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After the fall of Nicolae Ceaușescu's communist regime, a number of churches and other charities, got a convoy of aid together for Romanians. It was my privilege to be honoured with the task of taking and supervising the dozen or so trucks full of supplies. I wrote a journal of the experience, still have it somewhere, probably in the loft. I remember that every car was the same, a Renault 12 clone called The Dacia, pronounced dacha. The jokes we made about it.
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But the real worry of that trip, if only I had known, was the rubbish fuel that passed for diesel. Our trucks kept breaking down, the locals told us the problem, we found that taking out the diesel filter and cleaning it helped, as did pumping diesel through a hessian sack. We ran on as as little as we could get away with and filled up once we reached Germany on the way home.
Apart from the pointlessly low profile Barry Boys tyres, the excessive use of fake chequer plate, the large speaker enclosure in the boot - about as much use off road as tits on a fish - and the fact that the orange paint ran out half way through the job, I would be happy to own it. Actually, give me an unmolested, factory orange Frontera. That would save a lot of trips to the tip.
