It’s not what most people hope for when they go wandering off travelling, yet it is an essential part of any experience.

Yes – as a Englishman I honestly could tell you whether rain is wet or dry – heavy or light (not as in how much rain, but as in whether each drop is heavy or light) and countless other measurements, for that is pretty much the weather forecast in England.

We may as well have our forecasters stand there and just say – at some point this week it will most probably rain, then – should a week pass without rain we are suddenly alerted to the fact that global warming is about to happen, all hell breaks loose as hose-pipe bans are introduced, water butts arrive in streets and there is not a water bottle left on the shelves of Tesco’s.

I have little idea of where this entry is going really, except to say that it is raining here in Prien am Cheimsee, and it has coated the alps that haunt the view out of our door in a strange forboding darkness.

Which is just bloody awesome.

The two and a half litre heart of our van never starts first time, it is a precise calculation to get the clutch in, and the gas pedal in the perfect position before the old girl finally roars into life.  It is a practice that Luke and I have been doing since we broke down in Sweden, but one that still cause us a little agitation and worry.

We left Tallinn on a perfectly Sunny day and headed south, our first stop was to be in a large campsite, bury deep in the forests that shroud that west coast of this small nation.

From there we are headed to Parnu, a port town, sitting in its own natural bay with an impressively wide river running right through it.

The roads in Estonia are most probably not this country’s greatest accomplishment, nor is the reserved nature of most people and the way that they stare – but that may have to do with the fact that we are driving a bright red van, with British number-plates and that the driver is sat on the wrong side, not to mention the fact that the “LDV Convoy” badge is hardly ever seen by most Europeans.

We found out though that this reserved nature and staring is not all that Estonian townsfolk are about.

An evening hunt for a meal led us into a small restaurant, sitting just below ground level, though with an appetising menu and full tables.

Our entrance was noted by a tall man in beige, beige trousers, beige shirt, beige sandals.  We have – to this day – no idea if he was actually connected in any way to the restaurant, yet he motioned us towards a table near the bar and delighted in telling us that his step father was from an unpronounceable place in Wales.  Eventually, after some careful listening and countless repetitions we found out that it was Aberystwyth, see totally unpronounceable!

We were then served up a cup of tea (well we are English, so it was only natural to give the English people tea) and waited for the menu’s to arrive.

Which is where it all went wrong.

A group of men, probably about late 30′s, all wearing the typical leather jackets and jeans, that seems to be a fashion left here from previous days, entered the restaraunt.

The younger of the men walked over to the centre table and picked up a microphone.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen we had found ourselves a karaoke night.

This seems to be the latest craze  – from the ferry across to Tallinn to almost every second bar everyone wants a piece of the action, if only singing lessons had been part of the soviet education program then perhaps Luke and I would be spared this horrific ordeal, for none can sing – of course that’s part of the fun of Karaoke they say.

But what stupendifies me is that these people, whom on the street are so reserved, quiet and usually avoid eye contact, unlike many other European nations, yes these people just walk into a bar and without so much as a sip of a beer are willing to stand up and sing in front of everyone.

Of course it is late now and the chances of getting any food here are growing ever more remote so Luke and I head off in another direction.

Looking round the streets of Parnu gives you an insight into the crazy nation that is Estonia, there is not so many modern buildings as there are in the capital of Tallinn, but just enough that you realise that this is a country on the up.  A few small reminders still linger from years past that are now simply nothing more than quirky reminders of a bygone era – although it is still slightly strange that a “long established business” here still advertises itself as being set up in only 1992, a fact highlighted by Estonia’s oldest pub, the “Hell Hunt – since 1992″

I have fallen in love with Estonia’s weirdness, but you will not see me on the karaoke machine for a few more years… or a few more beers.

Well it is now time to breath some life into our express delivery van, as we are off to Riga, in yet another new country… Latvia.

Our journey from Scandinvia into eastern europe begins with another ferry crossing, this time on the Tallink ferry – Baltic Princess.

The sun is setting as we arrive, dipping slowly below the horizon, yet the light takes longer to fade.  We are slowly getting used to this, as the light up here in the Northern part of the Northern hempisphere hangs around for just that little bit longer.

We’re camped up in Pirita harbour, just a few kilometres east of Tallinn centre.  We’ve cleaned out the van, somehow it managed to get dirtier than ever, despite the fact we have been in a hostel for four days in Helsinki.

Our drive from the ferry port to here took us past some of the strangest constructions I have seen.  The all concrete construction casts them instantly as Soviet structures, the crumbling edges and mossy roofs tell a tale of a time forgotten.

The two structures, on either side of the main Pirita road line up to look out over the Baltic, back to Helsinki and Finland.  Sitting behind one of the structures is a large column, a soviet memorial to the war dead.

Across the harbour resides the facade of a monastry, it’s single remaining wall contains holes where windows once were but little else.

