So, today some good things happened and some bad things happened. Most of the bad things happened in the first 15 minutes.

Firstly, Damian from Murphy’s Mechanic and Scrapyard had a quick look at our now no-longer-smoking engine and said a word that made it clear our beloved Carnival would not be leaving Euroa.

“It’s fixable” he said “but the cost would be many, many, many times more than the car is worth”. We thought the number of times he used the word many was indelicate, particularly within earshot of the car.

The second piece of bad news from Damian was that none of the cars on his lot were for sale; not the Bedford, not the battered Merc, not even the former taxi (which we learned later was just a taxi – Damian also runs the Euroa Taxi company, and some other things).

It was about 0900hrs and we hadn’t had coffee or food, only bad news.

So, following the principle that you can achieve most things with some internet, a phone, a credit card and a positive attitude, we found a café with wifi and set about trying to find a new shitbox. Our first one took six months to find but today we had about 6 hours.

We started with local dealerships, which was not profitable. Seymour, Echuca, Shepparton… well-meaning used car sheisters just couldn’t bring themselves to sheist quite so shamelessly. “we have cars like that” they would say “but they’re not really road worthy. Or safe. Or registered”; it was always a variant on that.

Autotrader and Facebook Marketplace next. Gone were our days of only pursuing Taragos, Carnivals or other 7 seat leisure wagons; anything with a whiff of registration, in the price and geographic ballpark we went for; Astras, Lasers, Hondas, Wagons, Sedans, Utes, anything. Lots of non-replies, a few “yeah she’s sweet except for the complete lack of suspension, or windshield, or wingmirrors, or transmission”. Very few roadworthies, even less registration and not much time left.

So, late into the morning, and on our second coffee we spotted a Honda CRV with 268000km, alarmingly cheap, three weeks of rego, 30 minutes drive away with the magic words listed on the ad  “must leave the country. Need sell now.”

So we made contact with the seller, confirmed it was still available, and yes those precious three weeks of rego. So we called a cab, which was when we realised Damian ran the tow truck, the mechanic, the scrapyard and the taxi company. Full life cycle.

Minutes later we were picked up by one of the mechanics who had diagnosed our poor Carnival earlier that morning and we were off heading north, with an envelope of cash, to Shepparton. We bid our taxi (and only means of transportation) goodbye and threw our lot in with the Honda CRV.

The seller, let’s call her Sammy, met us enthusiastically and gestured for us to hop in. “Does it drive?” we asked. She looked at us quizzically and said “yes” and asked whether we wanted to have a drive. We were satisfied by the answer but thought a test drive might be a reasonable bit of due diligence.

We drove around the block, and because the car didn’t immediately burst into flames we agreed to the sale. She seemed pleased but also confused “you don’t want to check anything?”

“Should we check anything?” we retorted to which.. “no, no but most people who have looked have wanted to check things”.

This gave us three pieces of information; more than one other person had inspected the car, those people had ‘checked things’, and based on those things checks (at least in part), had decided not to pay the, admittedly very modest, price for the CRV. We had no time to consider the second-order ramifications of those observations and reiterated our enthusiasm to confirm the commercial arrangement.

This was not as easy as we might have hoped.

Given Australia has in no way achieved Federation despite declaring Federation 124 years ago, if I live in the Northern Territory and wish to purchase a vehicle in Victoria, I may as well be from Mozambique. We tried and tried to navigate the internet and hard copy versions of the transfer forms and then ultimately decided we needed to drive to the Vic Roads office to work it out.

Sammy, leaving the country on Sunday, was delighted to take this journey with us to finalise the sale. Time was ebbing away.

Arriving at the Vic Roads office we were dismayed to see a large, milling, disgruntled crowd all waiting to get an eye test, or dispute a fine, or offer their organs up for donation. We took a number and I sized up each of the tellers, trying to decide which was the best demographic to explain this slightly out-of-the-box transaction that we wished to complete. Women aged 55-59 are usually my best demographic with which to build early rapport, so I hoped for Lynda at Counter 4.

After the setbacks of the morning we felt our spirits soar when the number 4 popped up on the screen and Lynda gestured us over with a forced smile “How are you?” she asked “how can I help you?”

“Lynda, we’re great” I responded “we have a slightly difficult challenge and would love your assistance”. Sammy stood smiling bemused, wondering how she had found herself in this situation.

Anyway, Lynda was great. She explained that because I was from the NT (and Fauce from miles away) we would need a ‘temporary’ garaging address which could be Sammy’s. And, no problem about the Roadworthy Certificate, we have 14 days to complete that. She would transfer into my name which is all legal and excellent and once that certificate is available the transfer would be complete, and if by then I am back in the NT I could transfer the plates etc etc. All sounded great and irrelevant given at the end of this week we will cancel the registration and mail the plates back to Victoria (if the CRV lasts that long). Sammy explained again meekly that she hadn’t had time to get the Roadworthy done, but it was becoming more and more apparent to us that perhaps Sammy had the time, but not the inclination.

No matter – a glorious victory, thanks to Lynda’s generosity of spirit, and expertise within her own bureaucracy, we had our second shitbox!

So we bought a few more essential provisions, learned that our hotel in Melbourne had cancelled our room because we didn’t show up the previous evening, and navigated that particular issue via a ‘shift manager’ named Simon who was the least helpful person we encountered today, and drove the 30 minutes back to Euroa, and Murphy’s Scrapyard.

It was now 3pm and we were still at least 2 hours drive from Melbourne (pre-rally briefing at 6pm).

Damian and his crew greeted us warmly, although we had to wait a few minutes while he finished with some customers. We learned at this juncture that Damian is also responsible for Euroa’s rental car market. King of the town.

As a parting gift our now vanquished Carnival yielded up her high spec dirt tyres which Damian’s team transferred onto our new CRV. “looks much less sissy now” he said and shook our hands.

Damian offered us $100 to receive and dispose of the Carnival, which had now been stripped of all fixings and dignity, which we immediately offered back to him for the labour on the tyres and his general good vibes and assistance. A gentleman’s transaction.

With one last defiant gasp of energy, our Carinval sprung to life just once more, long enough to spit out the Best of Simply Red CD, then closed her pale green eyes forever. Rest well old friend.

So, with a heavy heart but a renewed hope, Fauce pulled out of Murphy’s lot as we both waved furiously. The CRV was momentarily stuck in 3^rd gear and then wouldn’t accelerate, or really drive at all, but then it seemed to hiccup and come to life and off we went. So maybe we’ll hear more about that, and maybe we won’t.

Onward to Melbourne… and the start line tomorrow.

Farewell newish friend