#but yeah all of the scenes featuring the endless and food are hilarious

[onehundredandeleventropicalfish]

Hi 💖 I love your blog and I have a very silly question. I'm not through with the comics yet so I'm skipping a lot of posts for now (I already have had the Worst Spoiler from elsewhere though so) but yeah anyway I saw your tags about Dream only eating dream food and I'm just. Wondering. If the food is in the Dreaming, it's part of the Dreaming, correct? Except the Dreaming is also Dream, like, he's part of him he's part of it etc idk? So... If he eats Dreaming Food™... is that like the thing on the show with Gregory and he's in a way just. Reabsorbing bits of himself into his uhhh more concentrated Self. Is he eating a part of himself. Net zero food acquisition, that food was already him to begin with. What is he doing. (Possibly I am overthinking this and possibly you are the wrong person to ask this! Please do not feel any obligation to respond to this in any way, and have a good whatever time of day it is for you!)

overthinking is what we do here, i love this question!

and, it sort of is, in the sense that all dreams are Dream in some form, but in that sense the endless are all self perpetuating anyway (and they don't have mortal bodies, there's no reason why our food would be particularly good fuel, i think the ones who eat it just do so because they like it)

dream, meanwhile, can eat waking world food? he just hates it

(interestingly he seems to have less of a problem with drinks, he's turned down every bit of food he's ever been offered no matter how impolite it was to do so at the time, but he'll order drinks in his meetings with hob, and he drank coffee once with his brother)

but to your actual question - he doesn't have to eat food that just he created. we don't get this in the show but in the comic when he gets out of the cage the very first thing he does is search other people's dreams for the first one with food in, because he does still get hungry and he hasn't eaten since uh. 1915

so like. there's dream magic and then there's Dream's magic. gregory had to happen because he had none of his own magic left (Stuff Happened, before he got captured, which is spoilers for overture, but the only reason he got caught in burgess' trap at all is he'd used up most of his own magic and wasn't strong enough to resist what was actually a fairly weak summoning spell. death wasn't summoned bc she would have barely even noticed it being cast), so if he wanted to actually start using his magic to fix things, he would have either had to wait for it to recuperate naturally (would have taken a long time if it happened at all, given the state the dreaming was in), or he had to artificially boost it

but the dreams of mortals are still there - that's also what he does to summon the fates, he has nothing of his own to offer them so he takes from the collective dreaming

and in terms of just keeping his body going, that food works fine

(and like. dream is a being created out of the dreams of mortals anyway, so it makes sense that those dreams are his source of energy)

(normally he doesn't have to steal it though, that was a very desperate situation, he has palace cooks who are capable of dreaming literally any food on request)

(as shown when he has delirium over for dinner and he orders a fairly ordinary meal and she orders freshly squeezed mango juice and "some little chocolate people, about three inches high, filled with raspberry cream")

[justsomebucky]

The Friendly Wager (Part 1)

Summary: AU. Reader and Bucky Barnes are neighbors and best friends. After yet another bad date, reader comes home to find Bucky with his typical weekend target. They decide to make a wager about dating, but is there more on the line than reader cares to admit?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2,528

Warnings: language, fluff, sarcasm, bad date, implied sexual situations (no smut)

A/N: This is my submission for the lovely Kait’s ( @bionic-buckyb) 5k AU Challenge. Congrats on the followers, friend! My prompt was “Can you please come over so I don’t feel so alone?” I think this will have at least seven parts, so Kait, please feel free to disregard it till it’s completed :)

Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

“Y/N? Are you even listening to me?”

You glanced up, blinking slowly at the man sitting across the table from you. Your eyes felt like they’d been scraped with sandpaper, and you desperately wanted to leave. “No, I’m sorry?”

Your illustrious date for the evening, Alex, rolled his eyes. He was some sort of architect, so you figured he was droning on about buildings, but you weren’t too sure.

He pushed his glasses up his nose with a haughty expression. “I assumed as much. Should have known it’d be too deep for a first date.”

Great, you just loved it when men treated you with such condescension.

You took in his features. He was not that much taller than you, had deep green eyes, and brown hair that seemed too weighed down with product to ever move on its own again. He’d called you after a coworker of yours (the fun, flirty, happily married Wanda) slipped him your number. She’d decided to take you on as a pet project of hers.

