From Inverness to Ukrainian front line - Highland car mechanic undertakes mercy mission to deliver Nessie the Nissan
In part one of Danny Ward’s series about his journey to deliver aid to the Ukrainian front line, he sets off from Inverness into the unknown.
Travelling alone, the Kirkhill car mechanic is on a mission of mercy to deliver Nessie the Nissan packed with vital items to the 5th Assault Brigade in the Kramatorsk area.
• Car mechanic delivers Nessie the Nissan to Ukraine in mercy mission
• Black Isle communities show solidarity for people of Ukraine
After all the planning, loading up Nessie - my nickname for the Nissan X-Trail destined for delivery to Ukraine’s front line - felt like a release.
Every nook and cranny of the car was crammed with much-needed aid - tins of food, toiletries, nappies and a bottle of Highland single malt for the soldiers. Each item a small but vital gesture of solidarity.
I set off early and made good time down to Ashford.
A well-earned pint and pizza marked the end of the first leg, and for a moment, it felt like any other road trip. I was excited, restless, and already picturing the miles ahead.
After a few hours’ sleep, I was back behind the wheel at 3am, the roads empty and silent as I made for Dover. Clearing security in minutes, I found myself first in line for boarding, alone in the darkness, waiting for the journey to properly begin.
With so few people on the ferry, I managed to grab breakfast and then stretch out on a sofa for a much-needed nap.
By the time we docked in Calais, the sun was up and the roads were clear. I hit the autoroutes and pressed on, eating up the miles as France gave way to Belgium, then the Netherlands, and into Germany.
It’s a vast country, with long, grey stretches of tarmac and few decent places to stop. I was chasing daylight, determined to reach Poland before the end of day two - and I did.
As the light began to fade, I pulled into a roadside hotel and rested for the night.
Day three was the big one. The border crossing.
Heading into Ukraine. Heading into a war zone. Into the unknown and the terrifying daily reality that’s become all too familiar for the people living there over the past three years.
I’d been advised which crossing to take and sent them my rough ETA.
I set off early.
The roads ahead felt different now. Every mile pulled me closer to something I couldn’t fully imagine but was about to face.
Poland’s main road network is incredible - probably the best in Europe, maybe even the world. Smooth motorways, spotless rest areas, an easy, almost serene country to cross.
But the moment you leave those main roads, you find yourself on older, rougher stretches, a reminder that not every route is built for ease.
In the small towns near the border, people were out celebrating Easter Monday. Families made their way down the roadside, children chased each other, women in headscarves carried bunches of flowers. The cemeteries looked beautiful, bright bursts of colour from the flowers laid out on the graves of loved ones.
Then came the border crossing. First, the Polish side — a quick document check, a polite nod, and I was through. The Ukrainian side took longer, bogged down in the usual tangle of paperwork for the vehicle. It wasn’t hostile, just the slow drag of international bureaucracy. And then, with a stamp and a wave, I was in.
I was in a war zone. Nessie had made it to Ukraine.
My phone data started playing up as I loaded my next destination - Kyiv.
I headed away from the border, only for Google Maps to suggest a gravel path through the trees.
It didn’t feel right. I ignored it and took what looked like the more obvious, well-tarmacked road instead. Out there, getting lost is more than an inconvenience. It’s a risk.
Heading deeper into Ukraine, it didn’t initially feel like a war zone. It felt like any other European country - busy, people going about their lives.
Lviv looked like a great place to be.
But as I got closer to Kyiv, the first signs that I was heading toward the violent, terrifying reality of the conflict started to appear - small, but unmistakable. Road signs gone. Hotels shut down, boarded up, hunkered in. The roads, once frequented by tourists and business folk, were now much less travelled.
The lack of resting places was starting to become an issue.
I wanted to stop before darkness blanketed the roads ahead, but kilometre after kilometre, there was nowhere to pull over.
As I refuelled, I managed to ask a kind woman, using Google Translate, where the nearest hotel was. "Kyiv," she replied.
In regular circumstances, I could have shrugged it off and said, "Okay, that's fine." But these were not regular circumstances. Kyiv - the capital of Ukraine - was the epicentre of a nation fiercely defending itself against an almighty and unforgiving aggressor.
Kyiv also had a midnight curfew, and my ETA was 11:40 PM. I knew it was going to be tight, and I still had to find somewhere to stay.
It was a tense drive, the most anxious I had felt on the journey so far, but I made it — with only 10 minutes to spare before curfew. I showered, called my wife, and settled into bed. Just as I began to relax, the air raid sirens started their wailing, piercing the stillness of the dark, deserted streets.
Having never been in this situation before, I reached out to my contact, who reassured me that Kyiv had excellent air defence.
The biggest risk, he said, would be debris falling from shot-down artillery. He advised me to create a two-wall barrier between myself and the glass. I did as he suggested, but even when the all-clear sounded, I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping well.
Tomorrow: Danny travels to Poltava where he takes refuge in a basement during a Russian drone attack before heading to the last checkpoint before Kramatorsk.
