While my wife snored gently in the passenger seat, as we swiftly made our way back to Calais from a pre-Christmas trip to the Christmas market and chocolates of Bruges, I mused about the strengths of the XF, that were emphasised by our weekend away.

Stopping at the mother-in-law’s in Kent the night before to jettison the kids for a rare adult-only day out meant bringing a Sportbrake bootload of random stuff to keep them occupied, fed or asleep while we were away, before the two of us hopped onto a ferry early in the morning and took the hour-long cruise down to the Belgian city that transforms itself into some sort of winter wonderland in the run-up to Christmas, defying the Belgian reputation for what could be politely described as a lack of anything interesting to say about it.

On said trip back to Calais, after a full day of shopping and chocolate tasting, the XF wafted us serenely and quietly to the awaiting Dover-bound P&O courier. I’ve covered a lot of miles in the Jag over the past few weeks, and it’s effortless to the point of me struggling to believe I’d drunk more than 270 litres of diesel at an average of nearly 40mpg during December.