After we had enjoyed our meals, we decided to hit the road again and cover a few more miles before settling down for the night. We got ourselves strapped in and I sat back to enjoy the scenery as we began to move off. Only we didn't move off. We didn't move an inch. The key was turned and there were familiar sounds, but no ignition. I reloaded my previous "must be kidding" face and pointed it at my dad, who replied with his "tough poop" look as he got out to push. By this point, I had accepted my fate on this journey, and the very possible idea that I would end up going home on one of those delightful 15 hour bus trips you read about in the fancy magazines.

I hopped into the driver's seat and dad began pushing the van. Remarkably, he managed to get it moving fast enough to get a bump start and we proceeded down the hill and out towards the horizon.

The bass bumped and the light faded overhead as we chugged through the country with bellies full of gourmet pasta and nowhere in particular to be. It felt good to be out on the open road with the old buffer, as he'd once referred to himself. We had good times and got on well and the scent of adventure was always intoxicating. As night fell, we found ourselves in mountainous terrain again, and in the grip of a sudden hail storm that added atmosphere like you can't imagine. The ice balls were huge and there was a genuine concern of glass breakage. We were thankful that it didn't last long and there was no damage to the van. The air cleared and the road was long and straight down the other side. And then another hill, another plateau, another ski slope. One after the other, they came, and each was fun and a little bit scary, mainly because it was so dark.

The night went on and I started to tire. The thumping basslines were taking their toll and, as it turned out, so was the huge amplifier that was powering the bass speaker. I was just turning the music down as I spotted a small exit, marked by bollards, ahead on the right side. I hadn't planned to enter it at this speed, but then the music cut out. And it was on the ascent, as we struggled to stay ahead of a christmas-decorated 18-wheeler that the lights went out, too. Suddenly, we were staring into pitch black. The truck behind blasted the air horn but in the mirrors, all I could see was white. And the flood lights only threw our shadow out in front of us, ensuring total blackness. No road lines. No nothing. And just like that, we were looking at a deadly crash. I remembered the exit I'd just seen and estimated its location. This could easily go very wrong, but I had no choice. When I thought it was right, I swerved the van into the blackness on the right, then back the other way and braced for impact. But nothing came.

Without lights, I had no idea where we were, how far we were from a sheer drop, or whether we had actually already passed over to the world beyond. I brought the van to a halt in the darkness and we sat in silence for a moment, unsure what to say. I turned on the phone light and looked around. Solid ground. Even parking lines. Somehow, we had safely pulled into an unexpected parking lot and come to a stop in one of the bays. It was beyond belief.

When the adrenaline subsided, we were able to sleep, and decided it was the only thing to do. Until we could see where we'd ended up, there wasn't much we could do, and there was nobody here, anyway.

Tea and a quick wash and into bed.

Storage was limited, thanks to the giant speaker.