‘Operation Get Y/N a Boyfriend,’ she had called it.

This whole date made you wonder if Wanda thought you were on the verge of joining a convent, or adopting six cats or something. Why the hell had she chosen this guy for you?

Your eyes narrowed and a new burst of energy filled your limbs.

You reached for your clutch and pushed your chair back to stand up. “If by deep you meant endless and insipid, then sure. Thank you for the free water, free breadsticks, and sudden urge to take a nap. I don’t think I’ve ever had a date where I didn’t even make it to the salad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean my refrigerator or something.”

Alex rolled his eyes so hard you figured he lost a few brain cells in the process. “Good luck trying to find a husband with that attitude!”

You didn’t even respond, choosing instead to walk away. This Alex loser didn’t deserve a second more of your time and attention, and you certainly didn’t want him to see what you assumed was a hurt expression on your face.

The real shame was that his stupid words did hurt you. They hit a little too close to home.

As you weaved your way around tables and between chairs to the entrance of the expensive Italian restaurant, you didn’t meet a single stare, though you knew you must be causing at least a small scene, storming out this way.

It wasn’t always this way. You were usually super good at maintaining a steely-eyed expression in front of the people you dated, and you’d been on plenty of bad dates as practice. The stoic mask you wore had never failed you before.

No, it wasn’t until you were away from them that you let your guard down…let your real emotions show.

You hated your real emotions. You didn’t want them, didn’t want to face them, you didn’t want to feel them, so you shoved them down when you were in public as best you could.

This time, that douchebag’s words got to you, though, and you knew you needed support.

There was no shame in reaching out for support. The older you got, though, the more people seemed to drift away into their own lives. Jobs, spouses, kids, vacations, whatever it was that was taking all your friends away, you knew you wanted your own share of the fun.

Just not with Alex McDouchenozzle.

You reached for your cell phone and typed out a quick message to your best friend.

Are you free? Another disaster in the books.

Give me thirty minutes, came the response.

At least there was one person on this planet you could count on. You huffed as you pushed your way out the front door of the restaurant and onto the street, raising your hand to hail a cab. The chilly spring air sent a shiver down your spine, but soon a cab pulled to the curb and you were on your way home.

---

You trudged up the stairs to your second floor Brooklyn apartment, wondering which kind of bimbo you were going to pass in the halls this time.

As soon as you got to the landing, you smirked.

Your best friend and neighbor (though the neighbor part came first), Bucky Barnes, was standing in the doorway of his own apartment across the way, his hands currently cupping the backside of a short, stacked blonde woman who was giggling up at him. His eyes met yours over her head, and he returned your smirk.

“Will I see you again soon?” The woman wrapped her arms tighter around Bucky’s neck, her face moving closer as if she realized his attention had shifted. You hated when he brought home the clingy ones.

Ugh, even her voice made you cringe. It was all breathy, and you could almost picture her doe eyes blinking her long, fake lashes up at him. You broke your gaze from his and moved to open your door, slipping inside before hearing his answer, but leaving it unlocked.

After you unceremoniously dropped your clutch on the kitchen counter, you kicked off your heels and headed straight for the fridge to pour yourself a glass of wine. You sipped the sweet red beverage slowly, closing your eyes in an attempt to calm down and forget about Alex McDouchenozzle.

Your eyes popped back open when you heard your door open and close about ten seconds later. In true Bucky fashion, he wandered into your apartment and made himself comfortable on your couch, sporting lipstick all over his mouth and an oddly-shaped hickey on his throat. “So what happened this time?”

“Want some wine?”

“No thanks. Just wanna know how you managed to scare off suitor number…what are you up to? I lost count.”

“Hilarious.” You made a face as you took your wine glass over to the opposite end of the couch and practically melted into the cushions. You scooted so your legs were over his lap, and he began to massage your right foot gently. “For your information, this was only my second date this week.”

Bucky eyed you, a little bit of surprise in his blue eyes. “Only two? You’re slipping, Y/N.”

“And you’re predictable,” you shot back, trying not to groan when his hand moved to your left foot. You don’t know how he did it, but he was really good at foot rubs. “Tiny, giggling bombshell? Haven’t you had your fill?”

“No, but she did,” he quipped, laughing at your horrified expression. “Twice in fact. Once in the shower right before you got here. Wanna hear the details?”

