Day 31: Saturday 12th September

First thing it seems a little cooler but less windy. Both have changed by 11am – the sun is warm again and the wind is even stronger than yesterday. Still, the loungers come out and the windbreak is up – tied down with washing line and stakes.

Another day of relaxation on the beach. It’s great to enjoy this unplanned and unexpected bonus on the trip. This spot is a real find – nobody troubles us at all.

During the day a big camper conversion pulls into the parking area (only our fourth in the whole of Russia) and I go over for a chat – German plates. The thing is huge – high up off the ground, four-wheel drive, massive tyres, fully kitted out. The driver is travelling alone. He has good English and so we are able to chat easily. He’s been testing the vehicle out for a round the world trip next year with his partner. His testing has taken him into Asia and on to rough roads where he says he’s been down to 20 kph for hundreds of kilometres at a time. But the vehicle has held up OK. I’m not surprised – it is built like a tank and all brand new. It hasn’t endeared him to Russian traffic police though. He says he has been stopped half a dozen times, three times on this day alone, and always a bribe is indicated. He has never paid anything and just sits it out, the longest taking four hours before release. This is bad compared to our experience and apart from the unusual character of the vehicle I can only put it down to lingering anti-German prejudice. He advises that Ukraine is even worse …

He too was uncertain whether there is a ferry from Kavkaz but I am able to reassure him on that point and he is on his way after about an hour.

We are just about to sit down to our evening meal of bread, sausages, bacon and beans when there’s a knock on the door. It’s a Russian bloke, in his thirties, who explains with sign language and a bit of English and Russian that his vehicle is stuck in the sand down the beach – he’s asking for help. I explain we are about to have our meal but will be along in fifteen minutes or so. We scoff our food and then walk down the beach about 200 metres.

It’s a Lada 1600 saloon and it is stuck. The back end (rear-wheel drive) has burrowed its way down into the soft sand until its belly is firmly grounded. The whole thing is at an angle of about 30 degrees and it is clear what has happened: he has been revving the engine to try to get out and the wheels have just dug deeper and deeper in. He’s with his wife and they’ve tried digging and putting branches under wheels but it has just got worse. We decide it’s too risky to bring the van down to tow it out but our spade and ramps might help so we go back to the van to fetch them. As we get back Vladimir (for that is his name) shouts the Russian equivalent of ‘yes!’ and grabs the spade and starts digging. Valentina (wife) also starts digging the sand out again. This begins a struggle of epic proportions!

We try slipping the ramps under the rear wheels but the angle is steep and when Vlad revs it up the wheels just spin on them, gaining no purchase. Vlad is fit, and Valentina too, but no amount of pushing and pulling will get the thing to move up the ramps. Several attempts backwards and forwards come to nothing except scorch marks on our ramps. Then I have an idea – to jack the vehicle up, slide the ramps under the wheels at a flatter angle and try again. This is accepted by Vlad and I get a flat stone from the back of the beach as a rest for the jack, using one of the ramps for the other one. It’s not the final solution but we do get the car to move forwards a foot or two so we gain some hope. Then we do it again. Vlad wants to turn the car as it moves forwards but this just takes it off the ramps too soon and back into the sand. He’s still not realised that fast revving just spins the wheels and digs them in deeper. We set it up again and he puts Valentina in the driving seat and we try again with him pushing from behind. More movement, in a straight line this time -we’re on the right track. Then again and again, moving a foot or two forwards each time, gradually getting out from the couch grass and on to the flatter foreshore – though it is still soft. The sun is about to set and the tide is coming in (though the Azov does not have a huge tidal rise) so we can’t afford to relax.

Then Vlad asks me to take the wheel while he and the others push. I think this a good idea – apart from the fact my weak heart prevents me from exerting myself too much in pushing I’m sure I will also have a better idea of controlling the engine and driving wheels. So, ramps under again, and at first attempt we move forwards about five metres. Then another five and we are in sight of a firmer part of the original track along the back of the beach. Just a bit of a bump to cross and that should be it. Everything set and I get in again and carefully bring the revs up and slowly let the clutch out, and with the other three pushing from behind it starts moving forwards. I keep the revs down and then we’re there, on the track, and I keep it moving all the way down to the car parking area – hooray! Sighs of relief all round!

We invite Vlad and Valentina in for a cup of tea but they say they want to get their tent up first, while there is still some light in the sky. They pitch up right next to us and come in about half an hour later, with a bag full of fresh fish – to be eaten raw -and a couple of Russian non-alcoholic beers.

We give Vlad a cutting board and he goes to work on the fish with a panga and a hunting knife! Our guests tuck in with their fingers but Jill declines the offer. I try a salty mouthful but am more put off by the bones, the guts and the smell than by it being raw. It turns out that Vlad can only drink non-alcoholic beer due to a war wound he got in Chechnya – he still has a chunk of shrapnel lodged in his skull and alcohol affects him badly.

They are married but have no kids. His parents were both in the army and he was brought up on various military bases around the old Soviet Union. He too had done his stint in the forces, again in various places in addition to Chechnya. I show them that I’ve been reading ‘Stalingrad’ and ‘The Angel of Grozny’ – and try to express my appreciation for the role of the Red Army in the former – and the questionable conduct of OMON in the latter.

Vlad’s grandfather was killed at Stalingrad. He seems a sound sort of bloke – a bit gung-ho, from his performance over the stuck Lada, but intelligent and concerned. Valentina is a ‘merchandiser’ in a shop but as she has no English at all it is hard to find out more.

They are both strongly patriotic and support Putin’s United Russia.