Well, were one to possess the ability to switch off from cicadas, nocturnal quail calls and hourly helicopter border patrols, last night's stopover could have been seen as a really peaceful overnighting spot.
We didn't hang about after breakfast as daylight betrayed that Ukrainian border control staff had simply plopped us in a position totally blocking a narrow farm track and - as often seems to happen in such cases - the local farmer and a helper (who was in a Niva of all things! - pic) turned up at around 7.30am and started work on the adjacent field.
We made contact with them - of sorts - and though our apology obviously wasn't literally understood, the locals were clearly not in the slightest bothered by our presence. All was good natured, happy faces and thumbs up.
The morning's drive through Ukraine down to the border was bouncy and dusty, but otherwise uneventful. During it, we were able to assimilate more of our worldscape as we pootled. We simplistically concluded that although things are clearly very far from normal here, there's still a lot of normality going on. The men, women and children we personally witnessed were all just getting on with their lives, seemingly in much the same workaday way that they might have done had their country not been brutally invaded.
People were washing cars, going to church, tending gardens, chatting in the street, going shopping, tending livestock: and so it goes on. We weren't sure quite what to expect before arrival, but were ultimately slightly back-footed by just how ordinary daily life seemed.
Of course, this is a contemptibly crude take and we fully acknowledge the reality of the unseen compromises and suffering.
En route to the border we contributed to the economy by buying some fuel that we really didn't need (£0.93/l): then we hit the border itself; well, sort of. Queue became the word of the day. Cutting a long story short, it took about an hour and a half to even reach the Ukrainian barrier that regulated access to the formal customs and immigration checks.
Once we reached that hallowed ground, we had another lengthy wait, which was then followed by a right old going over. The grilling involved a meticulous search of the vehicle, and microscopic scrutiny of the vehicle itself, including (crawling under the truck) inspections to ascertain the physical chassis and engine numbers.
That said, there were clearly also personal agendas at stake amongst the officials, here. The two customs men conducting the search for contraband (though suitably officious) came upon severe distraction in the form of our optical devices. They clearly knew their optics and handled ours like pros. They spent ages looking both at and through them, and even took photographs of them. At an unguarded moment, they passed Emma's NL10x32 between themselves, one quietly uttering 'Swarovski' in a tone that betrayed reverence. It was almost as if they couldn't quite believe they had devices from that manufacturer in their own actual hands.
After about half an hour under the spotlight / delivering an optics expo, we cleared Ukraine and hit the Romanian checkpoints.
How different. After queuing (again), we were eventually called forward to immigration control and were immediately completely floored as the prim, uniformed woman who approached us asked in a broad Yorkshire accent where in the UK we were from. This, we had not expected.
It turned out she was working for Frontex and - whilst our various documents were being examined by Romanian immigration staff - told us how she was Swedish born but had grown up in the north of England. Chats about Sweden and Yorkshire followed but before we'd satisfactorily bottomed either Sweden or Yorkshire out, we were given our documents back and told to move forward to customs. This we did, but not before the Frontex representative had taken a heartily-smiling selfie of herself in front of the truck.
At customs, the Romanian official in charge asked which of us had presented the Irish passport at immigration and, upon learning it had been Emma, walked her pretty aimlessly around the truck whilst launching into tales of how he'd lived in Dublin for eleven years and chatted about the craic. Whilst bantering, she invited him to take a look at what we were carrying inside but he just waved a hand saying 'Oh, it'll be right'. Within minutes, we were on our way.
Border controls. Always unpredictable.
We're back in Romania, then. To try to avoid at least some of the anticipated manic buzz we started west by following the northernmost roads possible, effectively following the Ukrainian border. This proved a good move. The area here is clearly reasonably well-to-do, and nowhere near as frenetic as the country is only a few miles south. The forested mountainous landscapes are very pretty and the area could almost be described as tranquil... almost!
We decided to make the most of this relative calm so within a couple of driving hours called it a day and picked a spot (coordinates). From here we've basically just chilled, though I did force myself to run, too. It was awful.
The area is known for apex predators and though we've not seen anything so far (including through the thermal imager) we hold out hope and the trail cam is set.