Day 28: Wednesday 9th September

For some reason I was knackered last night and after having my fatigue taken advantage of at Scrabble we turned in for an early night at about 10.30pm. There was still a little external noise but earplugs solved it and after reading till 11pm it was lights out and I slept very well, waking at about 6.30am. Jill was not so lucky, being disturbed by music from somewhere late into the night and early morning.

The weather has broken, it’s cloudy and cool, so there is no question that we‘d spend any time on the beach today. We are desperate for fresh water anyway and so have to move on to fill up. Back up to the M4. The road deteriorates as we head east along the coast and the distance between garages increases. We now need water and fuel – though we have plenty of the latter in reserve if needed. The road is really very quiet for a major riviera trunk road but eventually we find a large modern garage with a toilet block that has a washbasin just inside the door. Cheekily, but necessarily, I connect the hose and start filling without asking permission. It’s a slow flow and not much has gone in by the time I am approached by a garage hand a few minutes later. He says I can’t use it but when I look puzzled he loses interest and lets me continue. It takes the best part of twenty-five minutes to fill and I have to take the connector off several times to allow customers to wash their hands. Still, if you don’t push your luck in Russia you’ll never get anything. After filling we also fill with diesel. The cash desk is behind mirror glass so it is impossible to make eye contact with the cashier and to offer a payment for the water. Hey ho.

A few kilometres on from Dzubga at Lermontovo there is an informal campsite where cars appear to be parking for a nightly fee, but the ‘beach’ is rocky and the water not clear; further along the road tents are to be seen at intervals next to a straight stretch of pebbly beach and waves – difficult for swimming. Past Lermontovo there’s a stretch of sand and pebble beach with a calmer sea and smaller waves, but the car park (R300 a night) isn’t suitable for motorhomes.

Finally we find what appears to be a genuine campsite – entrance gates, reception booth and hundreds of camping vehicles and tents spread out along the beach. The gate guys are impressed with the van though we still get a good rate – R120 per night, no power. That’s less than £5.

An exploration reveals there are toilet blocks – squat toilets without doors – traditional Russian style, and stinking to high heaven. There are also showers with solar panels above (hot water?) but we don’t venture into them. At least there is an outdoor fresh water source – the sinks outside the toilet block – so we have a result. I can also dump the cassette in the squat toilets. Just grey water remains a problem.

There’s been a steady inshore wind since we arrived but we brave it out, hauling our loungers and kit down to the beach. It’s a big expanse, wide and deep, but is really heavily littered and just looks dirty. Wrapping ourselves up against the cool wind we manage to survive for two hours before calling it a day as the first drops of rain begin to fall. After a retreat to the van for a cuppa the wind grows even stronger and all around we observe makeshift tents and covers being whipped away by the wind. Valiant struggles go on across the campsite to hold things down but within a few hours the unequal fight has led to dozens abandoning their pitches and heading for shelter. I should explain that out of hundreds of campers we have the only purpose-built vehicle on the site. Most people are in cars with tents but a fair number are in vans of one description or another, sometimes part converted to house mini-kitchens and sleeping quarters. These often have a tarpaulin attached with rope or string and tied to another vehicle parked alongside or staked down to the ground. No doubt many have looked across at our luxury home and cursed the foreigners who have it so easy.

After the wind and rain subsides we wander along the 200m avenue of kiosks full of tourist tat, alcohol and fast food but can find nothing to buy. You can get any kind of spirit or beer you want but not a bottle of wine. There are also children’s amusements and a rifle range.

A couple stop me and ask where we are from. They’re Muscovites and have themselves made a long journey by road down to the Black Sea coast but they are most impressed to learn that we have travelled all the way from ‘Vellico Bretannia’. The common denominator is football here, as in many places. He supports Spartak Moscow but respects my allegiance to Liverpool.

Jill’s cold is in full flow – she’s rather poorly but is putting on a brave face – perhaps I’ll have the beating of her at Scrabble tonight. She wants to move on tomorrow regardless though I’d be happy to stay a day if the weather is good. I think she finds the site a little depressing as it is run down and shoddy (and thronged with Russian plebs).

A couple of flies have somehow managed to find their way into the gap between the two leaves of the side window. They must have crawled in through a small hole that has lost its sealing plug – but why? There could have been no scent to follow. I can’t figure out how to get them out. Perhaps they’ll just break up in time, to be eaten by bacteria and turn to dust?

On the wireless further north we could get quite a few FM stations but down here all we can raise is Radio Kavkaz on long wave. Wikipedia says Radio Kavkaz is the station of the Chechen resistance but all we can hear is the music. Driving in this area I have to keep reminding myself we are still in Russia. It is so reminiscent of western Europe with alpine scenery, twisting mountain roads and hairpin bends, sunshine and blue sea. What a burden of cold-war imagery we carry for Russia (grey, drab, poor) – even those of us who were once sympathetic to Soviet ideals.