Yet if you look closely you start to see the real Tallinn, modern constructions are springing up, barely visible through the pine trees and internet access points are signposted everywhere.  For a country that has only been free for two decades it has already, in some respects, over taken some of the grand old powers in Europe.

The clash between old and new continues as we walk towards the old town of Tallinn.

Modern wood and glass clad extensions site atop old stonework foundations and buildings.

Tallinn’s old town is it’s real gem.  Hidden away behind stone walls complete with round towers and gatehouses it instantly grabs you, despite the fact that McDonalds has prime location just inside the city gates.

Here the contrast between old and new stops.  There is only one new building here and it makes no attempt to be sympathetic to the old. Yet here, unlike in the suburbs, it feels out of place.

The Town Hall is our destination to meet Sarah and Valerio, two travellers with whom we have arranged an evening, again the couchsurfing network has come in useful.

Over 500  years are contained in these brick walls, the cafes and bars are lively yet, if you manage to shut them out, or just peer down an alleyway or up one of the small streets you could quite believe that this city has changed very little since that time.  Until of course the small blue vans of the litter pickers arrive to keep this small piece of World Heritage clean and tidy.

A newspaper lying on the floor, it’s headline proclaiming something in a different alphabet, reminds me just how close we are to Russia.

After a few fairly reasonably priced drinks in the Hell Hunt, Estonia’s first bar, established in 1992 – we travellers disperse again, agreeing to meet Sarah tomorrow for some sightseeing.

If ever you want to get to know a religion the key thing is to look at its buildings. The sparse Lutherian church near the east gate, with its walls covered in coats of arms – deep brown wood and fading gold lettering to the immensenly white and gold Orthodox Cathedral sat high above the city.  Sarah insists that we see three of them, and she left the Lutherian interior as a surprise for us, so I shall leave the final church as a surprise for you.

After that we head to an unassuming restraunt entitled “Kompressor” where Sarah informs us that they do the best pancakes – and we are not dissapointed, the taste and the quantity suppress our appetite for ferry buffets for now.

Our evening walk leads us out to the park on the east side of town, past the art museum and it’s pretty garden and out to another memorial on the edge of the ice blue Baltic.

Estonia has lost its Soviet feel, what remains are now more quirky artifacts that concrete monsters, the drive towards modernism is surprising though here the people are noticeably more reserved than the Scandinavians.

Coming into Tallinn is like no other city I have been to, it is a complete melting pot of different cultures, different times and different architecture.  A truly unique city that should be on every one’s “to do” list.

…

We stayed at Pirita Harbour Camping.
Camping cost us 200eek (11gbp) per night including electric hookup and toilets, but no showers.
Wifi access is included but you have to send a text to the council run system to gain access for a 24hour period.  The SMS will be charged at your normal rate and there are no other charges.

Please leave a comment, even if just to say hi!

It’s Friday, we are all fully recovered after a relaxing stopover at Del’s place and from this campsite, situated right on the edge of a lake.

We are ready to tackle the onslought that will be Stockholm, a complete weekend of meeting people (via couch surfing), walking around, having a look at what is going on and so on.

For once we are actually up reasonably early (about 9 am – ok well it is early for us!) The bright red van is packed, ready to go, we’ve got 50 litres of fresh water and nothing stopping us from the 300kilometre journey that will take us to the vibrant capital of this strange country.

I say strange country and actually I do mean it.

Sweden is probably one of the few countries where they almost “expect” you to visit at only certain times.  Every person we have met says that we should come back in the summer, apparently the biggest party is the midsummer celebrations, where the partying continues into the next morning, noon and even night.

Yet, travelling at this time of year we have seen not many campervans about really and the few youth hostels we have looked into are only open if you have booked them, not the “rock up and book in” type of hostels that exist almost everywhere else I have been.

These issues were about to play havoc with us.

So stockholm yer – er no, well maybe not right away.

We usually have to muck around a bit to get the van started, using a bit of full throttle and patience, but she will eventually start.  But not this time.  There was nothing.  The battery was turning the engine over but the engine just didn’t want to kick in.
Phone call number 1… breakdown company to arrange a truck and techie to come out to us.

Luckily for us the campsite guy seems to know what he is doing with engines, the old (antique) volvo digger in the background takes about 30minutes to start he tells us as, dressed already in workman’s overalls, he heads straight under the bonnet of our stricken van.

After some prodding, poking and more attempts to start the van we have completely exhausted our battery, but our man in blue overalls thinks that it is most probably air in the fuel system – I had changed the fuel filter just a day ago and, although she started first time then, it seemed to be the causing a problem now.

Phone call number 2… What is an LDV Convoy?
Of course once I had rung my breakdown company and told them I was broken down abroad they had transferred my “file” to their european call centre, who had no idea what an LDV Convoy is, strangely enough not many people outside of the UK have – it had already caused a stir amongst the repair garage in Germany, from where we had bought the fuel filter.

