Sitting safely at home, looking out over the English Channel, I finally have space to reflect on the past eleven days on convoy. I’m riding a high that I don’t want to come down from.

Has this experience changed me? Unquestionably.

It reminds me of leaving home for the first time and returning to find everything exactly as I’d left it: my bedroom untouched, my family the same, the familiar carpet in the sitting room. Yet, beneath it all, something fundamental had shifted. Everything around me was unchanged, but I wasn’t.

And I realise now that there is no returning to the person I was ten days ago. 

On a warm September morning, twenty vehicles – a mixture of 4x4s and ambulances -gathered in a Dover car park. The convoy brought together a group of like-minded people from far and wide, some travelling from as far afield as the United States. We introduced ourselves amid an air of tangible anticipation that seemed to hang over us all.

Once aboard the ferry, the trustees gave us a briefing on convoy protocol and safety. After breakfast, we disembarked and pressed on into Europe.

For the first few kilometres, I had to keep reminding myself: drive on the right, drive on the right. My Shogun purred happily along, and for me the journey across the continent was largely uneventful.

A few vehicles encountered problems along the way, but we were fortunate to have a team of incredibly talented mechanics travelling with us. They worked near-miracles to keep the convoy moving, tackling each problem as it arose and ensuring that no one was left behind.

The core team had meticulously planned the route, with carefully chosen overnight stops along the way. Each morning began with an 8:00am briefing, where we were given details of the next leg, including suggested fuel and lunch stops.

It wasn’t all relentless driving, either. We even had time to enjoy a fascinating tour of Colditz Castle. There was certainly no mad dash from one hotel to the next; everyone travelled at a pace that suited both themselves and their vehicle.

Some travelled in pairs, but we were never far from the presence of the amazing mechanics, who brought up the rear and were always on hand to deal with any mechanical problems that arose.

Our final stop was at an impressive castle hotel in Poland, where we were joined by members of our partner charity, Aequitas, who had crossed the border to assist us with the crossing. I have to admit, it would have been incredibly difficult without their help.

We travelled in ‘packets’ of five to seven vehicles, forming convoys for the border crossing. Once everyone was safely across, we regrouped and set off together.

 It was very exciting to finally set foot in Ukraine, and the drive to Lviv was uneventful. Lviv’s historic centre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site; its architecture is stunning, and it is as beautiful as any other European city. Yet the scars of war are evident everywhere: statues have either been removed or encased in scaffolding for protection, while stained-glass windows in the churches have been boarded up.

Despite this, the city is alive and vibrant. The Ukrainian people are determined not to allow Russia to destabilise their country, and everyone seems to be playing their part in supporting the war effort in the East.

Lviv once had a population of around 800,000, but this has risen by approximately 250,000 due to the arrival of internally displaced people. During the winter months, that number is expected to rise again as people from areas closer to the front seek safety in the west of the country.

 We visited the Field of Mars, a cemetery where fallen soldiers are remembered. Flags, photographs and flowers stretched out before us as we walked quietly among the graves.

Many of the names were difficult for us to pronounce, but it was the dates of their deaths and the ages at which they died that were truly heartbreaking to read. Most of the graves had benches where family members could sit, pray and speak to their loved ones who were lost.

It is a very solemn, dignified and deeply moving place. Even now, as I write, I find tears coming to my eyes.

The convoy was invited to the town hall in the historic centre of the city. We set off together, travelling in convoy with our hazard warning lights on, making our way through the city to the heart of the old town.

We were warmly welcomed by the mayor and town officials, who invited us into the council chamber. They gave us a presentation outlining everything the town is doing to support Ukrainians, both now and in the future, working alongside international partners.

It was a very informative visit, and it was encouraging to see the commitment of the local authorities to continuing their support for the people of Ukraine.

We spent one night in the hotel’s underground shelter when air-raid sirens sounded across the city. Our phones woke us too, via the Air Raid app.

This is the reality that the citizens of Lviv have to endure, day after day. Yet they do so with remarkable grace, dignity, and resilience.

A few of us volunteers to spend an afternoon helping cut vegetables in a volunteers’ kitchen where food is processed, dried, cooked, packaged and sent to Eastern Ukraine. 

 At 8:55am, we stood outside waiting for the 9:00am one-minute silence.

All Ukrainians show their respect and remember those who have fallen. Everyone, without exception, knows someone who has died fighting for the freedom of their country.

 We stood alongside other pedestrians. Then, as the time approached, the cars and trucks stopped. Drivers switched on their hazard warning lights, got out of their vehicles and stood with their heads bowed.

It was a sight I will never forget.

The loudspeaker counted down the seconds, each one echoing around the buildings. Then came the words, “Slava Ukraini.”

The silence ended and life resumed.

Some veterans on the convoy were scheduled to take their vehicles beyond Lviv to Kyiv, but several intelligence sources warned that the situation was desperate and far too dangerous to undertake the journey. Kyiv did not have sufficient interceptors to defend against the cruise missiles and jet-propelled drones being used against the city. The convoy therefore officially stopped in Lviv, and Plan B swung into motion.

For me, it was disappointing not to complete that final leg, but safety had to come first. I also could not burden Aequitas with the responsibility of getting me safely into and out of Kyiv.

We left early the following morning, once the air raid was over. Halfway to the border the minibus stopped in a village, where we all got out at 9:00am to pay our respects. We then continued, eventually arriving at a border crossing that was extremely busy.

As we stood in the queue, we could hear the distant sound of air-raid sirens — this time coming from the Polish side of the border. We later learned that, at another border crossing around 100 kilometres away, a Russian drone had struck a locomotive, narrowly missing the train carrying Boris Johnson and others by just a few minutes.

I am a 64-year-old woman who drove a Mitsubishi Shogun, loaded with medical and humanitarian aid, across Europe and into Ukraine, a country at war. It was an experience I will never forget.

I came home on a high that I did not want to come down from. There was something profoundly moving about witnessing the courage, resilience and determination of the Ukrainian people, and about playing even a small part in supporting them.

If you have read this far, all I ask is that, if you cannot take part in one of these convoys yourself, please consider donating funds or medical aid to help this remarkable and resilient country. They are fighting for their very existence, and there are profound consequences for the security of Europe if the war continues to spread.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men and women to do nothing.” — Unknown 

 Borrowing the iconic opening line from Out of Africa, “I had a farm in Africa”, I can now say:

“I had a Mitsubishi Shogun that I drove into Ukraine.”

Slava Ukraini