Problems with the air-conditioning unit and a leak in the fuel tank had held us up and it was a great relief to leave Devon on August 29th. Arriving in Portsmouth with a few hours to spare we had enough time for a last minute shopping spree before boarding the ferry and settling down for a few hours sleep. Ahead lay a dash across Europe – we had two days to reach Gyula with a stop in Munich en route to pick up a compressor on loan to us from Bauer. Ordinarily Florence cruises happily at 90mph – add a trailer laden with diving kit and our speed dropped to a maximum of 60mph. I would love to say we share the driving but Richard insists on doing it all himself; something to do with having spent the past eighteen months lavishing tender loving care on the Range Rover and not wanting anybody else to destroy his work – I can’t think what he means!

Having left Le Havre at 11.30pm, we pulled in a few hours later for a short rest – which turned into three hours of deep sleep. Setting off again, our GPS cheerfully informed us that we had twelve hours to run to Munich; problem – it was Friday and Bauer closed at 2… A quick phone call to Bauer and fortunately Ralf Deichelmann, the marketing manager, was sympathetic and agreed to wait for us so we could avoid an enforced long weekend in Bavaria! Our GPS – a Garmin V – proved it’s worth, directing us to Munich without a wrong turn and at 5 pm we lurched to a halt outside the Bauer headquarters for a thirty-minute stop before racing off again.

By midnight we were halfway across Austria; after a good night’s sleep, parked between two lorries in a petrol station car park, we were off again on an easy run through Hungary down to Gyula, arriving in the early evening just as Vicky and Max were giving up all hope of ever seeing us. Sunday was our day of rest, and Vicky and I went off for restorative dip in the Gyula Thermal Baths -a collection of large swimming pools full of tea-coloured water and a variety of jets that do their best to strip your skin.

Monday 2nd September saw us move on into Romania, beginning with an easy, 20 minute border crossing - so different from our previous experience. We decided to take a few days to cross Romania, allowing ourselves time to see more of the country and soon noticed that many changes have taken place in the two years since our first visit; modern petrol stations and the ubiquitous McDonalds springing up around the country, and a dramatic improvement in road quality. That is until we reached Bucharest where the city council had decided to dig up every road in the city. Throw in lashing rain, diversion signs that direct you to the same unfriendly housing estate no matter where you started and potholes capable of swallowing cars whole and you can understand why blood pressure in both vehicles was rising steadily! Eventually the city spat us out – luckily on the side we wanted to be – onto a road that I believe was classified as a motorway but bore a strong resemblance to a rutted farm track. By now it was dark and stress levels peaked when Max overtook a lorry on an unlit and particularly bumpy section of road - as he drew level with the front of the lorry his Land Rover disappeared into a pothole, covered by a tidal wave of muddy water that obliterated Max’s view of both the road and lorry he was trying to pass!

After an undisturbed night camped at the side of the road we carried on to Rasnov to visit the castle - perched on an escarpment high above the town, with dramatic views across the surrounding landscape. We chose to spend a second night camped at a truck stop – this time close to the gloomy border town of Giurgiu. Cooking in the rain did not appeal - we opted instead for the delights of the truckers café and a choice of rice, a sinister looking red gloop, dumplings, meatballs or bean stew, all of which turned out to be delicious and cheap. A peaceful night – perhaps not the most glamorous of places to stay but as an overnight stop it was great. On to do battle at the next border – again, a smooth crossing apart from a slight disagreement with the border guard over insurance; we said our green card (admittedly neither green nor made of card) would cover us, he said it wouldn’t and anyway to be a green card it must be a piece of green card… lacking the energy to fight with this logic we settled for one day's 3rd party insurance – at $13 it wasn’t going to break the bank! Like Romania, the Bulgarian roads were greatly improved - the interesting pothole that allowed a view straight through a bridge to the ground 50 feet below had, thankfully, been filled - and again petrol stations were dotted along our route.

On into Turkey and instead of heading straight for Istanbul we stopped for the night at the delightfully named Fifi Mocamp, just east of Edirne. It seemed a shame not to make use of the swimming pool at the empty campsite and the following morning Max and Vicky got kitted up for an impromptu diving lesson – not exactly Turkey’s premier dive site but fun to be blowing bubbles!

