24th May – Azerbijahn. To Sheki.

Bright sunlight flashes in beams across my table seat. The shadows are from the rows of trees that line the highway. Beyond them yellow barley fields sway in the slight breeze. Bowie comes on the speakers. “Lets spend the night together.”

We left Georgia yesterday, waving goodbye to our guides Zaza and Tamuna. I feel very privileged to have met both of them and to have seen their beautiful country. I am now at least 1 stone heavier. Tamuna refused to marry me, I think because Chelsea lost the Champions League final.

We now have 80 litres of wine, 10 litres of conjac and 5 litres of “Cha Cha” (think paint stripper and urine mixed in equal quanitites.) We stopped at a winery to stock up for the Muslim countries. There are no preservatives or other crap added to these drinks during the production process. Consequently no hangovers. Consequently more reason to drink more. Hard life.

The day we bought it we “tasted” (think downed) for hours. The old woman (wrinkled face, young eyes, bent back, matriarch) and the old man (pissed as a fart) showed us the 100000 litre vats buried in the ground and tugged buckets of wine from their depths to sample. Fed us bread, salty cheese, pickled watermelon (think moist vomit in a husk.) We then bounced onward in the truck, wine spilling from our cups and songs spilling from our mouths. Another homestay later that evening, this time Russian architecture. Very posh. Large rooms. Chandeliers. A thunderstorm. More drinking. Chelsea lost.

We have arrived in Sheki. Money needs to be changed. Suncream applied.

2:11PM

We have just added another hour on the clock. Now 4 hours ahead of the U.K. We are losing time like the gallons of water we spilled from the back tank of the truck. A tap had been left open. We must be careful – we will be getting to deserts soon.

Heads turn everywhere we go now. I m facing the rear of the truck and see them go past. Some stare blankly with a cigarette held in their mouths, frowning. Others stop mid-conversation and point. The best ones are those walking away from us. Their heads snap back. Some stumble over obstacles. Others shout and wave. I sometimes wave back. I sometimes just watch them recede.

We are heading for an orchard up in the mountains. There we will camp if we reach it. The road may not be open due to the harsh rains. Some locals believe it is accessible. As Pete said “There's only one way to find out.” (We will drive it.)

Talking to Pete is ace – he's a wealth of knowledge. I am sure the man could build an entire truck from fruit and nails and drive off in it. He is BA Barraccus. He told me some stories about his adventures in Africa that sound like a movie plot! He got me thinking – could I do this forever? Probably not. I can't make a fruit truck. I'm Murdoch.

Wild horses are roaming the stony ground outside. A young foal wobbles on its legs, its brown coat gleaming bright in th sunshine.

Its Leslie's birthday tonight and we will be having another BBQ to celebrate. Leslie is married to Terry (32 years – anniversary soon) and I have never seen a couple more in love. Always happy, hugging, flirting, looking out for each other (and everyone else.) I caught them yesterday sharing a moment on the truck. Leslie sank back into Terry's arms and he whispered something in her ear. Then they kissed, smiling. Glorious to see that in the Georgian sunlight. They stayed like that and I looked away before they caught me watching in envy.

The air is hot and humid, like sitting in warm soup. But when the truck moves the breeze blows through and its bearable. Leaving windows open causes problems at night with large flies drawn to the light.

We've stopped for petrol. More men gawping. This time one on a motorbike who nearly crashed. Past them five men stand beside three combine harvesters. They smile, a little confused at the big blue Penelope. They don't say anything to each other. they have brown faces and now I notice they are shading themselves under two large trees. One asks Neil where we are from. “England.” Smiles. He walks back to the shade. Neil continues to smoke. The truck turns in the parking lot – we head off again.

I've realised I'm trying to describe everything I see, to give you an impression of what its like. These images flash past daily. Perhaps its so I can remember them.

Now we pass a graveyard and like Georgia they have the custom of putting life-sized pictures of the dead on the headstone. Never seen that before. Passing by at speed they look like a still crowd, staring at the truck. They are like stone ghosts. None seem to be smiling.

It raises many questions. Do you choose your picture before you die, or do the families commission them after death? What age do you show yourself? What clothes do you wear? They are all men. Where are the women buried?

Women are hardly seen in these countries. Whereas the men crowd on corners to drink tea and discuss “important matters” the women are no doubt working. Maybe this is what the graveyard is about – the man spend their lives stood around other men and in death continue to do the same. The women are buried out of sight.

Its strange to be in constant movement. Before everything was a system of certainties and timings and stability. Even objects were the same. The books you've re-read. The clothes in the wardrobe that you have worn and will wear again. The desk where you work. The bed you wake up in and will slump on drunk that night. Everyday, everything, familiar.

Now there's so much unfamiliarity my brain struggles to fit it all in. We have the truck as our haven, its grey/green seats and bouncing walls our only routine. But outside its a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and smells. Your eyes try to hide in a book but are pulled like magnets back to the landscape. Every night we have strange vivid dreams. Someone says its the brain storing all this new information in your subconscious. (Some say its the cheese.)

Its all getting a bit wanky again isn't it. But I do feel freer and more relaxed than I can ever remember. Everyday there's always one moment of what people might call “clarity.” But its not “clarity” because its so hard to describe what the “moment” is. Yesterday it was some combination of smooth shadowed hills like folded silk, a setting sun over a babbling river, blue-bellied birds wings at full stretch, and in that silent content moment is the absence of thought that makes it – you just sit there sensing and thinking of nothing. That’s the best bit.

We just passed a shepherd lying in the shade of a tree, peacefully asleep his hat over his eyes. The sheep graze slowly in the sun and then they disappear into the green. Class! What's next? I hang my head out the window like a dog.