As compound adjectives go, ‘seagull-shit-splattered’ is an unconventional one to concoct when describing the birth of an era-defining new performance car. But sometimes a bit of candour is just the ticket.

In his excellent behind-the-scenes book Inside the Machine, David Twohig’s depiction of the guano-iced old Alpine competition workshops in Dieppe, and the scene that unfolds within one of them as, on a frigid winter’s morn, his team fires up an ugly Alpine A110 mule for the first time, is evocatively unvarnished and very entertaining.

Just as striking is the wider chronology. This was in February 2015; only four months later, Alfa Romeo would whip the covers off a stunning new BMW M3 rival at the company’s smartly updated Arese headquarters north-west of Milan.

Just four months on from that, Fiat-Chrysler would start the process of hawking its stake in Ferrari, a decision that eventually frees semi-forgotten Maserati to commit what had been regarded previously as an internecine act: the development of its own supercar.

So 2015, then, was a rather a fine year for petrolheads treading a less Germanic path, and a great year for those who enjoy fast cars with less than iron-bound body control and that don’t grip the road with a Hulk Hogan handshake.

Drink in the curves, scoops and fissures of the Maserati MC20, the Alpine A110 and the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio – all uncomplicatedly pretty in the Welsh sun – and you realise it is a remarkable sight.

Had Fiat not decided on a Ferrari sell-off when it did; had Alfa not chosen to plough several billion euros into a blue-blood platform that would serve just two – Jesus, two – models; and had Carlos Tavares not persuaded the ‘other’ Carlos, Ghosn, to revive Alpine and remain steadfast as partner Caterham ran out of cash and scarpered, then this trio wouldn’t exist. And it would be a tragedy. 

These lesser-spotted cars are, quirks and all, broadly superb to drive. More than that, as a troop they preach a different doctrine to the steely-eyed, ever-so-serious competition.

It is what binds them, because they are spookily alike in their free-spirited, loose-limbed way of going down an interesting road. Honestly, such are the similarities they could be three models from the same manufacturer. Alfine Maseo, perhaps?

So we have assembled them to celebrate this distinct character. It is a Last Supper, sort of. Having had a recent refresh (more power, new mechanical limited-slip diff, tweaked dampers), the Giulia QV retires this year, and the little A110 will be gone in 2026.

If the nameplates reappear, they will be on cars that are electrified – read: heavier and less transparent.

As for the Maserati, it’s a survivor. Outside the blue-chip realm of Gordon Murray’s T50 and co, this is the only supercar that doesn’t lug around a drive battery.

These are likeably straightforward cars with compact turbocharged motors, rear-wheel drive and thoroughbred suspensions.

And, of course, suspension rates so unctuously compliant they border on the tender, relative to their rivals. They’re cars designed to be at their best in the ugly, unpredictable real world; their aim is to impress the driver, not a stopwatch.

The V6-fired Giulia Quadrifoglio was the vanguard of this… What to call it?

The modern Latin sports car orthodoxy? It’s a big-hearted super-saloon with a sawn-off Maranello V8 in its nose and 190mph potential, and it glides from corner to corner with the beguiling ease of an E39 BMW M5.

Back in 2016, when we first drove it, it was instantly different from any M car or AMG; today, it has lost a little ‘wow’ factor in straight-line speed and the damping doesn’t feel as clever as it once did, but its fundamental joy and individuality remains.

And to think the Yanks get this car with three pedals… Never mind ‘like’ an E39 M5, that car in effect is an E39 M5.

Enjoyment of the Giulia derives from the realisation that, even in a car that will unstick its rears with the casual aggression of a toddler ripping the lid off a Petits Filous, body movements need not be feared.

Clearly it’s crucial those movements don’t tug contact patches all over the shop, especially with 513bhp at play – yes, that would make things a tad edgy.

But in the Alfa it’s not something you need to worry about, even though the team behind this car also had the tenacity to marry this seemingly endless suspension travel with rapid, 11.8:1 steering.

It sounds like a recipe for disaster, but show a QV a good B-road and it doesn’t morph into a soggy-bottomed, over-alcoholic, £80k tiramisu.

Instead, it leans and flows and finds balance easily and everywhere. At first it flirts with nervousness, but this dissipates soon enough. Then the QV is simply superb company.

The Alpine has since 2017 provided a similar service to the Boxster class. It’s an iconoclast, and, true, not everyone loves them.

Deconstruct the A110 driving experience relative to a basic four-pot Boxster and there’s only one winner: the low-slung Porsche has more communicative steering, more grip, a better powertrain, better ergonomics and a better weight distribution.

But the French car also has verve, sensitivity and a captivating sense of tininess the Boxster shows little interest in emulating.

It would be easy to explain this away as a happy accident, on account of its 110kg or so weight advantage, narrower tyres and racier suspension (the Porsche uses MacPherson struts), but the way the A110 handles is clearly deliberate. And daring.

Why so daring? Let’s boil it down. Alpine was already taking a mad risk in manufacturing an all-aluminium, mid-engined car and then offering it for about the price of a Volkswagen Golf R.

It then gave the 1798cc motor only 248bhp and decided the steering should be almost aloofly calm and genteel. More risk.

Finally, to tune the suspension to invite the driver to indulge in the sensation of mass moving? The thing is outright countercultural. And completely brilliant.

Nobody makes a car like the A110 and, I suspect, nobody ever will again (except, perhaps, Wells Motors Cars – check out the Vertige). How can they? Even the Mk2 A110 itself will be an EV.