Later that day we carried on to Istanbul – after racing through six countries in less than a week we looked forward to slowing down and enjoying the city. The driving on the motorway was pretty exciting - we seemed to be magnets for every psychotic driver in the area. But things got an awful lot worse when I decided it was time for a ‘short cut’ and directed Richard off the motorway and onto the D100, the old road to Istanbul. This turned into a character-building journey through towns packed with donkeys, chickens and demonic cyclists and just as we were pulling onto a particularly chaotic roundabout, the trailer’s brakes seized… With Richard making a noise that suggested he was in the throws of a heart attack I jumped out of the car to see what the problem was – a simple case of overheating brakes that were, fortunately, self-healing. Happily, just ahead of us, was a sign pointing to the motorway and we could continue without the concern of collecting a goat as a bonnet mascot!

Istanbul – or to be more precise, the car park next to the famous Blue Mosque. Within minutes of our arrival, the car park attendant had set up a table and chairs outside his microscopic hut and invited us to drink tea with him and negotiate a deal; for 1,000,000 Turkish Lira per vehicle – less than a pound – we could use the car-park as a campsite, much to the amusement of passing tourists. After four cups of tea – strong, black and laden with sugar – Max and I were beginning to feel the effects of too much caffeine on an empty stomach; time to search for food. We didn’t have far to walk; close by was an open air restaurant where we could relax in the warm evening air, playing backgammon, drinking apple tea and smoking nargilehs supplied by a particularly obsequious waiter.

For me, waking up to the haunting sound of the muezzin making the day’s first call to prayer marked the true starting point of our journey and for the next few days we immersed ourselves in Istanbul – the Byzantine splendour of the Aya Sofya which, for 1000 years, was the largest church in Christendom; the tranquillity of the Blue Mosque; and the vibrant Grand Bazaar, a shoppers paradise. But then we made a fatal mistake – breaking away from the ‘backgammon café’ we chose a different restaurant for supper, with disastrous consequences… Max was the first to succumb to Istanbul Belly, followed closely by Vicky and myself. Richard, it seems, has a stomach that can withstand the most virulent of bugs and was completely unaffected. Realising the Blue Mosque car park was definitely not the place to be ill we raced to our next destination, the Gallipoli Peninsula. Kum Camping became our home for the following ten days; a chance for us to recover and for Richard to dive on the wreck of the Lundi and an unnamed landing craft with Umberto Illario, an Italian diving instructor visiting the peninsula to research World War I wrecks. Our time was not completely wasted – a huge saltwater swimming pool was the perfect place to continue Max and Vicky’s Open Water training; both picked up the skills with ease, although Max’s interpretation of hovering (head down, fin tips breaking the surface of the water) was not exactly text book… Pine forests and a dramatic coastline make the Gallipoli Peninsula a beautiful place to visit – it is hard to imagine the horrendous casualties suffered by the Anzac, British and Turkish troops and seeing the battlegrounds and graveyards was a sobering experience.

Our extended stay meant an opportunity to finish a few jobs on the Range Rover that couldn’t be completed before we left the UK, including fitting a new alternator. Having fitted the new one, Richard discovered it was not working. OK, problem! Took the new one out, refitted the old one. It worked. Refitted the new one. Not working! Richard, by now, could fit an alternator in a time that would make a Formula One team proud. Baffled, he made an SOS call to Famous Four who, as usual, were extremely helpful - a mechanic went off to fit an alternator in one of their Range Rovers to see if he could replicate the problem - this helped to eliminate potential causes and eventually Richard discovered a loose wire inside the alternator casing )six months later and it’s still going strong).

Next stop – Asia; across the Dardanelles on the ferry from Eceabat to Cannakale. Now we were on the real tourist trail – first Troy and then Ephesus. Leaving Troy at 3 in the afternoon we knew that we wouldn’t get to Ephesus before sunset and as dusk fell we left the main road and having negotiated our way through the town of Dikili found a deserted beach – a perfect stopover. Joined by a dog who happily guarded us from shadows and imaginary ghosts, we spent an enjoyable evening sitting around a fire, waves lapping gently against the shore. Oh how deceptive the night can be – the sun brought with it the realisation that we had managed to park in the town’s rubbish dump; a pretty good incentive for an early departure to Ephesus.

