The wheels

Dizzy and thoroughly knackered 20 minutes later, though, you will say goodbye to your new found crumbly friends, and once more hop into the rental Zastava. Which promptly won’t start. Again and again you will madly turn the key but all the engine will do in return is start belching smoke like a power station as its mechanics expire in a catastrophic grinding of machinery so high-pitched that every randy goat within 15 kilometres will come looking for the new ‘gal’ in town.

Cue a surefire domestic with the flustered wife at this moment as it sinks in that you are now, metaphorically speaking, truly up that notorious creek without a paddle on a road to nowhere which, chances are, really might be eye deep in.... shhhh, I am sure you know what I mean. The pressure will intensify as a batch of the old ladies then begin to tut in suffragette-like support of your other half and cast spells on you. Go on, be a man and do something they all howl. Like put the fire out before the car starts to resemble a Catherine wheel.

So screaming blue murder about Balkan hatchback engineering you will wrench angrily on the door handle of your hired heap of scrap, and, yes, happily for once,  the door will fly open after a few kicks.

Unfortunately, just then a gypsy horse and cart will gallop by at Boadicea speed neatly taking said door clean off its hinges. It will clatter to the ground like an iron curtain and you will start to bash your forehead against the steering wheel despite your splitting headache from all the ring-a-ring-a-roses, as your wife coughs through the oily smoke and starts baiting you that if your heart’s desire really was a three-door why didn’t you just hire one in the first place?

Anyway, welcome to our chaotic scene the second country character on the cards for you to meet on your travels, the wide-eyed gypsy, which you now do up close and personal as soon as you frantically tumble out of the gaping hole that was once your car door. In fact, you meet the whole family who jumping down from the cart holding scythes, rakes or other bits of antique farm kit circa 1732, immediately surround you.

In panic, you will peer at them suspiciously like they are parents of the ‘Children of the Corn’, even more so when you spot one or two ripe cobs sticking out of a youngster’s coat pocket. Your knees will begin to knock and your wife will look like she is going to wet herself any second.

But, as the tension mounts, the throng will suddenly open and you will come face to face with the generalissimo of the clan, a toothless, fat Charlie Chaplin. Eyes rolling around in their sockets, this Papa Roma will then suddenly defuse the stand-off by gripping you in a friendly Brezhnev: a rib-busting bear hug. His breath will wisp of vodka as he mutters in your ear.

You will shrug your shoulders. What’s he saying? No insurance? Certainly not. A trade is what he is after, and he probably won’t wait for your reply before clicking his fingers behind you mid-embrace at which six small tinker boys will lift your car door up onto their cart. Then these youths will be off at a canter before you can say what the...