With the tightening of rules regarding the design of our cars, it is perhaps understandable that as time passes, car design is only to become more colossally restrained. Improvements in vehicle safety and pedestrian safety benefit us all, but at the same time, one can't help feel a sense of melancholy as the proliferation of genuinely beautiful cars becomes less and less. As designers have more safety-driven hurdles to overcome, it is easy to grasp why cars become heavier, more bulbous, taller, boxier or more bland.

Mainstream makers are constrained by a limited development budget, most of which is consumed in making a car meet safety requirements. This leaves little margin for making them interesting or pretty. To a manufacturer of Supercars though, this is less of an issue. Development costs are carried until the vehicle is priced for sale, at which point the beautification fees are simply added to the sale price.

This money-no-object approach is the reason why we still have cars like the DB9. From any angle, this is an impossibly pretty car. It simultaneously appears to be both stately and quick-moving, modern yet characterful, clean but somehow very, very dirty. This vast swath of nouveau ecouter continues to the inside, where delightful hand-stitched materials slash heavy-metal angles and oppose blinking displays and tactility. The DB9 is not a brand-new car, but it still looks like one.

Hit the starter crystal on the central console and the big twelve awakes with an Alsatian-esque bark. The driving position is extremely comfortable; impossibly so for a so-called Supercar. Most demand of you the flexibility of an invertebrate to insert your posture between pedal and steering wheel, but the Aston presents instead a gloved hand, an eiderdown comfort-blanket with attentive silver-service accommodation.

The driver will be wondering at this stage whether something so cuss-free or congenial can be of any use whatsoever when the mood for splattering Bridgestone Potenza-colored artisan rendering across a bare and baking blacktop is what's required.

Have no fear though. Underneath the “yes-Sir-no-Sir” fluff of its sheep's clothing, the DB9 is truly an angry wolf. With teeth. And whiskey, and Viagra, and a very, very sharp knife.

2 Magazine have been offered a fortunate alternative take on the road-test norm. We forsake city streets and back lanes this time, and instead head to a private racing circuit in Leicestershire, England. Here, the Aston can flex its muscles and bellow at the sky, all the time safe in the knowledge that there are no slow-moving road users to hit. There are fast-moving road users, however; Ferrari F430, Lamborghini Gallardo Spider, Porsche 997. Can the beguiling Brit truly cut it among these fearsome and clearly-focused trackday hardcores?

Deep down, I expected the DB9 to feel very similar to Jaguar's XK. Both cars shared a development cycle, and some componentry is common to both, but after the svelte and delicate XK, the Aston feels very alien. The most challenging acclimatization is brought about by the car's weight; a not inconsiderable one-and-three-quarter tonnes. You can power-slide the Jaguar using just your fingertips, but after fifteen minutes on a racing circuit with the Aston, the back and shoulders wilt as if akin to building a heavy stone wall by hand. It is an immensely physical car, and all the more rewarding for it.

The nose is resistant slightly on turn-in, meaning faster corners need quite some effort to deflect the car from its course. Mid corner, the tail balances on the throttle with a planted and stable feel, although a mere flex of the right foot has those massive rear tires scampering across Prestwold's bumpy surface. It squats under power and pulls like a train, requiring very few gear shifts. A quick drop down into third and the Aston rewards with even more savage thrust, until the straight section ends and the brake pedal (again heavy and physical) scrubs off speed with ease. This car entertains on a risk/reward basis; gamble and expect it to stick and it probably will.

On the road, such edgy and uncompromising cars soon become clutch-melting, spine-punishing fiends, but Aston has its long-distance comfort tourer brief wholly sown up too. Despite the off-duty competition car that threatens from below, it never overwhelms its practical everyday responsibilities. On paper, the price tag would seem to undermine its complete portfolio of talent. But when you consider that it nails its substantial breadth of need with such a grasp upon the fundamental elements within which it must succeed, it soon becomes simply a stunning car with a reasonable retail.

It is tough to consider the Aston on any rational level. It is certainly not worth the price of two Jaguar XKs, but then this serves only to miss the point. Instead, the DB9 should be thought of as the fast Grand Tourer in its ultimate incarnation; aloof, vast, well bred, monstrous, capable.

It is a complete car designed to rule a fantasy world which no longer exists. The rosy image of breezy trips to the South of France via twisting Austrian mountain roads are preserved solely now in the memory banks of 1960s road-testers. Traffic, endless legislation, fuel costs, administrative hurdles; all of these things have sought to diminish the pleasure and purpose to be derived of such a whimsical vehicle. Happily, though, Aston Martin can still sell you the dream ticket.