21^st July, London

Jonno’s aunt woke us with bacon sandwiches and his uncle got up to see us off too. We had just about stopped our yawning and eye rubbing by the time we reached the outskirts of London and although it was still cool, it was clearing and promised to be a gloriously sunny day. Somewhere in the suburbs we spotted our first fellow Rally team. They were a trio who, I was surprised to note, were carrying – in addition to their provisions for the four week transcontinental drive – both a trampoline and monkey-bike.

We soon split up to take our own separate routes to Hyde Park. Even so we somehow managed to arrive simultaneously and park up next to each other at the front of the queue which was already a kilometre long. What a circus it was. Our entrance should have been spectacular, coming as we did through a cycle gate, to the left of the traffic bollards, under a tree and onto the road with a bump. However Dan, the man in charge, was not at all impressed. With the stiffest telling off I had received in years we proceeded, a little embarrassed, and joined the crowd which was excitedly discussing routes and pre-race disasters, modifications, rocket boosters and oil slick devices. Rumour had it that Jack Osborne was there with a huge support vehicle but we were busy talking to the brave teams setting off in original Minis, Trabants, ice-cream vans and Hackney cabs.
We also caught up again with Neil and Jan, self-confessed ‘Rally Bores’. It was an encounter with this eccentric couple that had sparked Jonno and Andy, Jonno’s original team mate, to enter the Rally in the first place. Neil and Jan were veterans of the Mongol Rally, twice attempting it in a Citroën 2CV and succeeding the second time. They were desperate to do the Rally again and avidly followed its developments, meeting up with us to share photographs, tell us stories and give us advice.

It was great to see them strolling lopsidedly along. Both suited up in their squires’ outfits (top hats and tails), their startling difference in size was at once dramatic and endearing. My parents had also come down from Cumbria and bundled some supplies and homemade jam into the car. My mother had stitched us up a Mongolian flag which we strapped to the car where it flapped lazily in the wind as we revved our engine in the pre-race frenzy.

It was nearly too much. Our lack of preparation and the scale of the undertaking began to sink in. We were to begin our journey with no hazard warning lights and no indicators. On a more personal note, I only had the underpants I was wearing and not even a pair of socks. More immediately we had no plan of how to get from London down to Calais and little more idea how to get from Calais to Kazakhstan.

With horns blaring and flags waving we pulled out into London proper. It was chaotic and would have been totally disorientating had I any notion of orientation left. As much by pure chance as anything else, we made it to Trafalgar Square, did a lap with a motley collection of ralliers and drove off into the unknown. We soon got split up but as we were all heading to Calais it was never long before we passed another team.

At Calais, we decided to head for Belgium. The home of the EU seemed as good a place as any. Moreover, in Belgium, they celebrate a national holiday on the 21st July. With a laser show in Brussels and parties in all the towns it was the place to be. After consulting the map we headed to Bruges. At this opportune moment I would like to tackle the myth that the Brits alone, amongst our european neighbours, get drunk on such occasions. It appeared that every self-respecting man, woman, child and dog was inebriated. On arriving in Bruges, the main square was full of families dancing and singing along to a live band. It was too late to find the youth hostel we had been recommended so we chose to drive out of town for the first of many roadside sleeps.

By the following night, the 22nd, we were just outside our expected destination, Prague. In the morning, we encountered huge tail-backs caused by a terrible motor crash on the ring road in Prague. In order to save fuel, avoid the risk of overheating and to provide entertainment for the hundreds of Czechs also caught in the queue, we cut the engine and pushed the car some miles down the middle of a triple lane clearway that ran parallel to the river. We also had a much needed pause for lunch in a small but beautiful provincial town.

While Jonno read or slept I snuck off and bought a number of cassettes for the car from a man who I am quite certain was the only punk in miles. His shop was as still and beautiful as the rest of the town but more welcoming and intimate. Inside I had the first feeling of the trip of being in a truly foreign land as the wonderful array of comics, T-shirts and CDs all spoke out to me in a strange language. Outside the summer sun was hot and as dizzying as homemade wine. I am sure I will always remember the sparseness of that dusty, nostalgic town. It was nearly deserted, with the inhabitants perhaps in the fields with the harvest or away on holiday. Even so it was easy to appreciate its generous proportions, slow pace and resistance to unnecessary and modish change. However it is the light I will remember best. So warm and all encompassing that it felt as though it had ceased to fall from the sky and instead came from the air itself.

Jonno decided that one of the songs on the new cassette would be the theme to the trip although I am convinced he chose a different song every time. It was fun either way and we were soon racing along, top down, singing along with gusto and conviction to the mysterious lyrics.

By evening we were lost, confused by diversions on the road out of the Czech Republic. A man of around five foot five with stubborn tufty blond hair came to our aid. He was not only handsome but truly beautiful and so were his car and his son. He was so proud, so steady and so dispassionate, he might have been an angel. His son, also blond, sat absolutely still, expressionless, except for a distinct hint of superiority, waiting patiently on a booster seat for his father. The car was a 1970’s Porsche 911, jet black, with neither speck nor mar, and as glossy and enchanting as a precious stone.

Several hours later we ended up hopelessly lost again and utterly exhausted somewhere in a lush and idyllic national park in the mountains of southern Poland. I insisted on stopping and having a long sleep before continuing the journey.

Rising/Falling – Always Hoping -can be bought online at Amazon.co.uk, - ordered by your local bookshop for just £8.74 (the price the team’s car was auctioned for at the end of the rally) Just note the ISBN:9780956196613 - or bought direct from the suppliers @ £10.99 (£8.74 plus £2.25 p&p) Address Cheques to Craig Chamberlain, Glovers Cottage, Lazonby, Penrith, CA10 1AJ