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Onwards into the Georgian landscape, the Lada abandoned to a tow-truck, me now in the back of the Auto Union. And what scenery. Our route north-east through the Kakheti region was gorgeous: shepherds guiding flocks across hills, farmers selling tomatoes on the verges, vineyards peeling to hazy mountains. It would have been a lovely drive if it hadn’t been for other motorists.

Georgians interpret the highway code as suggestions more than regulations, which sounds like a cheap joke until you learn that, until fairly recently, they could buy a driving licence without having to bother with the boring lessons or test. People overtook on blind corners and cut in abruptly, forcing you to slam the brakes. That’s when I noticed something else about driving a classic – no seat belts, perhaps why a pendant of Jesus hung on the Auto Union’s rear-view mirror.

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Over the days that followed, averaging 180 miles daily, we drove beneath crumbling Silk Road fortresses in the Kura valley, an ancient route between the Black and Caspian seas. At Sapara we visited a frescoed monastery smelling faintly of incense and Byzantium, and at Uplistsikhe explored a cave-city as old as civilisation itself. When actually moving, the cars bowled along merrily. The Volga was magnificent – a symphony of chrome and orange bench seats with a horn that wouldn’t have disgraced a cruise ship – even if it steered like a sofa.