some people carriers. And there is a clever way of lining four collapsed seats down one side of the car, so that you don't necessarily have to leave behind all of the seats you have detached in order to make room for that upright piano, cement mixer, horse, or whatever.
With the top-level Prestigio and mid-range Eleganza versions of the car, Fiat seems to be imagining a potential life for the Ulysse as a mobile conference centre. In these set-ups, the car can be ordered with front seats that can be spun through 180 degrees, for that all-important face time with one's rear passengers. And the back can be fitted with four captain-style aircraft seats finished in executive-pampering leather.
My own odyssey in the Ulysse, however, required a journey from London to the Isle of Wight and took place in the entry-level, leatherless, eyes-on-the-road Dynamic version, which has family manoeuvres in mind. I opened the gas-propelled tailgate, unsentimentally sacrificed the back row of seats and used the resulting skip-like space to stow two children's bicycles, a small flotilla of suitcases, several hundredweight of beach-related paraphernalia and half a tonne of groceries. At which point the boot still looked forlornly empty.
The effect of this over-provision of space, one realises, is to remove the need for what used to be known as packing. In the days of the restricted boot, packing was a major mathematical exercise, often absorbing entire weekends and involving the precise gauging of volume and interlocking shape. Now you just chuck everything in and slam the door. It's a relief, I suppose, though the death of a traditional craft is always to be mourned.
On the road, the car pulls hard and seems quiet and game enough for something its size and shape. The switchgear is rubber-clad and soft to the touch, but the gear lever, mounted in the dash to clear some floor-space, is stiff and unfriendly. Because the steering responds dully, the car feels more unwieldy than it probably ought to. Down narrow streets, I found myself involuntarily breathing in.
In keeping with a new Fiat ambition, the Ulysse is loaded to the gunnels with electronics. The side doors slide automatically, via push-buttons on the implausibly large key fob. (It is getting on for the size of a baby's head.) Everything that can be worked by an electric motor or sensor gets one, apart from the coat hooks (of which, by the way, there are five).
One's concern about the new breed of Fiat is that these cars might prove to be too electronically ornate for their, or one's own, good. That was certainly my impression in the Stilo hatchback I once tested; its computer kept diagnosing fiddly faults with the windscreen's rain sensor, and so forth.
Similarly in the Ulysse, I hadn't gone too far down the A3 before I was being alerted - just once, briefly, and then never again - to a "faulty air-bag". The computer also seemed unusually keen to tell me, at seemingly random moments, that the "child-safety system" had been activated. I think it meant the doors were locked.
At one point, in a moment dimly reminiscent of a bad sci-fi film, the computerised voice abruptly burst into life, saying "Sorry" over and over again. Sorry for what? Really, there was no need to apologise. Yet it continued to say sorry until I pulled over, switched off the engine and then started up again. After that, I never heard from it again. These were, almost certainly, local difficulties. Yet one wondered how often, as an owner of a Ulysse, one might wish that it was less smart than it looked.