“No, thank you.” You let out a sigh, reaching to set your wine glass on the coffee table, then leaned your head back on the armrest of the couch. “I bet her name was Bambi or Barbie or –“

“Not even close. Her name, if you must know, was Becky. What about your date? What was he like?”

“Who, boring-as-hell Alex with the superiority complex?” You closed your eyes. “I don’t want to talk about him ever again. I don’t know what Wanda was thinking, setting me up with the world’s worst storyteller.”

“At this point, I think all your friends and coworkers are just throwing people out there with a wing and a prayer, Y/N.”

“So funny, James. At least I want a real relationship. I want to find the elusive one person I belong with. You just seem to be content having more women in your rotation than the Yankees have pennants.”

He shook his head, quirking an eyebrow at you. “Beauty, brains, and baseball? I don’t know how this guy let you go.”

“If you aren’t here to make me feel better, then you should just go in your room and stare at yourself in the mirror, or whatever it is you pretty boys do.”

Bucky hummed at you. “If you’re back this early, you clearly haven’t eaten yet. Want me to make you something?”

That was the thing about having a sous-chef for a neighbor. He was always willing to whip something up quickly, and it always seemed like it was something that should take four hours. He always used his cooking skills to his advantage. Your stomach rumbled in response, and he frowned when he heard it.

“Let me guess, you didn’t make it past the salad? You sound famished.”

“Have you eaten?” you asked. You didn’t want to be the only one pigging out this late.

His wolfish grin returned. “Yes, tw-“

“Twice, including once in the shower, yeah yeah. Pervert.” You pointed at the kitchen. “Go make me some food, but thoroughly wash your hands first.”

You lifted your legs just high enough for him to slip off the couch.

“What do you want?” he asked, shuffling toward your small kitchen that held your meager ingredients and food supply.

“Surprise me.” The remote wasn’t close enough, so you begrudgingly sat up and reached for it. “What should we watch this time?”

“I got to pick last time.” His voice was muffled while he rifled through the refrigerator. “You pick.”

“How about The Force Awakens?”

“That’s fine. By the way, you really need to clean this thing. It’s truly disgusting.”

You couldn’t help but snicker.

---

Both of you were completely enraptured as you watched Rey lean over and kiss Finn’s forehead lovingly. She’d just managed to help save the day, along with some of the other characters, of course. Rey was such a badass.

“She’s hot,” Bucky commented casually. “She’s definitely a ten.”

Your eyes widened as you turned to look at him. He was so lucky he’d just made you the best grilled cheese you ever had.

Yes, a sous-chef made you grilled cheese. You couldn’t help it if bread and cheese were about all you had in stock.

Back to the matter at hand. “No way would you ever give her a second look. No way.”

His blue eyes glared at you. “Yes I would, she’s super hot! And she can wield a lightsaber. That makes her even hotter.”

“If you passed her on the street, looking plain as she did on Jakku, having had no shaving regimen, no way would you hit on her.”

“I would too,” he insisted, hands splayed on his lap. “A hot, sweaty, sand-covered space babe with skills? Hell yes.”

You scoffed, looking back at the screen. Rey was now piloting the Millennium Falcon with such ease, you were jealous. Feh. “No. You would have hit on that bitch who told on BB-8 at Maz’s cantina! Just your type, evil with tight clothes and heavy makeup!”

“You are so wrong. I’ve dated plenty of girls who didn’t wear tight clothes and lots of makeup. And none of them were evil!”

“Name one. A recent one.” You looked back at him, trying not to laugh as his eyes looked up at the ceiling as if trying to recall.

He looked back at you. “Camilla…”

“…Was a Rockette! She most definitely does not count!”

“All right, all right,” he relented finally. “Maybe I haven’t recently. That doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You frowned at the TV when you saw the end credits roll. You completely missed Rey finding Luke on the island.

Bucky stood up and reached for your empty plates while you shut off the TV. “You’re on. If I find a date who’s plain or whatever, and give her a chance, will you get off my back?”

“At least one date with a normal woman, the whole way through, no sex. Just a nice dinner, where you treat her well. Think you can accomplish that?”

“Fine,” Bucky agreed, eyes meeting yours as you stood up in front of him. “But then you have to date someone who isn’t like you, someone who is another Alex-type, and get the whole way through a normal date without leaving early, or being sarcastic or mean.”