The parallels between the Alpine and the MC20 are apparent: each is an enigmatic character, swimming against the current of its class; and they are less powerful than you might expect, yet both have pedigree constructions.

Where the A110 has that full-aluminium monocoque, the Maserati is carbonfibre-tubbed – a technology Ferrari has yet to adopt for its mainline models.

As with the Alpine, there is also an electric MC20 waiting in the wings, although, and unlike in the case of the A110, the MC20 ‘Folgore’ (expected to have 1200bhp or so – not a typo) and the 3.0-litre Nettuno V6-engined car here will co-exist for a period.

It will be fascinating to compare the two on the same stretch of road – if, that is, Maserati allows such a test to happen. It may well choose not to.

Maserati is having a torrid time shifting MC20s, and it isn’t just because, relative to the high asking price, the car is out-gunned and generally out-wowed by the Ferrari 296 GTB.

It may also be because in those first few moments during dealership test drives – the so-called  50-yard handshake – and the ensuing miles during which human and machine establish a relationship, it also comes across as quite unruly: an unnervingly soft brake pedal; rather a large steering wheel guiding a faintly indirect rack; a woolly, nasal engine with some slack in what, in times past, would have been a throttle cable but is now the calibration of a by-wire actuator; and soft suspension with such extensive travel that the car’s flat belly sags almost to the road as you drop off speed bumps, before springing back up. It is odd, for sure.

And it is not the pinpoint-precise supercar experience you’re expecting.

But give the thing a moment, please. As with a bagpipe heinously striking up before unleashing Highland Cathedral on all in earshot, the MC20 requires some bedding in on the driver’s part. (As it happens, the blare of a short-piped Nettuno V6 is also bagpipe-loud.)

The characteristics that make the Giulia and the A110 so easy to hop in to and gleefully blast away – light controls and that subtle sense of the body doing whatever it likes – engender caution in a 621bhp supercar.

You also need to set the MC20 up just so: Sport mode, for its crisper powertrain response, but dial the dampers back to soft. You can always ramp them up later, when you’re into the flow. As you will be.   

Once you have acclimatised to this big, bold Maserati, it is spectacular. As with the other two, it doesn’t beat the vagaries of the asphalt into submission but rather cushions them, working with them.

A mid-corner ridge is not a fearful event but a point of interest; the steering is ever nonchalant and uncorrupted; the back axle is planted but not so much that the chassis won’t surf with a little over-rotation of the rear tyres (Corsa mode is your friend here).

A fully lit MC20 emanates a Countach-esque butchness but is, deep down, something intrinsically deft and delicate. Crucially, it doesn’t strain to remain flat. Pitch, squat and roll are celebrated ingredients.

It is, well, uncannily like an Alfa Romeo take on a super-sized A110. Surprising? Not remotely. Senior Alfa execs have unsubtly hinted the MC20 was originally meant to be a reborn 8C.

Maserati top brass deny this at every opportunity with practised indignation, and we’ll never know the whole truth. Sergio Marchionne favoured a mid-engined 8C, but the idea faded with his death in 2018. All a bit Medici.

In reality it could have been either Maserati or Alfa Romeo, and we should be thankful that at least one of these two storied car makers got to go and put its badge on a truly distinctive modern supercar.

So, yes, it could have been either, but in reality you could argue it was, in fact, both. Fiat’s historical penchant for parts-sharing is well known (base Lancia Delta column stalks on a Ferrari 288 GTO is a classic), and it is alive and kicking here.

MC20 and Giulia QV share steering wheels, gearshift paddles, plenty of controls and some dashboard electronics, even down to the fonts on the switchgear.

On a deeper level, both steering racks have a similarly ethereal quality to their motion: the Alfa’s is a touch weightier, but both are gloss-smooth and somewhat detached in feel.

Deeper still, for its front suspension the Giulia QV uses what Alfa calls a ‘double wishbone with semi-virtual steering axis’ set-up, which is one and a half wishbones in practice, said to maintain the contact patch particularly neatly. It’s an uncommon bit of engineering, but lo, there’s something very similar on an MC20.

Which brings us to the human touch – the very masterminding of the mechanical personalities involved. The cross-pollination of personnel and ideas between Alfa Romeo and Maserati under the old FCA umbrella was at times constant and unimpeded.

The same people who worked on Alfa Romeo’s Giorgio platform, and in particular the Quadrifoglio versions of the Giulia and its Stelvio SUV twin, often resurfaced on the MC20 project.

They were once tasked with delivering a super-saloon that would take it to the Germans but which would go about things in its own way.

That worked out well, so why not apply the same philosophy to a supercar, never mind the badge.

One man stands out: Philippe Krief. Fresh from finishing Ferrari’s 458 Speciale, he led the semi-covert development of the Giorgio platform as Alfa’s technical director and therefore informed, to an extent, the character of the MC20.

He has recently moved to another purveyor of fine performance cars, as chief technical officer. You may know which one. Yes, Alpine.

In another twist, Tavares, once instrumental in reviving Alpine and now Stellantis’s top dog, recently sacked underperforming Maserati CEO Davide Grasso, replacing him with Santo Ficili, who will also lead… Alfa Romeo. Medici indeed.

But forget back-stage machinations and focus on the fact these cars are here, now. For how many years did Alfa frustrate us by under-delivering on its potential?

Same for Maserati. And Alpine, which lay dormant for decades. That each should concurrently deliver a knockout product, so alike in character, in the dying days of the pure-ICE sports car? A touch bittersweet.