I AM devastated to report that all is not well with Max, the Japanese jalopy which conveys me over the wilds of Hareshaw Common each day for my equine adventures with the eccentrics of the horsey world.

You may recall that I purchased Max for a trifling sum some little while ago for the sole purpose of getting me to work, as my malodorous overalls and grisly wellies were banned from the family hatchback by order of Mrs Hextol.

Max has always been a capricious sort of fellow, occasionally refusing to start, and then leaping out of fifth gear on a whim when the fancy takes him.

As I grind and jerk my way between the silent slag heaps and shivering sheep on this most desolate stretch of the North Tyne, I cast anxious glances in the rear view mirror, expecting to see cogs and springs lying in the road after another extravagant grinding of the gearbox.

But a week or so ago, Max stopped jumping out of top gear – for the simple reason that I could not persuade him to engage top gear in the first place.

Instead of the usual screech and reluctant clunk into gear, there was no clunk – fifth gear had gone on all-out strike.

That was no big deal, as I was more than happy to chug along in fourth, which resulted in heavier petrol consumption, but I no longer had to cling onto the gearstick with a death-like grip to keep it in position for as long as possible.

The real problem came when I tried to reverse out of my usual parking place at the end of mucking out.

This manoeuvre usually involves nothing more than keeping a weather eye out for lurking farm dogs, forgotten wellies and the occasional tractor, but on this occasion, reverse gear had gone on walkabout too.

Mrs Hextol always insists I am too heavy handed when it comes to changing gear, and that I should gently feed the gearstick into the right slot, rather than slamming it in like Big Daddy going for The Splash.

But no matter how delicately I waggled the stick, there was no-one at home in the going backwards department.

I thought I had found the lost slot on several occasions, but as I looked back over my shoulder to complete the reverse turn, Max would only lurch forward with a mechanical chuckle.

He finished up with his bonnet only six inches away from a drystone wall, and I reluctantly accepted that reverse gear was a thing of the past as far as Max was concerned.

It meant I would have to push him backwards in order to gain clearance of the wall, but Max has a turning circle approaching that of a Cunard cruise ship.

Veins were popping out of my forehead as I struggled to push Max back, but help was at hand from 83-year-old Willie, a wily Borderer used to wrestling with sheep and rugby players, and between us, we created enough space to get Max facing the right way.

I managed to get the dozen or so miles back home safely, and contacted number one son, who had arranged the purchase of the runt of the Honda litter.

“I told you the guarantee only lasted to the end of the drive,” he chortled. But he did agree to have a look at the problem on his next visit to Hextol Towers

I had only washed the “proper” car a couple of days before, but I had no choice but to use it on the farm tracks of Redesdale for the next few mornings, and it soon looked as though Hannu Mikkola had been using it for an energetic test drive.

And when number one son paid his visit, and hunted out tools, he was soon making the sort of hissing noises through his teeth you never want to hear from anyone wearing greasy overalls .

After much hammering and banging, the verdict was; “Max needs a new gearbox, Fatha, and at his age, they are not easy to come by.

“ It might be easier and more economic to drive him to the scrapyard and look out for another old banger.”

So the search is on for car or components, and in the meantime, I am using Max again, always ensuring that he is parked where I can leave in a forward direction.

I just hope I don’t meet anyone on a narrow road and need to reverse...