We really have to get out of Budapest, so we get high on more of Marta's coffee and pack up to set off. Before we leave, we chat to Mary and the Manchester Mob, a middle-aged hippyish couple on on a month's family driving holiday to Greece.
They understand where we're coming from, but Mary is mock despairing that we've just pulled another 6am finish. And that we lost one of us. 'Do you think Ranulph Feinnes stopped off for action on his way to the pole?' she asks. It's a good point, especially when we're still about 9,000 miles from Mongolia. Steve points out that Ranulph probably would have done if he'd found any. Mary seems more approving of our time spent grooving. 'You don't get old and stop dancing,' she says, 'you stop dancing and get old.'
Steve volunteers to drive, which is brave after a second consecutive night of three hours' sleep. Still, not as brave as letting me drive. Jeff's in the back sleeping. I navigate, helping to get us lost on Budapest's highways trying to find a park of Communist-era statues, and then Steve sorts us out again by using the sun. Clever bastard.
And so for another long haul, covering hundreds more miles down the E60 under the still glorious European sky. The good news is the driving hasn't become boring. Jeff points out it's actually nice to get back on the road after a couple of days in one place, and the Punto is still proving remarkably comfortable. Decent tunes and Steve's wired brain power us ahead. I'm awake the whole way, but at I'm so tired I keep drifting into that strange place between consciousness and sleep, and at one point my mind delivers me a crystal-clear image of Price's mum amending a pair of trousers. Weird. In six hours or so we're at the Romanian border which, especially when you're in that state, is far far weirder.
As soon as we cross it feels for the first time this trip like we've entered an alien world. The road is bumpy and full of potholes, and the needle on the littlecommiecarometer is whizzing round in circles. The 'tiny men in big hats' count also soars. Steve weaves cautiously ahead, crawling past decrepit power stations and giant refineries, and we gawp at the crumbling apartment blocks built right in their shadows. Imagine the estate agents who have to shift those.
Pretty soon we're past that and into a series of villages, which are full of so much ramshackle stimulus it's impossible to take it all in. Old women walk down the road in headscarves and scratchy tunics, fruit stands line the roadside beneath lamp-posts topped by giant stork nests, and every mile or so there's a large image by the roadside of Jesus, our lord and saviour, nailed to a cross. Then a horse and cart trots past. In an EU country.
We drive for 60km or so, eyes out the window the whole time, through the 'cosmoplitan' town of Oradea and on to the village of Borod, and Casa Delureni. This is the retreat/guesthouse that my parents suggested we visit - it's co-run by Pat Robson, the vicar from Gorran, and was set up by the White Cross Mission, a Cornish charity to help support the orphans of the Ceauscescu regime.
It's an utterly beautiful place, a series of chalets dotted about with views stretching across a beautifully etched valley, and complete with its own meadow. We meet one of the staff, Christina, a smiley youngster who's outside pushing her mate around in a wheelbarrow.
The only snag is that we were meant to be here on Thursday, and it's now Sunday. Bloody Budapest. We're the only guests here, and apparently the chef only comes in when needed. The guy who greets us seems pretty blunt, and no-one speaks much English, so we're left fearing they've been twiddling their thumbs for two days while we were pratting about in Hungarian night spots.
There's not much we can do about that now, we shrug, and chalk it up as just another case of our genuine cluelessness. I'd always assumed we'd end up doing some research on this trip, but that hasn't happened yet. We've been rolling across borders with no idea of what currency people use, or how to say thank you, or even what time zone we're in. It's shocking really. When they ask us what time we'd like the chef to prepare our dinner, we say 7.30, thinking that's in an hour and a half.
So they're probably a bit pissy when they have to come and get us at 8.30 because we haven't shown up yet - for a dinner we've actually given them only 30 minutes to make. Three days late to the place, one hour late to our first meal. Later Steve sets the alarm so we can make the next day's breakfast at our suggested time of 8am. It doesn't go off, as he's set it for Monday 3 August. So very nearly a week late for breakfast too.
It all sounds like the worst case of Brits abroad. Pretty soon we'll be smashing people's heads in with bits of pavement. In our defence it is tricky when you have 15 or so countries to get through and you're spending most of the time in the car. But having learned the basics in Romanian and seen the effect it has, we vow to take a different approach and look them up for each country from now on. Steve starts with the Bulgarian for 'my hovercraft is full of eels'.
Still, Christina seems happy enough. She brings out a delicious meal and warms us with her 'your welcome' and 'finish?', and her shouting of 'hello' when she means 'goodbye'. She's a lovely kid, but she clearly walks with the fragility of someone who has had to learn how to be happy.
We round off the day on the guesthouse veranda, watching the sun set over the stunning valley, sipping fruit tea and water. The contrast with Budapest is perfect. Nothing but the sound of dogs barking in the distance, and the promise of our first night in real beds. So if Mary's reading this, she'll be pleased to see we've stopped dancing - now we can start sleeping.
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