The thunderstorms promised by the forecast never truly arrived. A smattering overnight, yes, but hardly worth a mention, unless, like David, you gauge rainfall by the dampness of your garden wall or the depth in a coffee cup left out for two days. By his reckoning, it was officially “nothing to write home about.” In reality, it was a fine, sunny day.

Seizing the unexpected reprieve, I decided Banjo and I would tackle a new circular walk. Down the lane towards Dryanovo we went, Banjo bounding along in full snout-to-the-ground mode, treating every withered blade of grass as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Just past a parched cornfield, we veered onto an old logging track that petered out into a glade where lumberjacks of yesteryear must once have held camp. From there, we picked up a patchwork of animal trails, aiming vaguely for the overgrown fields near David’s.

It wasn’t long before we’d lost sight of Ritya, navigating instead by mountain outlines. The dips into one ravine after another left me utterly disoriented. The sun began to bake, and our cheerful stroll took on the air of a minor expedition. We paused in a glade for a “chat and a wuff” (standard practice), before blundering into a swampy hollow where two gullies met in a muddy pond. The thousands of hoof prints confirmed it was a deer watering hole, confirmation that Banjo celebrated by plunging straight in, emerging gloriously plastered in sludge. A dog’s dream, a human’s nightmare (particularly David’s).

After skirting the pond, we pressed on until confronted by a wall of thorn bushes. I favoured the right; Banjo insisted on the left. I muttered something about him, “better be bloody right,” and gave in. Fifteen metres later, we emerged, scratched but victorious, back onto the track. Banjo trotted ahead, smug as a politician at a ribbon-cutting.

Back at base, coffee for me, water bowl for him, and a quick change of clothes from my thorn-ravaged ensemble. Then David and I, Banjo happily snoring on the back seat, headed to Gabrovo for the car’s diagnostic appointment. The hour’s delay gave us ample time for a ramble around the shops: taps at the plumbers’, spark plugs at the car place, and a sack of dog food from Lidl. When we returned, the “verdict” was that they’d “tightened the leads.” David claimed the car “felt smoother.” Personally, I thought it sounded like codswallop, but who am I to crush a man’s mechanical optimism?

Buoyed by this placebo effect, we stopped at a Bulgarian Heritage Village for lunch and a wander round the craft workshops. Very pleasant, until the car reverted to its old lumpy self on the return drive and promptly expired on a mountain road. After a short sulk, it restarted, but my confidence was less than zero. I’ve been saying for three weeks that the car’s on its last legs, and here we are, the day before my flight, with the blasted thing threatening to strand me in the Balkans.

Later, heading into Dryanovo for supper, the car conked out again. We decided to top up with petrol and gas, just in case. Then came the cherry on the cake: David announced his rear number-plate light had fallen off and several bulbs had blown. Naturally, a police checkpoint lay just down the road. Cue frantic improvisation involving sellotape, a frantic drive to a distant garage, and the sort of muttered language not fit for church. Somehow, we scraped through unchallenged and made it to the bar, where we watched Bulgaria lose 1–0 to the Czechs. Seemed about right.

As for today, I’d hoped to be writing this from the UK. Instead, I’m still in Ritya, waiting for David to fetch yet another part from Gabrovo. Ideally, the car will make it to Crassy’s garage and stay there, or perhaps he’ll be offered something roadworthy as a loan. In the meantime, I’ve walked Banjo and set to work on a rockery for Genya, a project she’d asked about weeks ago that somehow slipped off the list. If she returns in a fortnight to find it finished, I might just earn myself a few bonus meals. For now, I’m breaking rocks and praying the car holds together long enough to get me to my flight.