So after trying their systems one final time we (the lovely sounding Emily and I) decided it would be easiest to call it a Ford Transit, as that is the engine we have.

The campsite guy returns now with a battery charger and promptly plugs in the van before heading off to help an older couple with their awning – is there no end to this man’s talents?

Phone Call number 3… Ok Mr Gardner, we have a truck on it’s way to you, but where are you?

Yes – I have no idea how that can work either, but between a few postal codes, Nei’s (no) and Ja’s (Yes), from the campsite guy-turned-navigation-system and the lovely Emily looking on Google maps we manage to find our precise location, down to the last tree.

Around half an hour later the truck arrives, almost as red as our van – but not quite, our campsite guy has now turned into translator and is explaining as well as helping the techie from the recovery firm.

Both conclude that it is probably air in the pipes and that – with a bit of persuasion, a jumpstart from the truck and a heap of luck that the van should eventually turn over.

An hour of fiddling, a half hour of looking and fifteen minutes of head scratching later and we are still not moving, nor starting and with the weather having turned from a fairly fine morning into and afternoon of rain that would embarass even the most powerful of showers it was decided that the van will have to go to the workshop.

Now this would be fine if we were in England, most workshops are open until 5pm on a Friday, and probably open saturday morning at least, alas we are not in England, we are in Sweden – meaning that the workshop has already shut and that it will not be open until Monday morning… Crap.

The journey to the workshop takes us into the town of Skovde… pronounced “Hurvdur” apparently.

Chatting to our recovery driver on the way it turns our that he is a busy man.  His normal job is in a factory that makes shop furniture, most notably for the UK retail chain “Next”. He is also a fireman whenever his pager goes off and the recovery driver every third weekend and he has an interest in classic American cars, owning a Pontiac himself, although my memory fails me as to which.

Phone Call number 4… Mr Gardner, we were just wondering how things were going with your car…

Well yes, that was that, we had no van until Monday, we had gathered a few belongings, plus our sleeping bags and headed out of the workshop (which was being locked up) and into the Preem fuel station around the corner where we took up temporary residence.

We find a seat in the Preem shop and grab a quick coffee, the friendly attendant informs us that some of the small packets of sweets on the font of the des are “free samples”, but she had that look in her eye that just seemed to say it all, pity.  Still Ihave never been one to pass up a free bag of sweet goodness and dig into a meatball baguette, that unfortunately wasn’t free.

Phone call number 5… Mr Gardner, we have checked your policy and you have a hire car available, will you be needing it?

Well hell yer – the same thing applies to free cars as it does to sweets, offer it to me and I will take it.  After double checking the location of the Preem garage the lovely Emily tells us that our car will be here shortly, I jokingly ask for a Ferrari, knowing full well that the Toyota Yaris that I am entitled to will not be the most thrilling ride in the world.

Phone Call number 6… Mr Gardner, Emily here, your Saab will be here shortly…

My What?!  How on earth did… that’s not a Toyo… don’t ask questions, just accept. OK I say and await our luxury car (and yes, in comparrison to an LDV convoy anything is luxury, but this was like proper nice.

A few minutes later the guys and gal from Avis turn up with a gleaming Saab 95 Turbo, running on Ethanol… certainly have to remember that when we fill up.

Somehow Luke and I have turned into a family of four with a heap of luggage, and I, dear readers, am now mysteriously Dr Gardner.

I told you “Emily” was lovely…

So off we shoot towards the vibrant capital of this strange country – well we will do once I stop reaching down the wrong side for the gear stick, Luke is worried that at some point I will just open the door and eject myself whilst reaching for 4th gear.

That’s all folks, till the morning!

Somebody asked me this earlier today.

“So what the hell will you actually be doing?”

Well, after stumbling about for a bit, the best thing I could come up with was: “Well…. er… a lot!” and laughed it off.

But that got me tihnking – of course, I knew what I thought was expected of Overland Crew, this came from reading blog posts, experiences from ex-crew and a few other collections of stories.

What I had not fully loooked at was what was expected of the Overland Crew from the employees. The little snippet below comes from Overlanding Africa:

“Overland crew are not personal servants. They are there to show you the ropes of overlanding, travelling off-the-beaten track and camping out in the wilderness. Crew will ensure that your overland tour turns into an experience never to be forgotten, whilst working very long days, seven days a week.

The crew have the added responsibility of looking after the vehicle. In-between repairing that flat tyre, getting your lunch organized, navigating through a treacherous bog hole and identifying that bird making that particular noise, they are also your companions on your overland tour.”

That kind of makes my inital answer correct – Crew and Drivers are expected to do a lot!

Also – link whore that I am – new post added to the Thorn Tree Forum over here – Link!

Cheers, Overland Wannabe.

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