Well, there went your whole personality on dates.

Somehow you would have to muddle through.

“Why a douchebag? What purpose does it serve?”

Bucky made a face at you. “You don’t give everyone a chance, Y/N. How can you find ‘The One’ if you dismiss a date so easily? It’s just like taking a driver’s test, some people don’t ace it on the first try.”

“Fine. What do I get if I make it through a date with a douchebag?”

He took a few seconds to ponder this. “I’ll cook for you for an entire week.”

Shit…he had you there. Bucky was so freaking good at cooking, well on his way to becoming head chef, while you barely found your way around a microwave. “That’s not…unreasonable.”

Bucky’s lips lifted a bit in amusement. “Okay then. What do I get if I make it through a date with no sex?”

What did you have to offer in return? You were just a nerd who worked in a tech research lab, and it was highly doubtful that he’d want a new prototype before it was released to the public. Bugs and beta versions and whatnot.

That’s when it hit you. “I’ll get you a date with Natasha.”

Oh, how Bucky lusted for Natasha. Every time he would meet you for lunch at Stark Tower, he’d inevitably see her walk by, and his eyes would practically fall out of his head. She was single, and she’s asked after Bucky on at least one occasion, so you didn’t think it’d be an issue.

“What? Really?” Bucky’s eyes were wide.

He didn’t have to seem this enthusiastic. “Your over-eagerness is showing, Bucky.”

“Fine,” he consented, trying to seem cool and collected as he put his hand out. “You have a deal.”

“Fine.” You shook his hand briefly before dropping it. Time to treat him like the competition he was. “What if we both accomplish our goals?”

“Then we both win, I guess?” Bucky shrugged, seeming to not care about the details. “We could call truce and go on our merry way.”

“No,” you frowned, shaking your head. “There needs to be a winner. We have to be one-hundred percent honest with how things turn out. Oh! And, we should be the ones to pick each other’s date. That way there’s no cheating.”

“Sounds good. Let me know which girl I’ll be wooing before my big date with Natasha.” Bucky grinned a little, before turning on his heel to the door. “And I’ll be sure to find you just the right guy.”

You could practically already see the menu you were going to make up for him to cook, that’s how ridiculous he sounded.

“You’re on, Barnes,” you called out, as he shut the door behind him. This would be good practice for you. Maybe if you could sit through a date with a dbag, you could narrow your search a little more to find a good date.

Now you just had to figure out the real challenge - which one of your friends or acquaintances could you subject to Bucky’s man-whore ways without hurting her?

Part  2 

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I’ll take the first 15 people who want a story only tag.

[noplanwithavan]

A BALKAN EDUCATION

I was pretty down on Albania in my last post. But journeying north, further from the coast, its redeeming features soon began to reveal themselves. The wilderness, dramatic beauty, political complexity and sheer “otherness” can’t fail to win you round. In fact, the entire Balkan region has woven itself firmly into our affections. In the last month we have journeyed through Albania, to Kosovo, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Serbia and finally Croatia.

My knowledge of former Yugoslavia - and the rifts and shadows cast by Europe’s last war - was sketchy to say the least. In many ways, its easy enough to ignore. The countries we have seen in the past few weeks share more similarities then differences. Driving across the many borders you see only gradual progressions in the food, landscape and slavic tongue. After a while the currencies too blend into each other, and its hard to keep track of the respective Leke, Denar, Lev, Dinar, Mark, and Kuna. The mediterranean olive oil and oranges we have become accustomed to have been supplanted by soft fruits and a diet rich in dairy. Just as one bucolic village with haystacks and higgledy-piggedly houses made from wattle and daub looks much like the next, just across the border, so too the roadside markets, bursting with cherries, strawberries, peaches, nectarines and apricots. In Kosovo we were given a guided tour of the local cuisine by a stunned supermarket shop assistant. “Why are you here?” she asked, fussing over the girls and high-5’ing them on account of their red t-shirts, emblazoned with the double-headed Albanian Eagle. Tourists are still a novelty in Europe’s newest country (whose independence was only recognised in 2008, and is still disputed by neighbouring Serbia). She followed us around the aisles, like a personal assistant, pointing out what food we should try - the best Ajvar (stewed aubergine and paprika relish), which brand of Kos (goat’s yoghurt). Yet study the war graves, etched with young men bearing kalashnikovs, the dates glaring out at you, impossibly raw and recent. Delve into any conversation in the Balkans and watch how you are immediately brought up short by an impregnable wall. We asked that same young shop assistant directions to Visoki Dečani - a UNESCO-listed Serbian monastery just outside the town. “What monastery?” she replied wide-eyed. “There is no monastery here.” It was only when we drove the short mile to the site that we understood. The entrance was under armed guard by the KFOR (Nato-funded Kosovan Peace Force). Following the 1997-99 war with Serbia, newly-independent Kosovo bitterly resents the continued presence of any Serbian who has chosen to remain on their territory. Inside this fortified enclave, was possibly one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen. Over 1,000 orthodox 14th century frescos adorning the walls, inlaid with gold and lapis from Afghanistan. One depicted a unique scene, “The only painting of its kind in the world,” our Serbian host beamed. It was Jesus bearing a sword. It wasn’t that our Kosovan supermarket girl didn’t know about this monastery. She wasn’t allowed to tell us she knew. And we were stupid for asking.

