....he loved to drive fast. Indeed, which Russian does not thrill to the sensation of speed? And the Russian soul, which longs to roister and whirl about, to throw caution to the wind and say: “To hell with it all!” - how can the Russian soul not thrill to that sensation when it can hear in it something rapturous, something wondrous? It is as though some unknown force has gathered you up on to its wing, and you are flying, and everything flies with you: the versts [pre-Revolutionary measure of distance] fly past, the traders perched high on the coachman's seats of their kibitkas [vehicle with two wheels] fly towards you, the forest with its dark rows of firs and pines, with the knocking of axes and cawing of crows, flies by on both sides, the road itself flies away into the unknown, fading distance, and there is something terrifying in this flashing by of objects, so swift that they fade from sight before they can be distinguished – and only the sky above, and the wispy clouds, and the moon glinting through them, appear motionless. Ah, troika [vehicle with wheels pulled by three horses], bird troika, who dreamed you up? Surely you could only have come into being among a spirited race, in that land which has no truck with half measures, but which has spread in a vast, smooth plain over half the earth, so far that you would go cross-eyed before you could count all the verst-poles. Nor in this conveyance some cunning piece of work, held together with iron nuts and bolts – no, it has been hastily hewn to life with a rude axe and chisel and assembled by a nimble-fingered Yaroslavl peasant.....the very road quakes beneath them, and a terrified passer-by cries out as he stops in his tracks – and it's off and away! Off and away! Off and away!... Very soon, all that can be seen in the distance is the dust raised as something cleaves the air.

Replace 'troika' with Volga and you have my experience yesterday in a taxi. I went to the beach and happily I lived to tell the tale. Although there were times when I thought my last sight as an alive person would be of an oncoming Lada going at 80 mph while our taxi was overtaking very riskily the other Soviet-era Eastern European produced machine that passes for a car in these parts.

Gogol stands the test of time thanks to the wonders of his language and also the unchanging nature of the Russian people. Unfortunately he didn't write about the Russian beach experience so I can't copy his words to illustrate to you the picture I witnessed yesterday. I shall have to do it myself instead. But, another time, friends, for time is scarce.... I will report to you soon.