We're back !
Sorry it's taken us so long to blog but we have had a right old time I can tell you !
Oh, many thanks to the 1000's of you that commented on the lack of blog for the past 3 days, called to see if we were alright etc...it touched us both deeply !

Last blog we were in Moscow. The intrepid duo downed crash helmtes in favour of tourist's sandals and we ventured off to Red Square and the like which was fabulous. We even managed to pop into McDonalds to savour modern Russia. The weather was really stunning, hot and clear and this led to Saad catching 40 winks on the grass by the Kremlin. I had to wander away (as did 2 other Russian teenagers) as Saad's snoring attempted to kick start the cold war all over again. I popped into GUM, the famous department store only to price out the Caviar - at 1000 roubles (180 pounds sterling) an ounce, this was one souvenier I didn't pick up.

That night we were recommended a trendy bar to eat and drink in called Propaganda. We ventured into the Metro (which was both ornate and bloody confusing) and had a great night eating, drinking and tapping our feet as Mr DJ spun some wax. TUNE !

Overall, Moscow has been a real highlight of the trip so far.

Wednesday happened without any warning. Initially we made a good exit out of Moscow, missing the M2 but happily following the M3 (going in the same sort of direction) and we really put the miles down. As mentioned before, the roads are arrow straight but with really variable surfacing - full of Ladas driven by peasants, black Porsche Cayennes driven by thugs and Black Mercedes by their Mafia bosses. The trucks are gargantuan and belch out thick acrid smoke - nice.
Needles to say, our Transalps flew past them all at suitable speed right up until we had our first encounter with Comrade Plod. The scene that followed was so planned it could have had a script. He was large, uniformed and was supported by the "tall skinny one" who said nothing. He marched us off to his little hut and lectured us in Russian all about the offence I had made (crossing a solid white line). We did the "I no speaky the Russian" bit which led to him carrying out Marcel Marceau impressions all about me losing my licence for 6 months......unless......so after much ridiculous negotiating, I left approx 18 pounds lighter, he had a big smile on his face and we both did our bit for wealth distribution.

As we hit the road again, thoughts of the encounter running through our heads - a short 11 minutes elapsed until we met Comrade Plod number 2. This time it was a simple document check - but for goodness sake !

Some 200kms later we missed our turning, panicked about running out of fuel and eventually stood in front of a young petrol station attendant, asking her how to get to Bry'Anks. We had the map, she had the knowledge of where we should go but the seemingly easy link between the two was impossible to bridge. No matter how many times or ways I asked "is it up the road or down the road" all we got in response was a 5 minute speach all in Russian and therefore completely useless. I even pointed up the road and said Da or Niet (Yes or No - the only Russian I know) and again all I got was a speech. Maybe she was lonely and needed a chat.

We did get to Bry'Ansk only to find it was something that Toxteth during the riots would have aspired to. This place was really appalling: high, grey tower blocks that looked derelict. The "streets" were dirt trails with huge holes and the whole area had a cloud of hoplessness hanging over it. Needless to say, finding a hotel was a dream. Surly people refused to respond to our enquiries, not even meeting our eyes. Others just said "Niet" and walked away even before we had a chance to open our mouths. Eventually a taxi took us to a hotel on the edge of town, by the industrial rail depot. Nice. The only room they had was actually the games room with a double bed in it. In fairness there was a beaded curtain separating us and the 100 or so fragrant lorry drivers also enjoying the hotel. On that basis (ignoring the issue regarding the double bed) we gracefully declined.

It was at that point that an older chap, previously sleeping by the front door, jumped up and gesticulated that he would find us something else. Thinking we were to follow him in his car, we eagerly accepted. In reality though, he had no car, and he was to jump on the back of Saad's bike. So with no lid and a jabbering Russian in tow we went in search of a bed. 5, yes 5 hotels later and we were still looking. There must have been a beetroot sellers convention on or something because we were running out of luck. In a town 10 miles down the road we found a pricey hotel. We paid off our Russian with chocolate and Rum and settled in to watch Barcelona beat Man Utd in the European footy cup.

The hotel was run by a strangely leering young Russian couple who had improbably called the hotel The Tower of London. It was garish and entirely out of place, however the staff were trying really hard. We were their 2nd only British guests so they practised there English language skills on us by using one English word then bursting into fits of giggles. Quite endearing.......... initially.