Kosovo was a special place. Somehow the complete lack of other tourists and top sights to see made it all the more beguiling. There were towns which appeared to offer little in the way of attractions, but whose charm lay in their sheer differentness. In Peja we were blinded by the ritzy dazzle of wedding dress shops, stopped to watch a man repair my broken sandal, witness a child bare-foot cleaning the gutter, and paused before an open shop door where inside young girls stretched and cut baclava pastry on a cloth the size of a ping pong table. The girls revel in one foreign word in particular which they are adept at pointing out on signs. It’s only now, 9 months in, that they’ve shown any interest in being able to read. Probably not unrelated to the fact we’ve eased up on the whole home-schooling thing big time. It’s too hot now for a start, and I’ve kind of ceded defeat, acknowledging that Marcus is far better at teaching than I am. He’s more patient, and doesn’t suffer from the frustration that it all seems so piecemeal. Like the fact you teach something one day and it’s disappeared entirely from consciousness the next. I have the word “Shitjet” to thank for this breakthrough. It means “for sale”, but they find it relentlessly hilarious. Sometimes they try and weave the word “shit” into conversation. “This honey is shit,” one of them might remark to a chorus of giggles. When I rebuke, the perpetrator retorts, “But I meant this honey was for sale!”

One highlight has been Albania’s Accursed mountains. By far the most impressive peaks we have seen so far on this journey. Just the name whets your appetite. They rise up before you like a vast vertical wall, softened only by a fringe of pine trees climbing the lower slopes. Above shark-like jaws of rock, arranged in snaggletoothed rows, guard the border to Montenegro beyond. Rain prevented any serious trekking, but just soaking up those mountains shrouded by mist was enough. Warned to stay away from one side of the valley because of the very real danger of brown bears, we scampered around on small excursions, foraging for elderflower, wild strawberries, lemon thyme, oregano and mint. The effort just to get here is testimony to the sense of rugged isolation. The only road in requires you first to travel 2 and a 1/2 hours on a ferry ride across the dammed Lake Koman. And the only way to continue is to walk up and out across the pass to Montenegro. Passing mountain villages dotted with haystacks, houses with wooden shingle rooves, and women wearing traditional Albanian dress, we bounced rather than drove the road to Lake Koman. Arriving by nightfall it was a surreal experience, agricultural scenes abruptly giving way to mining machinery and finally a kind of post-apocalyptic industrial dead end, as we emerged by a hydro power plant. At first I thought we must have taken a wrong turn, but we were waved down and sold a ferry ticket by an obliging young man, who told us to continue towards the dam and park overnight on the ferry. Following his scant directions to “Park in the middle, at the back,” we crawled our way up an ever more desolate road and into an endless tunnel. Just as it crossed our mind we may have been scammed out of €70, we emerged, and implausibly spy a tiny ferry moored alongside the dam wall.

The next morning we are awoken early as other passengers begin to embark. The girls refuse to take off their Albanian t-shirts, and here they attract much admiring attention. A group of young Albanians stop to chat and exchange high 5’s with the girls. One is very pally, with a comedy Estuary accent, “Alright, how you doin’? Yeah mate, yeah, right,” he reels in effortless patter. It transpires he’s spent a few years on a building site in Kent, and despite his status as a self-proclaimed economic migrant, has rather surprising views on the Brexit question. “It’s the Bulgarians mate, taking all the work and that.”