Ephesus ticked off, we decided to drive on and camp in the hills above Marmaris. Fate, however, had a different plan… Just the other side of Aydin I noticed what looked like smoke coming out of the area around Max's Land Rover's driver’s side rear wheel. Richard dismissed this as dust but I wasn’t convinced – pulling over (luckily in front of a decent café – you’ll soon understand why) the problem became apparent. The wheel was red hot and had an ominous trickle of oil on the inside – things did not look good. Wheel off, half shaft out and Richard could see that the inside of the hub was badly scored. To add to the difficulties, although Richard had checked the spares before he started work and had counted four seals and wheel bearings, it was only once the hub was in pieces that we realised that the spares Max had been given when he bought the Land Rover only included inner seals! Fortunately, the owner of the café (a car enthusiast and owner of a rather lovely 1960’s Fiat Spider) took pity on us, as did the local highway police who turned up just as we were standing around looking at the sorry sight of a Land Rover minus a back wheel, resting on the highlift jack. And so began our stay on the side of the dual carriageway… The café’s menu was somewhat limited - tea, coffee and toasted cheese sandwiches - feeling that we would probably be eating there quite a lot over the coming days, we set off down the road in search of more food sources. After a few hundred metres we discovered a group of factory outlet stores (the shoppers amongst us, who shall remain nameless, proclaiming that this was the perfect place to breakdown) and a little further a service station plus the Turkish equivalent of Kentucky Fried Chicken and a kebab shop – with a television! Gee, this place has everything.

We had to sit out the following day – Sunday – and wait for the Land Rover garage in Izmir to open on Monday so Richard and Max could see if they could source the outer seals. The gardener, who doubled as the daytime security guard, provided the morning’s entertainment; being unable to speak a word of English did not stop him from merrily chatting away to us, repeating Bodrum, Marmaris and Mugla at least fifteen times before taking us on an inch by inch tour of the garden, his pride and joy, at the back of the café. Later on the police returned, screeching to a halt next to our vehicles and piling out of their van, Professionals style. While Vicky was convinced we were about to be arrested, all they wanted to do was reassure us that we were safe – we will protect you! That evening, on our pilgrimage to the kebab shop, the police shot past in their van, stopped, reversed back to us and insisted on driving us the full 400 metres to the restaurant. I don’t suppose many of the kebab shop’s clientele arrive with an eight man armed escort – and it certainly had a good effect on the service.

The slight problem of a broken Dillon still had to be sorted out and the following day Richard and Max set off in Florence – minus her contents, which had been dumped in Max and Vicky’s tent, and the trailer – to the Izmir Land Rover Garage. Eight hours later they returned, bearing seals and a large order from McDonalds. The wheel hub was fixed and we waved goodbye to the café staff as we set off for Marmaris. However, a few miles down the road a new problem began to make its presence known – a nasty rattle emanating from Dillon’s other rear wheel. In the words of John McEnroe, you cannot be serious. Pulling in at the next service station we were soon surrounded by concerned mechanics; one, a particularly obnoxious drunk, set about shaking the rear wheels while trying to explain that he was in fact the best mechanic of the lot. We couldn’t locate the source of the noise so drove on, keeping our fingers crossed that Dillon was not entering the final stages of his life.

Well we made it to Marmaris and on to Kas, a picturesque fishing town dotted with Lycian stone sarcophagi. Having settled in at Kas Camping, located in a beautiful old olive grove a mile out of town, Richard and Max took the Land Rover off to the local mechanic. The mechanic looked at the car, said ‘problem?’ and the next thing they knew Dillon was on axle stands, the wheels were off and the mechanic was attacking the exhaust with a welder. Rattle cured – Dillon transformed to a Stealth Land Rover. But, on their way back to the campsite, they stopped at the local supermarket and Richard remembered that he wanted to check how hot the rear wheels were getting as he suspected a brake problem. Touching one of the rear wheels resulted in the loss of a layer of skin off his hand – indeed, the brakes were not well. But of course, the same friendly mechanic emerged from a nearby restaurant, assessed the problem and ordered them back to the campsite to wait for him. Moments later he arrived, removed the working and broken brake parts and set off for Fethiye – a 120 mile round trip – where, if he couldn’t find replacement parts, he would have new ones made. These things never cease to amaze me...

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