The crossing we began in Part one has taken 90 minutes, and the Ford’s battery has tolerated several restarts. A smooth two-lane carriageway leads us deeper into the country, through rolling fields. We encounter a military checkpoint just a few miles later, the first tangible sign of war. A soldier steps into the road, rifle slung across his back. He looks at the Ranger’s plate, at us, then waves us through. I glance at the Ranger’s digital clock: it’s still bright, so the battery appears to be holding up. Kyiv is just eight hours away.
The next village is about as far removed from the war as is possible, but in its midst is a memorial to local soldiers who have been killed. There are pictures, flowers, and tributes. I cannot count their number as I drive by, which in itself serves as a stark reminder of the scale and severity of the situation. I could list casualty and death figures here, but it feels reductive to the memories of, and sacrifices made by, people who have given their lives to defend their home. As the current war enters its fifth year, with no signs of abating, they will sadly not be the last.
My train of thought is derailed by strange-looking tarmac ahead. I realise it’s not just strange to look at: it’s not even there. I can’t change lane. The Ranger drops a few inches, then thumps back up onto a finished surface a few metres later. Ahead, there are longer stripped sections. There are no warnings about this unfinished work. Lorries take to the unbroken side of the road, barrelling towards oncoming traffic until the tarmac reappears in their lane. Others stay in the groove, throwing up dust and gravel. But the traffic flows smoothly, and – unlike some I see parked by the road – our tyres remain round.