The ferry ride is incredible, just how I imagine the fjords of Norway may look if we ever get that far North. The compact nature of the top-deck makes for a friendly, communal atmosphere. While the young Albanians treat us to rousing nationalistic songs, putting paid to our peaceful surroundings, the girls befriend a group of Scottish pensioners. One man, Brian, is particularly indulgent, and becomes drawn into their play. Before long they graduate from roaring loudly at him, to clambering all over his person, inspecting his jewellery, trying on his shoes, and finally taking pictures of his body parts (all decent) in order to reconstruct later into a collage. A few days later Lulu draws a picture, and labels it “Brian” in her sketchbook.

Braving the bears, one day we dare to head further into the folds of the Accursed mountains, to hike from the village of Çeremi near the Montenegro border. The journey up the rough track is bone-crunching and spliced with the danger of a river crossing. Summoning courage, Marcus revs the engine and plunges across, grating the underside of the van. Its at times like these I wish we had gone for a 4WD. Felicity Evans you were right! When we can go no further we stop, and try to continue on foot. But within minutes the rain, which has never strayed far, is back, and we are soaked to the skin. Like so often on this trip, unwittingly our misfortune presents a unique opportunity. We find ourselves taken in by an Albanian family, sheltered from the rain, fed and housed for the night. Our “saviour” so to speak is some sort of scout, on the lookout for reckless souls such as we. Instinctively you sense there will be a catch, but we opt to follow him regardless, curious as to how things will play out. He is wearing the most incongruous outfit, given the location - a black baseball jacket with pinstripe trousers and black leather shoes. It looks even more ridiculous a few moments later when he confidently coaxes us across another river bed, where this time our van becomes firmly lodged. With a shrug he attempts to push us out, and the wheel spin flings mud all over his smart office wear. We’re taken to a farmhouse, and find ourselves in a small, low space where a family leap to their feet to greet us. A stove dominates the room, which, by the look of the beds made into seating, and the sink in the corner, serves many purposes. With no common language to fall back on, it is a bizarre mixture of mime where we play as best we can the theatre of hospitality. Our “scout” introduces the family, and we believe we can discern the relationships: a man, his wife, two daughters and his sister. The girls break the ice best, drawing the little 5 year old girl, Linari, into play by dressing up the family’s cat. The room is roasting and while we strip off, a round of buttermilk drinks are laid before us. It’s a challenge to say the least - rich, creamy, cold milk with an island of butter bobbing below a greasy surface. I watch as Marcus slurps a lump into his mouth, trying to disguise a grimace. Next comes the home-brew - distilled Reiki - followed swiftly by Turkish coffee. For the last month I’ve dismissed this coffee due to the fact it tastes like drinking warm earth, but out of the 3 drinks on offer it is by far the most palatable.  “Hmm,” remarks Marcus. “We’ve got all the makings of a deconstructed White Russian here. Shall I go and fetch the cocktail shaker from the van?”

The dairy theme continues. For dinner, the family lay a table top on the floor, scatter cushions around and gesture for us to sit down while they load up food and perch behind to watch us eat. There is pasta with cream, a yoghurt soup, salad and another dish of cheese melted in butter. That night we are shown to our “accommodation” in a back shed, consisting of two damp rooms with no lights. The girls room comes with bunkbeds and a chainsaw in the corner. Ours has a man’s clothes hanging up and musty-smelling bed clothes. The next morning things turn sour - and this time it has nothing  to do with the rancid salted yoghurt and bowl of melted cheese we are served for breakfast. The “guide” wants us to pay €110 for our stay, which by Albanian standards buys you 2 nights in a slap-up luxury hotel. It’s all a bit tense, as we only have the equivalent of €40 in Albanian currency, so we sit around for a while trying to ascertain whether they will allow us to leave or if things might turn nasty. In the end it is only the children who say their farewells without a trace of awkwardness. Little Linari has become attached to a pair of sunglasses, which the girls gracefully donate, blissfully unaware of the deals their parents have struck.

