Long way home: the Ford team's return from Turkey 
For European-based WRC staffers the forthcoming Rally New Zealand represents the worst case scenario in the annual commute to work.
Twenty-six hours in a plane is about as long as long-haul gets. But this year, after some epic homeward voyages from Rally of Turkey, there's a strange feeling of optimism about the slog ahead.
Okay it's not going to be lot of fun, but compared to the 70-hour coach trip many teams endured last week, it's a walk in the park. This is especially true of the BP Ford Abu Dhabi World Rally Team, who had to contend with four days on a coach, plus the added complications of coach doors flying off and a driver who resigned midway through the Transylvanian Alps.
Ford's PR supremo Mark Wilford was on the coach and sent wrc.com this special report on the team's European adventure:
"It all began at 17.15 on Monday 19 April. A three-and-a-half hour flight home from the Rally of Turkey for the BP Ford Abu Dhabi World Rally Team was about to become a near 70-hour adventure. Not just a modern day rally-type adventure. No, this was to become a full-spec, 1970s-style Safari Rally-type adventure.
The eruption of Iceland's Eyjafjallajökull volcano ensured flights from Istanbul to London were a no-go. So, after examining options for train travel (scrapped as trains from Bucharest into western Europe were full), and flights into Spain (potentially a goer until ferries from Santander and Bilbao were found to be full and tales filtered back of hire car companies in Barcelona charging 3000 euros for a vehicle), road was the only way back.
Preparation necessitated a trip to the supermarket in the rally base of Pendik to stock up on pillows (at seven lira each, an absolute bargain). And as two hire coaches edged their way into the hotel car park, team chef Mick Maunder ensured there was enough water, crisps, biscuits, marshmallows and cans of Coke to keep us going for the estimated 48-hour journey to the French port of Calais.
Coach one was the quiet one. We were a motley crew of about 30, including engineers, mechanics, hospitality hosts, PRs, a smattering of UK media and Craig Breen and co-driver Gareth Roberts, desperate to reach Cumbria in time for the Pirelli Rally recce on Thursday afternoon. Coach two was the party bus - where the aforementioned supplies were supplemented by the odd bottle of vodka.......
Within 10 minutes of leaving, our Turkish driver (one of two on the coach) pulled up at a fork in the middle of the motorway, uncertain whether to take the road going left or the option to the right. A check established that the drivers' navigational aids for our trans-Europe trek comprised the word CALAIS written in blue ink on the lid of an open box of tissues. No map, no sat nav, nothing else........ Oh dear.
Five hours later we trundled into the border crossing with Bulgaria, with the rain hammering down. After more than four hours of inching our way from passport check to customs check on the Turkish side, to passport and customs check on the Bulgarian side, we were on our way. How the hell did that take four hours? No idea.
As we headed into Bulgaria shortly after 02.00, the priority was sleep. Amazing how many sleeping positions can be conjured up in the confines of a coach. There was the upright-in-the-seat position, which carried with it the threat of looming deep vein thrombosis. There was the lying horizontal across a double seat. There was the lying flat in the aisle down the middle of the coach. There was the lying in a ball on the floor between seats (only recommended for those under 5ft 5in due to the high probability of anyone taller never being able to get out again without removing the seat) and there was the lying flat across the shelf above the back seats, which carried the risk of being launched into orbit halfway down the coach in the event of sharp braking.
Bulgaria passed in the rain and dark and the Romanian border loomed early next morning. If anyone knew then, what they know now about the next 15 hours, they may just have called off the whole trip at that point. Romania was our nemesis. A glance at a map of Europe, which by this point we had purchased to assist our drivers with their 'navigation', would suggest a Serbian motorway was the fastest option. Not for us, though, as our Turkish friends behind the wheel were not allowed to enter Serbia.
So Romania it was. Now I'm sure Romania boasts as much beauty and splendour as any other European country (perhaps) but we never found it. Desolate countryside early in the morning gave way to the ring road around Bucharest. I use the term ring road in the loosest sense. It was narrow, bumpy and 90kph was as good as it got.
After 24 hours on the road, and with just a handful of 'comfort' stops to break up the monotony, hunger was kicking in. Finding somewhere in which almost 80 people could eat in the middle of Romania wasn't easy. And then we thought we had cracked it. It looked like a restaurant. It was - but it was closed. However, the toilets offered the chance to freshen up, even if they were outdoor. Until we saw them. To say they were dirty, is akin to describing the sinking of the Titanic as a slight boating incident.
