<p class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="4"><strong>The primary school fete at Kemsing is always held at the end of June. As fetes go, it&rsquo;s pretty typical of the genre, but worthy of continued support if only to reward the local kids for all their hard work during the year. Fifty-something years on and I can still recall the nerve needed to take even a supporting role in the school&rsquo;s annual play&hellip;.</strong></font></p><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">&nbsp;</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">However, amid the strawberries and cream, the bric-a-brac stalls and the silver band, the second-hand books and the jigsaws one feature stood head and shoulders above the rest. Adjoining the line of Classic Cars - and standing adjacent to an old, rickety paste table containing an assortment of potted annuals that appeared to have been liberated from a neighbouring garden - stood a nasty yellow Rover Streetwise. Wearing the lop-sided stance - and the foreboding appearance - of an abandoned MOT failure, the Rover had a pair of part-used off-road tyres sourced from eBay leaning against the faded grey plastic bumper and a map of Western Europe stuck firmly across the windscreen. A thin blue line wormed and wriggled its way eastwards across the map from Goodwood, near Arundel in Sussex, to Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, taking a route that passed south of both the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea by way of Turkey and Iran.</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">&nbsp;</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">I bought the plants - all of them, a mixture of half-starved Cosmos and some ornamental grasses. I also questioned the three lads who were manning the stall about their proposed project and it soon became apparent that any sort of mechanical preparation of the Rover had been kept to the bare minimum, the after-market sump-guard playing second fiddle to the installation of an upgraded sound system.<span>&nbsp; </span>Hooked, these professional anglers played me like a fish.<span>&nbsp; </span>The car was also a recent eBay purchase and apparently something of a real bargain, having just 40K on the clock and wearing a Buy-It-Now price tag of &pound;700.00.<span>&nbsp; </span>No doubt the vehicle had also benefited from one careful owner before being acquired from somewhere north of Watford by Team-Immaculate Pasta. Why Immaculate Pasta? That&rsquo;s one question that, regrettably, I forgot to ask!</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">&nbsp;</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">At the end of the afternoon I left the fete with my charity account &pound;150:00 the poorer, but richer beyond belief. I&rsquo;d bought advertising space on the Rover&rsquo;s bonnet for my other pet-project, a monthly blog detailing <em>The Ramblings of a Madman</em>, the proceeds of which also go to charitable causes. More important were the words that had been left ringing in my ears. &lsquo;You can do it. There&rsquo;s still four weeks before the off&rsquo;. A pipe dream for the young, perhaps: to get six weeks off work in the middle of the summer to undertake a ten-thousand mile Road Trip through nineteen countries was out of the question. Besides, I hadn&rsquo;t even got a suitable vehicle or any sponsorship. And, to cap things, my Passport had expired.</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">&nbsp;</font></span><span style="font-size: 11pt"><font face="Times New Roman">However, a seed had been sown that either needed nurturing or eradicating with a strong mix of chemical weed-killer. The weed-killer approach didn&rsquo;t work: you&rsquo;re never too old and the theory held that over half a century of automotive life-experiences should give me a head start over the youngsters who had more idea of ICE than what goes on under the bonnet. Matters significantly worsened once the rally started. True to their word, a constant barrage of e-mails began to hit the screen detailing their long, arduous journey east - France, then Belgium.<span>&nbsp; </span>A quick circuit of the Nuremberg track in German. Photographic proof of achieving 109 mph on an Autobahn, notwithstanding the speedometer was indicating a whisker over 120.<span>&nbsp; </span>Turkey, Iran. Then a whole heap of countries ending in &hellip;stan; and eventually Russia and the Mongolian border. Stories of speeding fines and punctures; corrupt police and bolshie border officials. </font></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt">It was an itch that needed urgent scratching, and www.theadventurists.com was accessed for more information regarding the 2012 event, and the criteria seemed fair. Anything vehicular could be used, providing it was less than ten years old and had an engine capacity of less than 1200cc - unless of course, you chose to undertake the arduous journey in a Public Service Vehicle, a redundant ambulance or perhaps a fire engine. The entry fee was a shade over &pound;700, and a minimum of &pound;1000 was needed for a nominated Charity.<span>&nbsp; </span>A plan had started to formulate that involved, of all things, an eight-year old vehicle from the nearest car auction....</span>