Our sleep was broken by numerous loud, intimidating animal calls mixed with the reassuring sound of our guard circling the car with his rather large spear. With that comforting feeling I snuggled deep into my sleeping bag and the Masai blanket Charlie had 'borrowed' from the last lodge, trying to keep out the unfamiliar cold which we had been warned accompanied camping on the craters rim. Sunrise was a non-event and my sneaky look through the tent flap revealed a grey misty morning and our very cold guard sat up against a tree.

After a further hours kip Charlie produced steaming mugs of tea and we descended the ladder into the chill morning. As Hattie pointed out, if it weren't for the acacia trees or the aloof slender mongoose which slunk past we could have been in Lancashire.

A swirling gust of wind brought the fire back to life and our guard nurtured the delicate flames into providing some heat for Hattie to sit and write her diary by. Our Masai friend showed off his lion fighting skills which involved a dancing lunging whirl of spear and knife and afterwards he proved to be a big fan of our much maligned peanut butter. He was also insistent on helping us wash up the collection of utensils from the night before.

There were several mechanical successes as Charlie overhauled the poor performing gas burner and Bob came up with a theory which managed to coax the fridge back to life but Princess Rainbow 3 was feeling particularly previous and threw another tantrum, refusing to start for Hattie as we tried to leave. After fudging the relay and re-booting the computer PR3 finished stropping and we headed out of the copse, waving to our friendly guard as we left.

The mist was thick as Hattie piloted us along the rim of the crater towards the gate and after an impromptu stop PR3 was up to her old tricks again but this time losing power between having her relay tickled.

We warily descended to the gate and made a few phone calls, which finally resulted in the Kilidove mechanic arranging to head out to meet us and sort the issue once and for all. In the interim we headed into the back streets of Karatu on the hunt for provisions. I guarded the car whilst the others made forays into the various markets and alleyways, returning with fantastic collections of fresh produce, tinned goods and a frying pan! In between them dropping off batches of goods I felt PR3's suspension dip and saw, reflected in a shop window, 2 guys scaling her side. I launched myself out of the side door and gave them the fright of their lives, but it reinforced how slender an opportunity it would take for us to lose some gear.

Satisfactorily restocked Charlie took the bold move to have a haircut, and for £2.50 he emerged with significantly less hair which was entirely the point of the process. Hattie did point out that he now bore more than a passing resemblance to Anne Hathaway's character Fontaine after her descent into prostitution in Les Mis but as the barber only had clippers the general consensus was that fringes were over-rated anyway.

We headed on back to Mbo Wa Mtu and pulled in at a well reviewed local pizza oven which provided remarkably authentic Italian sustenance whilst awaiting the arrival of the mechanic.

They arrived, and despite Princess Rainbow behaving perfectly, despite Charlie and I subliminally begging her to repeat her previous tantrums, the guys understood the problem, replaced the fuel filter and rewired the fuel pump, leaving us feeling that we had finally received some level of customer service.

Restocked, rewired and with 3 hours until nightfall Bob took the helm and we headed off the beaten track towards Engaruka. The exact location of the road took a little tracking down but eventually a Burberry clad Masai confirmed that the stretch of pitted gravel we were on was indeed the route to ruins we sought. The road was pretty full on and whilst Charlie, Hattie and I took in the broad Savannah dotted with Masai and their flocks, Bob put Princess Rainbow through her paces, weaving and dodging the countless pot holes, riverbeds and mighty chasms which split the road with no warning at all.

We lead a colossal dust trail down the deserted Rift Valley for 2 hours, passing the village of Selenge where a huge group of locals gathered in the late afternoon sun. We waved amiably at the children who shouted and ran alongside and Bob pushed on, trying to keep us on the road. After passing a Masai sharpening his long knife in a tree by the roadside and several groups of 5 year old boys returning home with their flocks of goats, Ol Donyoi Lengai rose into view ahead of us. Surrounded by the escarpment of the Rift Valley we passed through a checkpoint and followed the directions of a rickety sign to where we hoped our campsite for the night could be found. Bob was exhausted as we crawled along the narrow track through the village and on finally seeing the first campsite it was clear that not many tourists used this route. The pitch was a stretch of undergrowth inside a collapsing wall, next to a junkyard and the 'amenities block' left something to be desired, namely doors. We moved on and crept past the groups of locals who goggled at a diminutive blond girl precisely piloting the huge multicoloured beast down the narrow lane.

Coming to a fork, and after several sets of confusing directions, a friendly old man appeared and jumped aboard next to Charlie. His wizened fingers pointed back down the track so PR3 performed a pirouette, pranced over through a river as directed and then slipped delicately around the incredibly tight 90 degree bend, all without any cause for concern.

We pulled up to the clearing and with much smiling and pointing our guide pranced off back the way he had come, chuckling to himself. With a small audience we erected the tents and, still full of pizza, had bananas for supper with a cold beer and warm hot chocolate to wash them down.

We were introduced to several important locals, the last of whom, Israel, stayed whilst night fell and talked endlessly to Hattie about life in England and appeared very disappointed that at the grand old age of 26 she wasn't married with sprogs!

He finally pottered off and we watched the stars briefly before turning in, very aware that we had spent a showerless 48h in a very dusty, sweaty car and a mental note was made that the next campsite must have washing facilities!