To our shame, the boys turned to face a nearby wall and did what we had to do. At which point the door in the adjacent building opened and the lady of the house popped her head out. We didn't understand a word she said but the appearance behind her of several scantily-clad ladies of somewhat dubious repute sent us running for the buses. The sight of 70 blokes clambering off two coaches must have been rather like opening up for a Boxing Day sale!
Entertainment was limited. Magazines had a short shelf life and the TVs on the coaches were useless as we had no DVDs. Until word went round that one of our colleagues on the 'party' bus had some. They were duly claimed and The Italian Job was loaded up. Just as Michael Caine walked out of jail in the opening scene, the front door of our coach suddenly blew open. Paper, rubbish and, almost, our second driver were sucked out leading to the predictable, but nonetheless highly entertaining comment from hospitality man Ian Hughes: 'You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!'
A quiz from engineer Ross Sutherland, who had the presence of mind to download it before we left Turkey, passed another hour or so - only for his laptop to run out of power midway through the answers. And the top 10 list of travel songs produced fervent debate from the boys and girls at the back. Chris Rea's Road to Hell was voted number one but nul points for Talking Heads' Road to Nowhere. Interesting voting from the Ford jury.
And then, salvation! Twenty-five hours after leaving Turkey, we rounded a corner to be greeted by the sight of the Golden Arches! As 80 of us piled through the front door, without a single Romanian coin or note to our names, a look of panic crossed the faces of the McDonald's staff. However, burgers and fries continued to appear and our spirits soared, especially when a local at another toilet stop informed us we were only 170kms from Hungarian capital Budapest.
Team co-ordinator John Millington had been in regular contact with the coach hire company in Turkey regarding replacement drivers, preferably people who knew where they were going and could speak English. We were due to meet two - but we were informed that they could not meet us and we would have to journey to them. So, we veered off what passed for a main road and headed into the Transylvanian Alps.
The roads were little wider than single lane, more pot-holed than the roughest Acropolis Rally stage, the lights on the front of our coach offered about as much illumination as a couple of candles and then we came across a road sign for Budapest - 470km away... Having climbed the mountain, we passed through a small village where the sight of a local wearing a protective jacket and carrying a gun sent an eery silence round the coach.
A few minutes later, and still high in the mountains, the driver of the 'party' coach pulled over and declared he could not drive another kilometre because his leg hurt. Was this a fiendish plot? Were we about to be robbed, or worse, by gun-toting Romanian bandits? All we needed now was for Dracula to pop up!
It was laugh or cry time. We chose the former and hysterical laughter broke out. The driver was quickly 'encouraged' to get back in the driving seat and get us off that mountain. Indeed, maybe a quick shot of vodka was poured into his lips to help him reconsider his decision?..
Our new 'driver' turned out to be far from that. He was an interpreter and tour guide! Just what we needed as the clock struck midnight in God-knows where in Romania.
We eventually crossed into Hungary and after finally collecting a new driver during a rapid pass through Budapest, western Europe beckoned as we crossed into Austria and the joyous sight of a motorway! Austria became Germany and by now we were flying - until just 15 minutes after crossing the border a blue light on the roof of a motorway cop car directed us into a lay-by. It seems our Turks had 'forgotten' to pay the necessary tax to take passengers through Deutschland. After 45 minutes in the back seat of the car, and a few phone calls back to Istanbul, an agreement was forged and we were on our way.
A couple of hours later and the lure of two Turkish coaches proved too much for another patrol. Blue light on, red 'follow me' signs on the roof and into another lay-by we went. This time it was only 10 minutes and we were off. In between times we celebrated 48 hours on the road with a glass of red wine, purchased somewhere back in eastern Europe in anticipation of this moment.
Germany led into Holland, Holland led into Belgium and Belgium led into France via road signs to Dunkerque. The mass evacuation of the Ford team was almost over. We left our Turkish coaches to move onto Stobart vehicles that had come over to France for the final part of our journey, leaving our drivers to somehow make their way back to Istanbul. Darkness at the entrance to the Eurotunnel in Calais gave way to a glorious morning as we exited the shuttles to be greeted by the signs: Welcome to England.
We had reached the end of our epic trans-European journey after somewhere in the region of 2700 miles. People departed coaches at various stopping-off points as they made their way north to M-Sport's Dovenby Hall base. Next up? Only a 26-hour flight to New Zealand in a few days' time. A piece of cake."