We still have the odd day of meltdown, when tiredness, endless questions or long hours of driving frazzle all of our nerves. But generally things are pretty harmonious, and the girls are markedly better at the art of negotiation now. Elsie in particular has blossomed in confidence, talking and chatting to people we have just met in a way she never would have done before we left on this trip. I’m amazed at how well they take it all in their stride. We are told “Twin team Albania” must remove their t-shirts in Serbia - an inflammatory act in the current climate. At the Kosovan border the guards purposely don’t stamp our passports to prevent problems later on. Elsie and Lulu kind of absorb it all, our whispered asides at border controls, and attempts to explain the tensions. They have an imprecise but workable understanding of both religious divides and communism now. Our favourite capital city has been Tirana, in Albania. Small, but relaxed, green and leafy, we took the girls to study the socialist realism paintings in the National Art Gallery, pointing out and discussing what they thought about the fresh-faced men and women depicted as mighty, eager workers. There have been so many border controls - including one where we walked from Croatia into Bosnia just for a coffee across the narrow Una river. The first thing they do, after studying the flag, is to ask, “So are they Muslim or Christian here then?” just to ascertain whether its safe to get out their Albanian t-shirts and football emblazoned with the flag of Kosovo. A few times we’ve just pulled off a motorway by a toll pay point and one of them will sigh, “Crikey, Is this another country again?”

But the onslaught of change and unrivalled hospitality doesn’t seem to faze them. Stopped by the Danube in the Serbian town of Donji Milanovac one day, we watched the girls scramble around a playpark, weaving between an army of gun-toting young boys. One father, with an 8 year-old son, engaged Marcus in conversation. Before long we had an invitation back to his house for a drink. I sometimes wonder what Elsie and Lulu make of these situations - what they sense when we find ourselves in odd places, trying unfamiliar home-made specialities, never knowing where we will be, who we will meet from day to day; following their parents into the unknown. Where the adults are nervous and thick-tongued, they act without hesitation - goofing around with 8 year-old Michaelo, who speaks impressive English. Too impressive in some respects - skidding his bike and yelling “What the fuck!” with obvious relish.

We have now racked up 16 countries in 9 months. In that time over 100 camping spots have been our home for a night or longer. I like to think we leave each one as we find it. Our only markers a tell-tale puddle of run-off water, and a small pile of swept scrapings from the van floor. Shells, nuts, pebbles; downtrodden relics from the recent past. But in truth, it is not all we have left behind. Our belongings are scattered all over Southern Europe - clothes, 4 pairs of shoes, tweezers, a stool, shovel, bodyboard, hats, sunglasses, 3 towels, 2 cheese graters, and an iPhone. All sacrificed along the way, through sheer carelessness or neglect. Each day a small parade of objects dance past us through the door, carried away to be used as props in Elsie and Lulu’s latest show. Before we depart, Marcus and I attempt to do a minesweep of the van’s curtilage, but invariably we fail to retrieve the odd thing, left behind like a discarded offering. Our plan of attack has been to tax their pocket money instead. It seems the only way to inculcate some concept of personal liability. So far Lulu has replaced her own hat and my tweezers from her savings, and Elsie saved up for 2 weeks to buy Marcus a new shovel. Their new found wealth has also proved a useful safety net for us. On at least 3 occasions we’ve had to raid their reserves after finding ourselves caught short at borders or toll booths.

There is a new urgency now, as we can sense our time is running out. The loop of the Balkans took as as far inland as Bulgaria. Our destination was the a tiny village in the countryside near Vratsa, visiting an old University friend of Marcus’s, Cen Rees. Despite having no contact for 10 years, it was effortlessly easy to be in his company, along with his wife Chrissy, daughter Islay and baby Olly. Another of their UK friends, Karen, was staying with her daughter, Tenzin, and we spent a glorious 4 days cooking outside, walking in the meadows and swapping stories. The simple way they lived their life - rich in time, not in possessions - was a pleasure to behold. The girls made mud pies, searched for horned vipers and spent many happy hours studying the contents of the long-drop compost toilet by shining down a torch. Little Islay’s biggest hero is the chubby survival specialist Ray Meers. While Cen treated us to a demonstration of fire-lighting “a la Ray”, Lulu picked up Islay’s considered way of speaking, with a Eastern European twang.

We have now moved on to Croatia. It feels like one big tourist theme park compared to the rest of former Yugoslavia. But at least here we can feel the breeze of the Adriatic coast, as the heat of summer begins to bite.