The shivering bonnet beats a rhythmic tune to the tired, bellowing old engine. The belaboured clamber starts up a narrow pass heading away from the coastline of Corsica.

A trembling driver’s seat and rattling dashboard. Bouncing suspension and gruff, labouring engine. A stretch for the tall gear lever and the long wand is stirred around looking for a gear. Any gear. Loud grinding as the gearbox refuses to comply.

Pump the clutch and try again, and the grating transmission resentfully allows the coupling. Painfully slow progress is resumed up the hill. A thought as to whether this particular load of gravel is larger than normal. An elbow on the windowsill and three fingers loosely on the large, thin-rimmed steering wheel.

The old diesel growls, surges and grumbles. The gear lever shakes and trembles and the transmission whines away obtrusively. All sounds normal. The hand comes off the gear stick and blindly searches for the lunch tin on the adjacent, faux-leather bench seat and finds the last of the sandwich.

It is a triangle of white bread with a thick layer of butter and an impossibly thin slice of cheese. A layer of lettuce pokes out the side. The homemade freshness battles unsuccessfully with the underlying scent of oily smokiness emanating from the leaking valve cover gasket. The damp smell from the half-inch thick layer of sand under the brake pedal goes habitually unnoticed.

Dust particles hang motionless, caught by the sunbeam piercing through the cab and striking the lifeless speedometer. The fuel gauge needle swings languidly showing alternatively half full and nearly empty, depending on the undulations in the road.

A glance in the door mirror. A train of impatient cars snakes behind through a murky cloud of diesel smoke and engine roar. Another rusty fragment of yellow paint flakes off the load bin and wafts to freedom.

A flick of the eyes at the rear wheels and a mental reminder to torque the wheel nuts of the off-side wheel after the tyre was replaced last week. The small transistor radio dangling from the rearview mirror on its little plastic lanyard spins around swaying with the motion of the lorry. The retractable aerial tick-ticks against the windscreen.

The tinny music noisily broadcasts into the empty countryside. Perhaps the cows lazily munching their grass on the steep, rocky hillsides will appreciate it. Maybe they even know the words, but they’re not sayin’.

A sandwich-filled hand comes up to the mouth and hesitates halfway as an old 1980s song reaches its chorus and gains an extra band member at full volume. The words aren’t correct and the tone is off-key, but it doesn’t matter. An imaginary crowd, glittering in the rays of a disco ball, raise their arms in approval.

A glance to the edge of the road, the cliff-side barely half a metre from the tyres. There are no barriers here, and a helpless and deadly tumble into the steep ravine awaits those who do not remain aware.

Far below, the river continues on its way through the boulders. The other side of the twin-lane road reveals a steep cliff face that reaches so high you can’t see the top. Dry, hot, remote and foreboding.

Rounding the bend, the summit of the road comes into view. A playful tap on the wheel and a whisper of encouragement. We’re nearly there, then we can coast down the other side.

A bite of the sandwich; a hint of pepper. A couple of cars surge past, one of them hooting. A knowing grin and a friendly wave. It’s a hard life, but a good one.

There must be many more stories to tell, and interesting lives led. Many journeys and hard-working travels. It is good to see they are being reclaimed by nature.

I found this old, rusty relic lying amongst a row of old abandoned equipment (backhoes, tractors etc.). It was (possibly still is) at the entrance to a campsite on the Corsican east coast.