The trip was supposed to last six months, but it very quickly became clear we weren’t cut out for long-winded road travels. This was the trip that was supposed to make me a more independent adult, yet made me pine for a mechanic, Ringwood, and home. We made it all the way to Torquay from the city and managed to lock the keys in the car the second we arrived. At this point, I realised it was fairly obvious we weren’t going to last long on this great pilgrimage.

The sun was beating down, we were just a pair of idiots, new to having licenses, new to the road, unable to even manage simple things like not locking ourselves out of our car on New Years Eve.

Sitting in the gutter on the side of the road wondering whether to just smash the passenger side window with a small rock, I wished more than anything I’d followed the advice of everyone who knew we were going and gotten a car service. Ringwood felt like another world away, and the big beach trip had lost a lot of appeal now that we had to drive back with a smashed in window.

Celebrations being nothing like we’d anticipated, we knew that doing rounds with a broken window wasn’t going to cut it. It started to rain, and that’s when we noticed the dreadful clunking coming from underneath the car. A bloke we’d pulled up next to told us he could hear our CV joint was shot. With no way of lasting our trip out with a broken up car, we had to head home fast.

Pulling back into town was a bittersweet moment. While I was mortified that it hadn’t worked out, I was glad to be out of the car and away from the constant embarrassment of driving around with a boarded up window.

Next time, I think we’ll fly.